editorial wild oats by mark twain illustrated new york and london harper & brothers publishers--mcmv copyright, , , , by samuel l. clemens. copyright, , , by samuel l. clemens. copyright, , by harper & brothers. _all rights reserved._ published september, . [illustration: see p. "i fancied he was displeased"] contents page my first literary venture journalism in tennessee nicodemus dodge--printer mr. bloke's item how i edited an agricultural paper the killing of julius cÆsar "localized" illustrations "i fancied he was displeased" _frontispiece_ "he had concluded he wouldn't" _facing p._ "gillespie had called" " "wheezing the music of 'camptown races'" " "i have read this absurd item over" " "a long cadaverous creature" " "there was nothing in the pockets" " +----------------------------------------------------------------------+ |transcriber's note: the dialect in this book is transcribed exactly as| |in the original. | +----------------------------------------------------------------------+ editorial wild oats my first literary venture i was a very smart child at the age of thirteen--an unusually smart child, i thought at the time. it was then that i did my first newspaper scribbling, and most unexpectedly to me it stirred up a fine sensation in the community. it did, indeed, and i was very proud of it, too. i was a printer's "devil," and a progressive and aspiring one. my uncle had me on his paper (the _weekly hannibal journal_, two dollars a year, in advance--five hundred subscribers, and they paid in cord-wood, cabbages, and unmarketable turnips), and on a lucky summer's day he left town to be gone a week, and asked me if i thought i could edit one issue of the paper judiciously. ah! didn't i want to try! higgins was the editor on the rival paper. he had lately been jilted, and one night a friend found an open note on the poor fellow's bed, in which he stated that he could no longer endure life and had drowned himself in bear creek. the friend ran down there and discovered higgins wading back to shore. he had concluded he wouldn't. the village was full of it for several days, but higgins did not suspect it. i thought this was a fine opportunity. i wrote an elaborately wretched account of the whole matter, and then illustrated it with villanous cuts engraved on the bottoms of wooden type with a jack-knife--one of them a picture of higgins wading out into the creek in his shirt, with a lantern, sounding the depth of the water with a walking-stick. i thought it was desperately funny, and was densely unconscious that there was any moral obliquity about such a publication. being satisfied with this effort, i looked around for other worlds to conquer, and it struck me that it would make good, interesting matter to charge the editor of a neighboring country paper with a piece of gratuitous rascality and "see him squirm." [illustration: "he had concluded he wouldn't"] i did it, putting the article into the form of a parody on the "burial of sir john moore"--and a pretty crude parody it was, too. then i lampooned two prominent citizens outrageously--not because they had done anything to deserve it, but merely because i thought it was my duty to make the paper lively. next i gently touched up the newest stranger--the lion of the day, the gorgeous journeyman tailor from quincy. he was a simpering coxcomb of the first water, and the "loudest" dressed man in the state. he was an inveterate woman-killer. every week he wrote lushy "poetry" for the _journal_, about his newest conquest. his rhymes for my week were headed, "to mary in h--l," meaning to mary in hannibal, of course. but while setting up the piece i was suddenly riven from head to heel by what i regarded as a perfect thunderbolt of humor, and i compressed it into a snappy footnote at the bottom--thus: "we will let this thing pass, just this once; but we wish mr. j. gordon runnels to understand distinctly that we have a character to sustain, and from this time forth when he wants to commune with his friends in h--l, he must select some other medium than the columns of this journal!" the paper came out, and i never knew any little thing attract so much attention as those playful trifles of mine. for once the _hannibal journal_ was in demand--a novelty it had not experienced before. the whole town was stirred. higgins dropped in with a double-barrelled shot-gun early in the forenoon. when he found that it was an infant (as he called me) that had done him the damage, he simply pulled my ears and went away; but he threw up his situation that night and left town for good. the tailor came with his goose and a pair of shears; but he despised me, too, and departed for the south that night. the two lampooned citizens came with threats of libel, and went away incensed at my insignificance. the country editor pranced in with a warwhoop next day, suffering for blood to drink; but he ended by forgiving me cordially and inviting me down to the drug-store to wash away all animosity in a friendly bumper of "fahnestock's vermifuge." it was his little joke. my uncle was very angry when he got back--unreasonably so, i thought, considering what an impetus i had given the paper, and considering also that gratitude for his preservation ought to have been uppermost in his mind, inasmuch as by his delay he had so wonderfully escaped dissection, tomahawking, libel, and getting his head shot off. but he softened when he looked at the accounts and saw that i had actually booked the unparalleled number of thirty-three new subscribers, and had the vegetables to show for it--cord-wood, cabbage, beans, and unsalable turnips enough to run the family for two years! journalism in tennessee the editor of the memphis _avalanche_ swoops thus mildly down upon a correspondent who posted him as a radical: "while he was writing the first word, the middle, dotting his i's, crossing his t's, and punching his period, he knew he was concocting a sentence that was saturated with infamy and reeking with falsehood."--_exchange_. i was told by the physician that a southern climate would improve my health, and so i went down to tennessee and got a berth on the _morning-glory and johnson county warwhoop_ as associate editor. when i went on duty i found the chief editor sitting tilted back in a three-legged chair with his feet on a pine table. there was another pine table in the room and another afflicted chair, and both were half buried under newspapers and scraps and sheets of manuscript. there was a wooden box of sand, sprinkled with cigar-stubs and "old soldiers," and a stove with a door hanging by its upper hinge. the chief editor had a long-tailed black cloth frock-coat on, and white linen pants. his boots were small and neatly blacked. he wore a ruffled shirt, a large seal ring, a standing collar of obsolete pattern, and a checkered neckerchief with the ends hanging down. date of costume about . he was smoking a cigar, and trying to think of a word, and in pawing his hair he had rumpled his locks a good deal. he was scowling fearfully, and i judged that he was concocting a particularly knotty editorial. he told me to take the exchanges and skim through them and write up the "spirit of the tennessee press," condensing into the article all of their contents that seemed of interest. i wrote as follows: "spirit of the tennessee press "the editors of the _semi-weekly earthquake_ evidently labor under a misapprehension with regard to the ballyhack railroad. it is not the object of the company to leave buzzardville off to one side. on the contrary, they consider it one of the most important points along the line, and consequently can have no desire to slight it. the gentlemen of the _earthquake_ will, of course, take pleasure in making the correction. "john w. blossom, esq., the able editor of the higginsville _thunderbolt and battle-cry of freedom_, arrived in the city yesterday. he is stopping at the van buren house. "we observe that our contemporary of the mud springs _morning howl_ has fallen into the error of supposing that the election of van werter is not an established fact, but he will have discovered his mistake before this reminder reaches him, no doubt. he was doubtless misled by incomplete election returns. "it is pleasant to note that the city of blathersville is endeavoring to contract with some new york gentlemen to pave its wellnigh impassable streets with the nicholson pavement. the _daily hurrah_ urges the measure with ability, and seems confident of ultimate success." i passed my manuscript over to the chief editor for acceptance, alteration, or destruction. he glanced at it and his face clouded. he ran his eye down the pages, and his countenance grew portentous. it was easy to see that something was wrong. presently he sprang up and said: "thunder and lightning! do you suppose i am going to speak of those cattle that way? do you suppose my subscribers are going to stand such gruel as that? give me the pen!" i never saw a pen scrape and scratch its way so viciously, or plough through another man's verbs and adjectives so relentlessly. while he was in the midst of his work, somebody shot at him through the open window, and marred the symmetry of my ear. "ah," said he, "that is that scoundrel smith, of the _moral volcano_--he was due yesterday." and he snatched a navy revolver from his belt and fired. smith dropped, shot in the thigh. the shot spoiled smith's aim, who was just taking a second chance, and he crippled a stranger. it was me. merely a finger shot off. then the chief editor went on with his erasures and interlineations. just as he finished them a hand-grenade came down the stove-pipe, and the explosion shivered the stove into a thousand fragments. however, it did no further damage, except that a vagrant piece knocked a couple of my teeth out. "that stove is utterly ruined," said the chief editor. i said i believed it was. "well, no matter--don't want it this kind of weather. i know the man that did it. i'll get him. now, _here_ is the way this stuff ought to be written." i took the manuscript. it was scarred with erasures and interlineations till its mother wouldn't have known it if it had had one. it now read as follows: "spirit of the tennessee press "the inveterate liars of the _semi-weekly earthquake_ are evidently endeavoring to palm off upon a noble and chivalrous people another of their vile and brutal falsehoods with regard to that most glorious conception of the nineteenth century, the ballyhack railroad. the idea that buzzardville was to be left off at one side originated in their own fulsome brains--or rather in the settlings which _they_ regard as brains. they had better swallow this lie if they want to save their abandoned reptile carcasses the cowhiding they so richly deserve. "that ass, blossom, of the higginsville _thunderbolt and battle-cry of freedom_, is down here again sponging at the van buren. "we observe that the besotted blackguard of the mud springs _morning howl_ is giving out, with his usual propensity for lying, that van werter is not elected. the heaven-born mission of journalism is to disseminate truth: to eradicate error; to educate, refine, and elevate the tone of public morals and manners, and make all men more gentle, more virtuous, more charitable, and in all ways better, and holier, and happier; and yet this black-hearted scoundrel degrades his great office persistently to the dissemination of falsehood, calumny, vituperation, and vulgarity. "blathersville wants a nicholson pavement--it wants a jail and a poor-house more. the idea of a pavement in a one-horse town composed of two gin-mills, a blacksmith-shop, and that mustard-plaster of a newspaper, the _daily hurrah_! the crawling insect, buckner, who edits the _hurrah_, is braying about this business with his customary imbecility, and imagining that he is talking sense." "now _that_ is the way to write--peppery and to the point. mush-and-milk journalism gives me the fan-tods." about this time a brick came through the window with a splintering crash, and gave me a considerable of a jolt in the back. i moved out of range--i began to feel in the way. the chief said: "that was the colonel, likely. i've been expecting him for two days. he will be up now right away." he was correct. the colonel appeared in the door a moment afterwards with a dragoon revolver in his hand. he said: "sir, have i the honor of addressing the poltroon who edits this mangy sheet?" "you have. be seated, sir. be careful of the chair, one of its legs is gone. i believe i have the honor of addressing the putrid liar, colonel blatherskite tecumseh?" "right, sir. i have a little account to settle with you. if you are at leisure we will begin." "i have an article on the 'encouraging progress of moral and intellectual development in america' to finish, but there is no hurry. begin." both pistols rang out their fierce clamor at the same instant. the chief lost a lock of his hair, and the colonel's bullet ended its career in the fleshy part of my thigh. the colonel's left shoulder was clipped a little. they fired again. both missed their men this time, but i got my share, a shot in the arm. at the third fire both gentlemen were wounded slightly, and i had a knuckle chipped. i then said i believed i would go out and take a walk, as this was a private matter, and i had a delicacy about participating in it further. but both gentlemen begged me to keep my seat, and assured me that i was not in the way. they then talked about the elections and the crops while they reloaded, and i fell to tying up my wounds. but presently they opened fire again with animation, and every shot took effect--but it is proper to remark that five out of the six fell to my share. the sixth one mortally wounded the colonel, who remarked, with fine humor, that he would have to say good-morning now, as he had business up-town. he then inquired the way to the undertaker's and left. the chief turned to me and said: "i am expecting company to dinner, and shall have to get ready. it will be a favor to me if you will read proof and attend to the customers." i winced a little at the idea of attending to the customers, but i was too bewildered by the fusillade that was still ringing in my ears to think of anything to say. he continued: "jones will be here at three--cowhide him. gillespie will call earlier, perhaps--throw him out of the window. ferguson will be along about four--kill him. that is all for to-day, i believe. if you have any odd time, you may write a blistering article on the police--give the chief inspector rats. the cowhides are under the table; weapons in the drawer--ammunition there in the corner--lint and bandages up there in the pigeon-holes. in case of accident, go to lancet, the surgeon, down-stairs. he advertises--we take it out in trade." [illustration: "gillespie had called"] he was gone. i shuddered. at the end of the next three hours i had been through perils so awful that all peace of mind and all cheerfulness were gone from me. gillespie had called and thrown _me_ out of the window. jones arrived promptly, and when i got ready to do the cowhiding he took the job off my hands. in an encounter with a stranger, not in the bill of fare, i had lost my scalp. another stranger, by the name of thompson, left me a mere wreck and ruin of chaotic rags. and at last, at bay in the corner, and beset by an infuriated mob of editors, blacklegs, politicians, and desperadoes, who raved and swore and flourished their weapons about my head till the air shimmered with glancing flashes of steel, i was in the act of resigning my berth on the paper when the chief arrived, and with him a rabble of charmed and enthusiastic friends. then ensued a scene of riot and carnage such as no human pen, or steel one either, could describe. people were shot, probed, dismembered, blown up, thrown out of the window. there was a brief tornado of murky blasphemy, with a confused and frantic war-dance glimmering through it, and then all was over. in five minutes there was silence, and the gory chief and i sat alone and surveyed the sanguinary ruin that strewed the floor around us. he said: "you'll like this place when you get used to it." i said: "i'll have to get you to excuse me; i think maybe i might write to suit you after a while; as soon as i had had some practice and learned the language i am confident i could. but, to speak the plain truth, that sort of energy of expression has its inconveniences, and a man is liable to interruption. you see that yourself. vigorous writing is calculated to elevate the public, no doubt, but then i do not like to attract so much attention as it calls forth. i can't write with comfort when i am interrupted so much as i have been to-day. i like this berth well enough, but i don't like to be left here to wait on the customers. the experiences are novel, i grant you, and entertaining, too, after a fashion, but they are not judiciously distributed. a gentleman shoots at you through the window and cripples _me_; a bomb-shell comes down the stove-pipe for your gratification and sends the stove-door down _my_ throat; a friend drops in to swap compliments with you, and freckles _me_ with bullet-holes till my skin won't hold my principles; you go to dinner, and jones comes with his cowhide, gillespie throws me out of the window, thompson tears all my clothes off, and an entire stranger takes my scalp with the easy freedom of an old acquaintance; and in less than five minutes all the blackguards in the country arrive in their war-paint, and proceed to scare the rest of me to death with their tomahawks. take it altogether, i never had such a spirited time in all my life as i have had to-day. no; i like you, and i like your calm, unruffled way of explaining things to the customers, but you see i am not used to it. the southern heart is too impulsive; southern hospitality is too lavish with the stranger. the paragraphs which i have written to-day, and into whose cold sentences your masterly hand has infused the fervent spirit of tennessean journalism, will wake up another nest of hornets. all that mob of editors will come--and they will come hungry, too, and want somebody for breakfast. i shall have to bid you adieu. i decline to be present at these festivities. i came south for my health; i will go back on the same errand, and suddenly. tennessean journalism is too stirring for me." after which we parted with mutual regret, and i took apartments at the hospital. nicodemus dodge--printer when i was a boy in a printing-office in missouri, a loose-jointed, long-legged, tow-headed, jeans-clad, countrified cub of about sixteen lounged in one day, and without removing his hands from the depths of his trousers pockets or taking off his faded ruin of a slouch hat, whose broken rim hung limp and ragged about his eyes and ears like a bug-eaten cabbage-leaf, stared indifferently around, then leaned his hip against the editors' table, crossed his mighty brogans, aimed at a distant fly from a crevice in his upper teeth, laid him low, and said, with composure: "whar's the boss?" "i am the boss," said the editor, following this curious bit of architecture wonderingly along up to its clock-face with his eye. "don't want anybody fur to learn the business, 'tain't likely?" "well, i don't know. would you like to learn it?" "pap's so po' he cain't run me no mo', so i want to git a show somers if i kin, 'tain't no diffunce what--i'm strong and hearty, and i don't turn my back on no kind of work, hard nur soft." "do you think you would like to learn the printing business?" "well, i don't re'ly k'yer a durn what i _do_ learn, so's i git a chance fur to make my way. i'd jist as soon learn print'n' 's anything." "can you read?" "yes--middlin'." "write?" "well, i've seed people could lay over me thar." "cipher?" "not good enough to keep store, i don't reckon, but up as fur as twelve-times-twelve i ain't no slouch. 'tother side of that is what gits me." "where is your home?" "i'm f'm old shelby." "what's your father's religious denomination?" "him? oh, he's a blacksmith." "no, no--i don't mean his trade. what's his _religious_ denomination?" "_oh_--i didn't understand you befo'. he's a freemason." "no, no; you don't get my meaning yet. what i mean is, does he belong to any _church_?" "_now_ you're talkin'! gouldn't make out what you was a-tryin' to git through yo' head no way. b'long to a _church_! why, boss, he's be'n the pizenest kind of a free-will babtis' for forty year. they ain't no pizener ones 'n' what _he_ is. mighty good man, pap is. everybody says that. if they said any diffrunt they wouldn't say it whar _i_ wuz--not _much_ they wouldn't." "what is your own religion?" "well, boss, you've kind o' got me thar--and yit you hain't got me so mighty much, nuther. i think 't if a feller he'ps another feller when he's in trouble, and don't cuss, and don't do no mean things, nur noth'n' he ain' no business to do, and don't spell the saviour's name with a little g, he ain't runnin' no resks--he's about as saift as if he b'longed to a church." "but suppose he did spell it with a little g--what then?" "well, if he done it a-purpose, i reckon he wouldn't stand no chance,--he _oughtn't_ to have no chance, anyway, i'm most rotten certain 'bout that." "what is your name?" "nicodemus dodge." "i think maybe you'll do, nicodemus. we'll give you a trial, anyway." "all right." "when would you like to begin?" "now." so, within ten minutes after we had first glimpsed this nondescript he was one of us, and with his coat off and hard at it. beyond that end of our establishment which was farthest from the street was a deserted garden, pathless, and thickly grown with the bloomy and villanous "jimpson" weed and its common friend the stately sunflower. in the midst of this mournful spot was a decayed and aged little "frame" house with but one room, one window, and no ceiling--it had been a smoke-house a generation before. nicodemus was given this lonely and ghostly den as a bedchamber. the village smarties recognized a treasure in nicodemus right away--a butt to play jokes on. it was easy to see that he was inconceivably green and confiding. george jones had the glory of perpetrating the first joke on him; he gave him a cigar with a fire-cracker in it and winked to the crowd to come; the thing exploded presently and swept away the bulk of nicodemus's eyebrows and eyelashes. he simply said: "i consider them kind of seeg'yars dangersome"--and seemed to suspect nothing. the next evening nicodemus waylaid george and poured a bucket of ice-water over him. one day, while nicodemus was in swimming, tom mcelroy "tied" his clothes. nicodemus made a bonfire of tom's by way of retaliation. a third joke was played upon nicodemus a day or two later--he walked up the middle aisle of the village church, sunday night, with a staring hand-bill pinned between his shoulders. the joker spent the remainder of the night, after church, in the cellar of a deserted house, and nicodemus sat on the cellar door till towards breakfast-time to make sure that the prisoner remembered that if any noise was made some rough treatment would be the consequence. the cellar had two feet of stagnant water in it, and was bottomed with six inches of soft mud. but i wander from the point. it was the subject of skeletons that brought this boy back to my recollection. before a very long time had elapsed, the village smarties began to feel an uncomfortable consciousness of not having made a very shining success out of their attempts on the simpleton from "old shelby." experimenters grew scarce and chary. now the young doctor came to the rescue. there was delight and applause when he proposed to scare nicodemus to death, and explained how he was going to do it. he had a noble new skeleton--the skeleton of the late and only local celebrity, jimmy finn, the village drunkard--a grisly piece of property which he had bought of jimmy finn himself, at auction, for fifty dollars, under great competition, when jimmy lay very sick in the tanyard a fortnight before his death. the fifty dollars had gone promptly for whiskey and had considerably hurried up the change of ownership in the skeleton. the doctor would put jimmy finn's skeleton in nicodemus's bed! this was done--about half-past ten in the evening. about nicodemus's usual bedtime--midnight--the village jokers came creeping stealthily through the jimpson weeds and sunflowers towards the lonely frame den. they reached the window and peeped in. there sat the long-legged pauper, on his bed, in a very short shirt, and nothing more; he was dangling his legs contentedly back and forth, and wheezing the music of "camptown races" out of a paper-overlaid comb which he was pressing against his mouth; by him lay a new jews-harp, a new top, a solid india-rubber ball, a handful of painted marbles, five pounds of "store" candy, and a well-knawed slab of gingerbread as big and as thick as a volume of sheet music. he had sold the skeleton to a travelling quack for three dollars and was enjoying the result! [illustration: "wheezing the music of 'camptown races'"] mr. bloke's item our esteemed friend, mr. john william bloke, of virginia city, walked into the office where we are sub-editor at a late hour last night, with an expression of profound and heartfelt suffering upon his countenance, and, sighing heavily, laid the following item reverently upon the desk, and walked slowly out again. he paused a moment at the door, and seemed struggling to command his feelings sufficiently to enable him to speak, and then, nodding his head towards his manuscript, ejaculated in a broken voice, "friend of mine--oh! how sad!" and burst into tears. we were so moved at his distress that we did not think to call him back and endeavor to comfort him until he was gone, and it was too late. the paper had already gone to press, but knowing that our friend would consider the publication of this item important, and cherishing the hope that to print it would afford a melancholy satisfaction to his sorrowing heart, we stopped the press at once and inserted it in our columns: distressing accident.--last evening, about six o'clock, as mr. william schuyler, an old and respectable citizen of south park, was leaving his residence to go down-town, as has been his usual custom for many years with the exception only of a short interval in the spring of , during which he was confined to his bed by injuries received in attempting to stop a runaway horse by thoughtlessly placing himself directly in its wake and throwing up his hands and shouting, which, if he had done so even a single moment sooner, must inevitably have frightened the animal still more instead of checking its speed, although disastrous enough to himself as it was, and rendered more melancholy and distressing by reason of the presence of his wife's mother, who was there and saw the sad occurrence, notwithstanding it is at least likely, though not necessarily so, that she should be reconnoitring in another direction when incidents occur, not being vivacious and on the lookout, as a general thing, but even the reverse, as her own mother is said to have stated, who is no more, but died in the full hope of a glorious resurrection, upward of three years ago, aged eighty-six, being a christian woman and without guile, as it were, or property, in consequence of the fire of , which destroyed every single thing she had in the world. but such is life. let us all take warning by this solemn occurrence, and let us endeavor so to conduct ourselves that when we come to die we can do it. let us place our hands upon our heart, and say with earnestness and sincerity that from this day forth we will beware of the intoxicating bowl.--_first edition of the californian._ the head editor has been in here raising the mischief, and tearing his hair and kicking the furniture about, and abusing me like a pickpocket. he says that every time he leaves me in charge of the paper for half an hour, i get imposed upon by the first infant or the first idiot that comes along. and he says that that distressing item of mr. bloke's is nothing but a lot of distressing bosh, and has no point to it, and no sense in it, and no information in it, and that there was no sort of necessity for stopping the press to publish it. now all this comes of being good-hearted. if i had been as unaccommodating and unsympathetic as some people, i would have told mr. bloke that i wouldn't receive his communication at such a late hour; but no, his snuffling distress touched my heart, and i jumped at the chance of doing something to modify his misery. i never read his item to see whether there was anything wrong about it, but hastily wrote the few lines which preceded it, and sent it to the printers. and what has my kindness done for me? it has done nothing but bring down upon me a storm of abuse and ornamental blasphemy. now i will read that item myself, and see if there is any foundation for all this fuss. and if there is, the author of it shall hear from me. * * * * * i have read it, and i am bound to admit that it seems a little mixed at a first glance. however, i will peruse it once more. * * * * * i have read it again, and it does really seem a good deal more mixed than ever. * * * * * i have read it over five times, but if i can get at the meaning of it, i wish i may get my just deserts. it won't bear analysis. there are things about it which i cannot understand at all. it don't say what ever became of william schuyler. it just says enough about him to get one interested in his career, and then drops him. who is william schuyler, anyhow, and what part of south park did he live in, and if he started down-town at six o'clock, did he ever get there, and if he did, did anything happen to him? is _he_ the individual that met with the "distressing accident"? considering the elaborate circumstantiality of detail observable in the item, it seems to me that it ought to contain more information than it does. on the contrary, it is obscure--and not only obscure, but utterly incomprehensible. was the breaking of mr. schuyler's leg, fifteen years ago, the "distressing accident" that plunged mr. bloke into unspeakable grief, and caused him to come up here at dead of night and stop our press to acquaint the world with the circumstance? or did the "distressing accident" consist in the destruction of schuyler's mother-in-law's property in early times? or did it consist in the death of that person herself three years ago (albeit it does not appear that she died by accident)? in a word, what _did_ that "distressing accident" consist in? what did that drivelling ass of a schuyler stand _in the wake_ of a runaway horse for, with his shouting and gesticulating, if he wanted to stop him? and how the mischief could he get run over by a horse that had already passed beyond him? and what are we to take "warning" by? and how is this extraordinary chapter of incomprehensibilities going to be a "lesson" to us? and, above all, what has the intoxicating "bowl" got to do with it, anyhow? it is not stated that schuyler drank, or that his wife drank, or that his mother-in-law drank, or that the horse drank--wherefore, then, the reference to the intoxicating bowl? it does seem to me that if mr. bloke had let the intoxicating bowl alone himself, he never would have got into so much trouble about this exasperating imaginary accident. i have read this absurd item over and over again, with all its insinuating plausibility, until my head swims, but i can make neither head nor tail of it. there certainly seems to have been an accident of some kind or other, but it is impossible to determine what the nature of it was, or who was the sufferer by it. i do not like to do it, but i feel compelled to request that the next time anything happens to one of mr. bloke's friends, he will append such explanatory notes to his account of it as will enable me to find out what sort of an accident it was and whom it happened to. i had rather all his friends should die than that i should be driven to the verge of lunacy again in trying to cipher out the meaning of another such production as the above. [illustration: "i have read this absurd item over"] how i edited an agricultural paper i did not take temporary editorship of an agricultural paper without misgivings. neither would a landsman take command of a ship without misgivings. but i was in circumstances that made the salary an object. the regular editor of the paper was going off for a holiday, and i accepted the terms he offered, and took his place. the sensation of being at work again was luxurious, and i wrought all the week with unflagging pleasure. we went to press, and i waited a day with some solicitude to see whether my effort was going to attract any notice. as i left the office, towards sundown, a group of men and boys at the foot of the stairs dispersed with one impulse, and gave me passageway, and i heard one or two of them say, "that's him!" i was naturally pleased by this incident. the next morning i found a similar group at the foot of the stairs, and scattering couples and individuals standing here and there in the street, and over the way, watching me with interest. the group separated and fell back as i approached, and i heard a man say, "look at his eye!" i pretended not to observe the notice i was attracting, but secretly i was pleased with it, and was purposing to write an account of it to my aunt. i went up the short flight of stairs, and heard cheery voices and a ringing laugh as i drew near the door, which i opened, and caught a glimpse of two young rural-looking men, whose faces blanched and lengthened when they saw me, and then they both plunged through the window with a great crash. i was surprised. in about half an hour an old gentleman, with a flowing beard and a fine but rather austere face, entered, and sat down at my invitation. he seemed to have something on his mind. he took off his hat and set it on the floor, and got out of it a red silk handkerchief and a copy of our paper. he put the paper on his lap, and while he polished his spectacles with his handkerchief, he said, "are you the new editor?" i said i was. "have you ever edited an agricultural paper before?" "no," i said; "this is my first attempt." "very likely. have you had any experience in agriculture practically?" "no; i believe i have not." "some instinct told me so," said the old gentleman, putting on his spectacles, and looking over them at me with asperity, while he folded his paper into a convenient shape. "i wish to read you what must have made me have that instinct. it was this editorial. listen, and see if it was you that wrote it: "turnips should never be pulled, it injures them. it is much better to send a boy up and let him shake the tree." "now, what do you think of that--for i really suppose you wrote it?" "think of it? why, i think it is good. i think it is sense. i have no doubt that every year millions and millions of bushels of turnips are spoiled in this township alone by being pulled in a half-ripe condition, when, if they had sent a boy up to shake the tree--" "shake your grandmother! turnips don't grow on trees!" "oh, they don't, don't they! well, who said they did? the language was intended to be figurative, wholly figurative. anybody that knows anything will know that i meant that the boy should shake the vine." then this old person got up and tore his paper all into small shreds, and stamped on them, and broke several things with his cane, and said i did not know as much as a cow; and then went out and banged the door after him, and, in short, acted in such a way that i fancied he was displeased about something. but not knowing what the trouble was, i could not be any help to him. pretty soon after this a long cadaverous creature, with lanky locks hanging down to his shoulders, and a week's stubble bristling from the hills and valleys of his face, darted within the door, and halted, motionless, with finger on lip, and head and body bent in listening attitude. no sound was heard. still he listened. no sound. then he turned the key in the door, and came elaborately tiptoeing towards me till he was within long reaching distance of me, when he stopped and, after scanning my face with intense interest for a while, drew a folded copy of our paper from his bosom, and said: "there, you wrote that. read it to me--quick! relieve me. i suffer." [illustration: "a long cadaverous creature"] i read as follows; and as the sentences fell from my lips i could see the relief come, i could see the drawn muscles relax, and the anxiety go out of the face, and rest and peace steal over the features like the merciful moonlight over a desolate landscape: "the guano is a fine bird, but great care is necessary in rearing it. it should not be imported earlier than june or later than september. in the winter it should be kept in a warm place, where it can hatch out its young. "it is evident that we are to have a backward season for grain. therefore it will be well for the farmer to begin setting out his corn-stalks and planting his buckwheat-cakes in july instead of august. "concerning the pumpkin.--this berry is a favorite with the natives of the interior of new england, who prefer it to the gooseberry for the making of fruit-cake, and who likewise give it the preference over the raspberry for feeding cows, as being more filling and fully as satisfying. the pumpkin is the only esculent of the orange family that will thrive in the north, except the gourd and one or two varieties of the squash. but the custom of planting it in the front yard with the shrubbery is fast going out of vogue, for it is now generally conceded that the pumpkin as a shade tree is a failure. "now, as the warm weather approaches, and the ganders begin to spawn"-- the excited listener sprang towards me to shake hands, and said: "there, there--that will do. i know i am all right now, because you have read it just as i did, word for word. but, stranger, when i first read it this morning, i said to myself, i never, never believed it before, notwithstanding my friends kept me under watch so strict, but now i believe i _am_ crazy; and with that i fetched a howl that you might have heard two miles, and started out to kill somebody--because, you know, i knew it would come to that sooner or later, and so i might as well begin. i read one of them paragraphs over again, so as to be certain, and then i burned my house down and started. i have crippled several people, and have got one fellow up a tree, where i can get him if i want him. but i thought i would call in here as i passed along and make the thing perfectly certain; and now it _is_ certain, and i tell you it is lucky for the chap that is in the tree. i should have killed him sure, as i went back. good-bye, sir, good-bye; you have taken a great load off my mind. my reason has stood the strain of one of your agricultural articles, and i know that nothing can ever unseat it now. _good_-bye, sir." i felt a little uncomfortable about the cripplings and arsons this person had been entertaining himself with, for i could not help feeling remotely accessory to them. but these thoughts were quickly banished, for the regular editor walked in! [i thought to myself, now if you had gone to egypt, as i recommended you to, i might have had a chance to get my hand in; but you wouldn't do it, and here you are. i sort of expected you.] the editor was looking sad and perplexed and dejected. he surveyed the wreck which that old rioter and these two young farmers had made, and then said: "this is a sad business--a very sad business. there is the mucilage-bottle broken, and six panes of glass, and a spittoon, and two candlesticks. but that is not the worst. the reputation of the paper is injured--and permanently, i fear. true, there never was such a call for the paper before, and it never sold such a large edition or soared to such celebrity; but does one want to be famous for lunacy, and prosper upon the infirmities of his mind? my friend, as i am an honest man, the street out here is full of people, and others are roosting on the fences, waiting to get a glimpse of you, because they think you are crazy. and well they might after reading your editorials. they are a disgrace to journalism. why, what put it into your head that you could edit a paper of this nature? you do not seem to know the first rudiments of agriculture. you speak of a furrow and a harrow as being the same thing; you talk of the moulting season for cows; and you recommend the domestication of the polecat on account of its playfulness and its excellence as a ratter! your remark that clams will lie quiet if music be played to them was superfluous--entirely superfluous. nothing disturbs clams. clams _always_ lie quiet. clams care nothing whatever about music. ah, heavens and earth, friend! if you had made the acquiring of ignorance the study of your life, you could not have graduated with higher honor than you could to-day. i never saw anything like it. your observation that the horse-chestnut as an article of commerce is steadily gaining in favor, is simply calculated to destroy this journal. i want you to throw up your situation and go. i want no more holiday--i could not enjoy it if i had it. certainly not with you in my chair. i would always stand in dread of what you might be going to recommend next. it makes me lose all patience every time i think of your discussing oyster-beds under the head of 'landscape gardening.' i want you to go. nothing on earth could persuade me to take another holiday. oh! why didn't you _tell_ me you didn't know anything about agriculture?" "_tell_ you, you cornstalk, you cabbage, you son of a cauliflower? it's the first time i ever heard such an unfeeling remark. i tell you i have been in the editorial business going on fourteen years, and it is the first time i ever heard of a man's having to know anything in order to edit a newspaper. you turnip! who write the dramatic critiques for the second-rate papers? why, a parcel of promoted shoemakers and apprentice apothecaries, who know just as much about good acting as i do about good farming and no more. who review the books? people who never wrote one. who do up the heavy leaders on finance? parties who have had the largest opportunities for knowing nothing about it. who criticise the indian campaigns? gentlemen who do not know a warwhoop from a wigwam, and who never have had to run a foot-race with a tomahawk, or pluck arrows out of the several members of their families to build the evening campfire with. who write the temperance appeals, and clamor about the flowing bowl? folks who will never draw another sober breath till they do it in the grave. who edit the agricultural papers, you--yam? men, as a general thing, who fail in the poetry line, yellow-colored novel line, sensation-drama line, city-editor line, and finally fall back on agriculture as a temporary reprieve from the poor-house. _you_ try to tell _me_ anything about the newspaper business! sir, i have been through it from alpha to omaha, and i tell you that the less a man knows the bigger the noise he makes and the higher the salary he commands. heaven knows if i had but been ignorant instead of cultivated, and impudent instead of diffident, i could have made a name for myself in this cold selfish world. i take my leave, sir. since i have been treated as you have treated me, i am perfectly willing to go. but i have done my duty. i have fulfilled my contract as far as i was permitted to do it. i said i could make your paper of interest to all classes--and i have. i said i could run your circulation up to twenty thousand copies, and if i had had two more weeks i'd have done it. and i'd have given you the best class of readers that ever an agricultural paper had--not a farmer in it, nor a solitary individual who could tell a watermelon-tree from a peach-vine to save his life. _you_ are the loser by this rupture, not me, pie-plant. adios." i then left. the killing of julius cæsar "localized" _being the only true and reliable account ever published; taken from the "roman daily evening fasces," of the date of that tremendous occurrence._ nothing in the world affords a newspaper reporter so much satisfaction as gathering up the details of a bloody and mysterious murder, and writing them up with aggravating circumstantiality. he takes a living delight in this labor of love--for such it is to him, especially if he knows that all the other papers have gone to press, and his will be the only one that will contain the dreadful intelligence. a feeling of regret has often come over me that i was not reporting in rome when cæsar was killed--reporting on an evening paper, and the only one in the city, and getting at least twelve hours ahead of the morning-paper boys with this most magnificent "item" that ever fell to the lot of the craft. other events have happened as startling as this, but none that possessed so peculiarly all the characteristics of the favorite "item" of the present day, magnified into grandeur and sublimity by the high rank, fame, and social and political standing of the actors in it. however, as i was not permitted to report cæsar's assassination in the regular way, it has at least afforded me rare satisfaction to translate the following able account of it from the original latin of the _roman daily evening fasces_ of that date--second edition. "our usually quiet city of rome was thrown into a state of wild excitement yesterday by the occurrence of one of those bloody affrays which sicken the heart and fill the soul with fear, while they inspire all thinking men with forebodings for the future of a city where human life is held so cheaply, and the gravest laws are so openly set at defiance. as the result of that affray, it is our painful duty, as public journalists, to record the death of one of our most esteemed citizens--a man whose name is known wherever this paper circulates, and whose fame it has been our pleasure and our privilege to extend, and also to protect from the tongue of slander and falsehood, to the best of our poor ability. we refer to mr. j. cæsar, the emperor-elect. "the facts of the case, as nearly as our reporter could determine them from the conflicting statements of eyewitnesses, were about as follows:--the affair was an election row, of course. nine-tenths of the ghastly butcheries that disgrace the city nowadays grow out of the bickerings and jealousies and animosities engendered by these accursed elections. rome would be the gainer by it if her very constables were elected to serve a century; for in our experience we have never even been able to choose a dog-pelter without celebrating the event with a dozen knockdowns and a general cramming of the station-house with drunken vagabonds overnight. it is said that when the immense majority for cæsar at the polls in the market was declared the other day, and the crown was offered to that gentleman, even his amazing unselfishness in refusing it three times was not sufficient to save him from the whispered insults of such men as casca, of the tenth ward, and other hirelings of the disappointed candidate, hailing mostly from the eleventh and thirteenth and other outside districts, who were overheard speaking ironically and contemptuously of mr. cæsar's conduct upon that occasion. "we are further informed that there are many among us who think they are justified in believing that the assassination of julius cæsar was a put-up thing--a cut-and-dried arrangement, hatched by marcus brutus and a lot of his hired roughs, and carried out only too faithfully according to the programme. whether there be good grounds for this suspicion or not, we leave to the people to judge for themselves, only asking that they will read the following account of the sad occurrence carefully and dispassionately before they render that judgment. "the senate was already in session, and cæsar was coming down the street towards the capitol, conversing with some personal friends, and followed, as usual, by a large number of citizens. just as he was passing in front of demosthenes & thucydides' drug-store, he was observing casually to a gentleman, who, our informant thinks, is a fortune-teller, that the ides of march were come. the reply was, 'yes, they are come, but not gone yet.' at this moment artemidorus stepped up and passed the time of day, and asked cæsar to read a schedule or a tract or something of the kind, which he had brought for his perusal. mr. decius brutus also said something about an 'humble suit' which _he_ wanted read. artemidorus begged that attention might be paid to his first, because it was of personal consequence to cæsar. the latter replied that what concerned himself should be read last, or words to that effect. artemidorus begged and beseeched him to read the paper instantly.[ ] however, cæsar shook him off, and refused to read any petition in the street. he then entered the capitol, and the crowd followed him. "about this time the following conversation was overheard, and we consider that, taken in connection with the events which succeeded it, it bears an appalling significance: mr. papilius lena remarked to george w. cassius (commonly known as the 'nobby boy of the third ward'), a bruiser in the pay of the opposition, that he hoped his enterprise to-day might thrive; and when cassius asked, 'what enterprise?' he only closed his left eye temporarily and said with simulated indifference, 'fare you well,' and sauntered towards cæsar. marcus brutus, who is suspected of being the ringleader of the band that killed cæsar, asked what it was that lena had said. cassius told him, and added, in a low tone, '_i fear our purpose is discovered._' "brutus told his wretched accomplice to keep an eye on lena, and a moment after cassius urged that lean and hungry vagrant, casca, whose reputation here is none of the best, to be sudden for _he feared prevention_. he then turned to brutus, apparently much excited, and asked what should be done, and swore that either he or cæsar _should never turn back_--he would kill himself first. at this time cæsar was talking to some of the back-country members about the approaching fall elections, and paying little attention to what was going on around him. billy trebonius got into conversation with the people's friend and cæsar's--mark antony--and under some pretence or other got him away, and brutus, decius, casca, cinna, metellus cimber, and others of the gang of infamous desperadoes that infest rome at present, closed around the doomed cæsar. then metellus cimber knelt down and begged that his brother might be recalled from banishment, but cæsar rebuked him for his fawning conduct, and refused to grant his petition. immediately, at cimber's request, first brutus and then cassius begged for the return of the banished publius; but cæsar still refused. he said he could not be moved; that he was as fixed as the north star, and proceeded to speak in the most complimentary terms of the firmness of that star and its steady character. then he said he was like it, and he believed he was the only man in the country that was; therefore, since he was 'constant' that cimber should be banished, he was also 'constant' that he should stay banished, and he'd be hanged if he didn't keep him so! "instantly seizing upon this shallow pretext for a fight, casca sprang at cæsar and struck him with a dirk. cæsar grabbing him by the arm with his right hand, and launching a blow straight from the shoulder with his left that sent the reptile bleeding to the earth. he then backed up against pompey's statue, and squared himself to receive his assailants. cassius and cimber and cinna rushed upon him with their daggers drawn, and the former succeeded in inflicting a wound upon his body; but before he could strike again, and before either of the others could strike at all, cæsar stretched the three miscreants at his feet with as many blows of his powerful fist. by this time the senate was in an indescribable uproar; the throng of citizens in the lobbies had blockaded the doors in their frantic efforts to escape from the building, the sergeant-at-arms and his assistants were struggling with the assassins, venerable senators had cast aside their encumbering robes, and were leaping over benches and flying down the aisles in wild confusion towards the shelter of the committee-rooms, and a thousand voices were shouting 'po-lice! po-lice!' in discordant tones that rose above the frightful din like shrieking winds above the roaring of a tempest. and amid it all, great cæsar stood with his back against the statue, like a lion at bay, and fought his assailants weaponless and hand to hand, with the defiant bearing and the unwavering courage which he had shown before on many a bloody field. billy trebonius and caius legarius struck him with their daggers and fell, as their brother-conspirators before them had fallen. but at last, when cæsar saw his old friend brutus step forward armed with a murderous knife, it is said he seemed utterly overpowered with grief and amazement, and dropping his invincible left arm by his side, he hid his face in the folds of his mantle and received the treacherous blow without an effort to stay the hand that gave it. he only said, '_et tu, brute?_' and fell lifeless on the marble pavement. "we learn that the coat deceased had on when he was killed was the same one he wore in his tent on the afternoon of the day he overcame the nervii, and that when it was removed from the corpse it was found to be cut and gashed in no less than seven different places. there was nothing in the pockets. it will be exhibited at the coroner's inquest, and will be damning proof of the fact of the killing. these latter facts may be relied on, as we get them from mark antony, whose position enables him to learn every item of news connected with the one subject of absorbing interest of to-day. [illustration: "there was nothing in the pockets"] "later.--while the coroner was summoning a jury, mark antony and other friends of the late cæsar got hold of the body, and lugged it off to the forum, and at last accounts antony and brutus were making speeches over it and raising such a row among the people that, as we go to press, the chief of police is satisfied there is going to be a riot, and is taking measures accordingly." [footnote : mark that: it is hinted by william shakespeare, who saw the beginning and the end of the unfortunate affray, that this "schedule" was simply a note discovering to cæsar that a plot was brewing to take his life.] the end [frontispiece: they tackles anything i leads 'em up to] side-stepping with shorty _by_ sewell ford _illustrated by_ _francis vaux wilson_ new york grosset & dunlap publishers _copyright, , by mitchell kennerley_ contents chapter i. shorty and the plute ii. rounding up maggie iii. up against bentley iv. the tortonis' star act v. putting pinckney on the job vi. the soaring of the sagawas vii. rinkey and the phony lamp viii. pinckney and the twins ix. a line on peacock alley x. shorty and the stray xi. when rossiter cut loose xii. two rounds with sylvie xiii. giving bombazoula the hook xiv. a hunch for langdon xv. shorty's go with art xvi. why wilbur ducked xvii. when swifty was going some xviii. playing wilbur to show xix. at home with the dillons xx. the case of rusty quinn illustrations they tackles anything i leads 'em to . . . . . . _frontispiece_ the twins organize a game of tag "we--e--e--ough! glory be!" yells hank, lettin' out an earsplitter he has the po'try tap turned on full blast i shorty and the plute notice any gold dust on my back? no? well it's a wonder there ain't, for i've been up against the money bags so close i expect you can find eagle prints all over me. that's what it is to build up a rep. looks like all the fat wads in new york was gettin' to know about shorty mccabe, and how i'm a sure cure for everything that ails 'em. you see, i no sooner take hold of one down and outer, sweat the high livin' out of him, and fix him up like new with a private course of rough house exercises, than he passes the word along to another; and so it goes. this last was the limit, though. one day i'm called to the 'phone by some mealy mouth that wants to know if this is the physical culture studio. "sure as ever," says i. "well," says he, "i'm secretary to mr. fletcher dawes." "that's nice," says i. "how's fletch?" "mr. dawes," says he, "will see the professah at fawh o'clock this awfternoon." "is that a guess," says i, "or has he been havin' his fortune told?" "who is this?" says the gent at the other end of the wire, real sharp and sassy. "only me," says i. "well, who are you?" says he. "i'm the witness for the defence," says i. "i'm professor mccabe, p. c. d., and a lot more that i don't use on week days." "oh!" says he, simmerin' down a bit. "this is professor mccabe himself, is it? well, mr. fletcher dawes requiahs youah services. you are to repawt at his apartments at fawh o'clock this awfternoon--fawh o'clock, understand?" "oh, yes," says i. "that's as plain as a dropped egg on a plate of hash. but say, buddy; you tell mr. dawes that next time he wants me just to pull the string. if that don't work, he can whistle; and when he gets tired of whistlin', and i ain't there, he'll know i ain't comin'. got them directions? well, think hard, and maybe you'll figure it out later. ta, ta, mister secretary." with that i hangs up the receiver and winks at swifty joe. "swifty," says i, "they'll be usin' us for rubber stamps if we don't look out." "who was the guy?" says he. "some pinhead up to fletcher dawes's," says i. "hully chee!" says swifty. funny, ain't it, how most everyone'll prick up their ears at that name? and it don't mean so much money as john d.'s or morgan's does, either. but what them two and harriman don't own is divided up among fletcher dawes and a few others. maybe it's because dawes is such a free spender that he's better advertised. anyway, when you say fletcher dawes you think of a red-faced gent with a fistful of thousand-dollar bills offerin' to buy the white house for a stable. but say, he might have twice as much, and i wouldn't hop any quicker. i'm only livin' once, and it may be long or short, but while it lasts i don't intend to do the lackey act for anyone. course, i thinks the jolt i gave that secretary chap closes the incident. but around three o'clock that same day, though, i looks down from the front window and sees a heavy party in a fur lined overcoat bein' helped out of a shiny benzine wagon by a pie faced valet, and before i'd done guessin' where they was headed for they shows up in the office door. "my name is dawes. fletcher dawes," says the gent in the overcoat. "i could have guessed that," says i. "you look somethin' like the pictures they print of you in the sunday papers." "i'm sorry to hear it," says he. but say, he's less of a prize hog than you'd think, come to get near--forty-eight around the waist, i should say, and about a number sixteen collar. you wouldn't pick him out by his face as the kind of a man that you'd like to have holdin' a mortgage on the old homestead, though, nor one you'd like to sit opposite to in a poker game--eyes about a quarter of an inch apart, lima bean ears buttoned down close, and a mouth like a crack in the pavement. he goes right at tellin' what he wants and when he wants it, sayin' he's a little out of condition and thinks a few weeks of my trainin' was just what he needed. also he throws out that i might come up to the brasstonia and begin next day. "yes?" says i. "i heard somethin' like that over the 'phone." "from corson, eh?" says he. "he's an ass! never mind him. you'll be up to-morrow?" "say," says i, "where'd you get the idea i went out by the day?" "why," says he, "it seems to me i heard something about----" "maybe they was personal friends of mine," says i. "that's different. anybody else comes here to see me." "ah!" says he, suckin' in his breath through his teeth and levelin' them blued steel eyes of his at me. "i suppose you have your price?" "no," says i; "but i'll make one, just special for you. it'll be ten dollars a minute." say, what's the use? we saves up till we gets a little wad of twenties about as thick as a roll of absorbent cotton, and with what we got in the bank and some that's lent out, we feel as rich as platter gravy. then we bumps up against a really truly plute, and gets a squint at his dinner check, and we feels like panhandlers workin' a side street. honest, with my little ten dollars a minute gallery play, i thought i was goin' to have him stunned. "that's satisfactory," says he. "to-morrow, at four." that's all. i'm still standin' there with my mouth open when he's bein' tucked in among the tiger skins. and i'm bought up by the hour, like a bloomin' he massage artist! feel? i felt like i'd fit loose in a gas pipe. but swifty, who's had his ear stretched out and his eyes bugged all the time, begins to do the walk around and look me over as if i was a new wax figger in a museum. "ten plunks a minute!" says he. "hully chee!" "ah, forget it!" says i. "d'ye suppose i want to be reminded that i've broke into the bath rubber class? g'wan! next time you see me prob'ly i'll be wearin' a leather collar and a tag. get the mitts on, you south brooklyn bridge rusher, and let me show you how i can hit before i lose my nerve altogether!" swifty says he ain't been used so rough since the time he took the count from cans; but it was a relief to my feelin's; and when he come to reckon up that i'd handed him two hundred dollars' worth of punches without chargin' him a red, he says he'd be proud to have me do it every day. if it hadn't been that i'd chucked the bluff myself, i'd scratched the dawes proposition. but i ain't no hand to welch; so up i goes next afternoon, with my gym. suit in a bag, and gets my first inside view of the brasstonia, where the plute hangs out. and say, if you think these down town twenty-five-a-day joints is swell, you ought to get some pittsburg friend to smuggle you into one of these up town apartment hotels that's run exclusively for trust presidents. why, they don't have any front doors at all. you're expected to come and go in your bubble, but the rules lets you use a cab between certain hours. i tries to walk in, and was held up by a three hundred pound special cop in grey and gold, and made to prove that i didn't belong in the baggage elevator or the ash hoist. then i'm shown in over the turkish rugs to a solid gold passenger lift, set in a velvet arm chair, and shot up to the umpteenth floor. i was lookin' to find mr. dawes located in three or four rooms and bath, but from what i could judge of the size of his ranch he must pay by acreage instead of the square foot, for he has a whole wing to himself. and as for hired help, they was standin' around in clusters, all got up in baby blue and silver, with mugs as intelligent as so many frozen codfish. say, it would give me chillblains on the soul to have to live with that gang lookin' on! i'm shunted from one to the other, until i gets to dawes, and he leads the way into a big room with rubber mats, punchin' bags, and all the fixin's you could think of. "will this do?" says he. "it'll pass," says i. "and if you'll chase out that bunch of employment bureau left-overs, we'll get down to business." "but," says he, "i thought you might need some of my men to----" "i don't," says i, "and while you're mixin' it with me you won't, either." at that he shoos 'em all out and shuts the door. i opens the window so's to get in some air that ain't been strained and currycombed and scented with violets, and then we starts to throw the shot bag around. i find fletcher is short winded and soft. he's got a bad liver and a worse heart, for five or six years' trainin' on wealthy water and pâté de foie gras hasn't done him any good. inside of ten minutes he knows just how punky he is himself, and he's ready to follow any directions i lay down. as i'm leavin', a nice, slick haired young feller calls me over and hands me an old rose tinted check. it was for five hundred and twenty. "fifty-two minutes, professor," says he. "oh, let that pyramid," says i, tossin' it back. honest, i never shied so at money before, but somehow takin' that went against the grain. maybe it was the way it was shoved at me. i'd kind of got interested in the job of puttin' dawes on his feet, though, and thursday i goes up for another session. just as i steps off the elevator at his floor i hears a scuffle, and out comes a couple of the baby blue bunch, shoving along an old party with her bonnet tilted over one ear. i gets a view of her face, though, and i sees she's a nice, decent lookin' old girl, that don't seem to be either tanked or batty, but just kind of scared. a willie boy in a frock coat was followin' along behind, and as they gets to me he steps up, grabs her by the arm, and snaps out: "now you leave quietly, or i'll hand you over to the police! understand?" that scares her worse than ever, and she rolls her eyes up to me in that pleadin' way a dog has when he's been hurt. "hear that?" says one of the baby blues, shakin' her up. my fingers went into bunches as sudden as if i'd touched a live wire, but i keeps my arms down. "ah, say!" says i. "i don't see any call for the station-house drag out just yet. loosen up there a bit, will you?" "mind your business!" says one of 'em, givin' me the glary eye. "thanks," says i. "i was waitin' for an invite," and i reaches out and gets a shut-off grip on their necks. it didn't take 'em long to loosen up after that. "here, here!" says the willie that i'd spotted for corson. "oh, it's you is it, professor?" "yes, it's me," says i, still holdin' the pair at arms' length. "what's the row?" "why," says corson, "this old woman----" "lady," says i. "aw--er--yes," says he. "she insists on fawcing her way in to see mr. dawes." "well," says i, "she ain't got no bag of dynamite, or anything like that, has she?" "i just wanted a word with fletcher," says she, buttin' in--"just a word or two." "friend of yours?" says i. "why-- well, we have known each other for forty years," says she. "that ought to pass you in," says i, "but she refuses to give her name," says corson. "i am mrs. maria dawes," says she, holdin' her chin up and lookin' him straight between the eyes. "you're not on the list," says corson. "list be blowed!" says i. "say, you peanut head, can't you see this is some relation? you ought to have sense enough to get a report from the boss, before you carry out this quick bounce business. perhaps you're puttin' your foot in it, son." then corson weakens, and the old lady throws me a look that was as good as a vote of thanks. and say, when she'd straightened her lid and pulled herself together, she was as ladylike an old party as you'd want to meet. there wa'n't much style about her, but she was dressed expensive enough--furs, and silks, and sparks in her ears. looked like one of the sort that had been up against a long run of hard luck and had come through without gettin' sour. while we was arguin', in drifts mr. dawes himself. i gets a glimpse of his face when he first spots the old girl, and if ever i see a mouth shut like a safe door, and a jaw stiffen as if it had turned to concrete, his did. "what does this mean, maria?" he says between his teeth. "i couldn't help it, fletcher," says she. "i wanted to see you about little bertie." "huh!" grunts fletcher. "well, step in this way. mccabe, you can come along too." i wa'n't stuck on the way it was said, and didn't hanker for mixin' up with any such reunions; but it didn't look like maria had any too many friends handy, so i trots along. when we're shut in, with the draperies pulled, mr. dawes plants his feet solid, shoves his hands down into his pockets, and looks maria over careful. "then you have lost the address of my attorneys?" says he, real frosty. that don't chill maria at all. she acted like she was used to it. "no," says she; "but i'm tired of talking to lawyers. i couldn't tell them about bertie, and how lonesome i've been without him these last two years. can't i have him, fletcher?" about then i begins to get a glimmer of what it was all about, and by the time she'd gone on for four or five minutes i had the whole story. maria was the ex-mrs. fletcher dawes. little bertie was a grandson; and grandma wanted bertie to come and live with her in the big long island place that fletcher had handed her when he swapped her off for one of the sextet, and settled up after the decree was granted. hearin' that brought the whole thing back, for the papers printed pages about the daweses; rakin' up everything, from the time fletcher run a grocery store and lodgin' house out to butte, and maria helped him sell flour and canned goods, besides makin' beds, and jugglin' pans, and takin' in washin' on the side; to the day fletcher euchred a prospector out of the mine that gave him his start. "you were satisfied with the terms of the settlement, when it was made," says mr. dawes. "i know," says she; "but i didn't think how badly i should miss bertie. that is an awful big house over there, and i am getting to be an old woman now, fletcher." "yes, you are," says he, his mouth corners liftin' a little. "but bertie's in school, where he ought to be and where he is going to stay. anything more?" i looks at maria. her upper lip was wabblin' some, but that's all. "no, fletcher," says she. "i shall go now." she was just about startin', when there's music on the other side of the draperies. it sounds like corson was havin' his troubles with another female. only this one had a voice like a brass cornet, and she was usin' it too. "why can't i go in there?" says she. "i'd like to know why! eh, what's that? a woman in there?" and in she comes. she was a pippin, all right. as she yanks back the curtain and rushes in she looks about as friendly as a spotted leopard that's been stirred up with an elephant hook; but when she sizes up the comp'ny that's present she cools off and lets go a laugh that gives us an iv'ry display worth seein'. "oh!" says she. "fletchy, who's the old one?" say, i expect dawes has run into some mighty worryin' scenes before now, havin' been indicted once or twice and so on, but i'll bet he never bucked up against the equal of this before. he opens his mouth a couple of times, but there don't seem to be any language on tap. the missus was ready, though. "maria dawes is my name, my dear," says she. "maria!" says the other one, lookin' some staggered. "why--why, then you--you're number one!" maria nods her head. then fletcher gets his tongue out of tangle. "maria," says he, "this is my wife, maizie." "yes?" says maria, as gentle as a summer night. "i thought this must be maizie. you're very young and pretty, aren't you? i suppose you go about a lot? but you must be careful of fletcher. he always was foolish about staying up too late, and eating things that hurt him. i used to have to warn him against black coffee and welsh rabbits. he will eat them, and then he has one of his bad spells. fletcher is fifty-six now, you know, and----" "maria!" says mr. dawes, his face the colour of a boiled beet, "that's enough of this foolishness! here, corson! show this lady out!" "yes, i was just going, fletcher," says she. "good-bye, maria!" sings out maizie, and then lets out another of her soprano ha-ha's, holdin' her sides like she was tickled to death. maybe it was funny to her; it wa'n't to fletcher. "come, mccabe," says he; "we'll get to work." say, i can hold in about so long, and then i've got to blow off or else bust a cylinder head. i'd had about enough of this "come, mccabe" business, too. "say, fletchy," says i, "don't be in any grand rush. i ain't so anxious to take you on as you seem to think." "what's that?" he spits out. "you keep your ears open long enough and you'll hear it all," says i; for i was gettin' hotter an' hotter under the necktie. "i just want to say that i've worked up a grouch against this job durin' the last few minutes. i guess i'll chuck it up." that seemed to go in deep. mr. dawes, he brings his eyes together until nothin' but the wrinkle keeps 'em apart, and he gets the hectic flush on his cheek bones. "i don't understand," says he. "this is where i quit," says i. "that's all." "but," says he, "you must have some reason." "sure," says i; "two of 'em. one's just gone out. that's the other," and i jerks my thumb at maizie. she'd been rollin' her eyes from me to dawes, and from dawes back to me. "what does this fellow mean by that?" says maizie. "fletcher, why don't you have him thrown out?" "yes, fletcher," says i, "why don't you? i'd love to be thrown out just now!" someway, fletcher wasn't anxious, although he had lots of bouncers standin' idle within call. he just stands there and looks at his toes, while maizie tongue lashes first me and then him. when she gets through i picks up my hat. "so long, fletchy," says i. "what work i put in on you the other day i'm goin' to make you a present of. if i was you, i'd cash that check and buy somethin' that would please maizie." "d'jer annex another five or six hundred up to the brasstonia this afternoon?" asks swifty, when i gets back. "nix," says i. "all i done was to organise a wife convention and get myself disliked. that ten-a-minute deal is off. but say, swifty, just remember i've dodged makin' the bath rubber class, and i'm satisfied at that." ii rounding up maggie say, who was tellin' you? ah, g'wan! them sea shore press agents is full of fried eels. disguises; nothin'! them folks i has with me was the real things. the rev. doc. akehead? not much. that was my little old bishop. and it wa'n't any slummin' party at all. it was just a little errand of mercy that got switched. it was this way: the bishop, he shows up at the studio for his reg'lar medicine ball work, that i'm givin' him so's he can keep his equator from gettin' the best of his latitude. that's all on the quiet, though. it's somethin' i ain't puttin' on the bulletin board, or includin' in my list of references, understand? well, we has had our half-hour session and the bishop has just made a break for the cold shower and the dressin' room, while i'm preparin' to shed my workin' clothes for the afternoon; when in pops swifty joe, closin' the gym. door behind him real soft and mysterious. "shorty," says he in that hoarse whisper he gets on when he's excited, "she's--she's come!" "who's come?" says i. "s-s-sh!" says he, wavin' his hands. "it's the old girl; and she's got a gun!" "ah, say!" says i. "come out of the trance. what old girl? and what about the gun?" maybe you've never seen swifty when he's real stirred up? he wears a corrugated brow, and his lower jaw hangs loose, leavin' the mammoth cave wide open, and his eyes bug out like shoe buttons. his thoughts come faster than he can separate himself from the words; so it's hard gettin' at just what he means to say. but, as near as i can come to it, there's a wide female party waitin' out in the front office for me, with blood in her eye and a self cockin' section of the unwritten law in her fist. course, i knows right off there must be some mistake, or else it's a case of dope, and i says so. but swifty is plumb sure she knew who she was askin' for when she calls for me, and begs me not to go out. he's for ringin' up the police. "ring up nobody!" says i. "s'pose i want this thing gettin' into the papers? if a lady bughouse has strayed in here, we got to shoo her out as quiet as possible. she can't shoot if we rush her. come on!" i will say for swifty joe that, while he ain't got any too much sense, there's no ochre streak in him. when i pulls open the gym. door and gives the word, we went through neck and neck. "look out!" he yells, and i sees him makin' a grab at the arm of a broad beamed old party, all done up nicely in grey silk and white lace. and say, it's lucky i got a good mem'ry for profiles; for if i hadn't seen right away it was purdy bligh's aunt isabella, and that the gun was nothin' but her silver hearin' tube, we might have been tryin' to explain it to her yet. as it is, i'm just near enough to make a swipe for swifty's right hand with my left, and i jerks his paw back just as she turns around from lookin' out of the window and gets her lamps on us. say, we must have looked like a pair of batty ones, standin' there holdin' hands and starin' at her! but it seems that folks as deaf as she is ain't easy surprised. all she does is feel around her for her gold eye glasses with one hand, and fit the silver hearin' machine to her off ear with the other. it's one of these pepper box affairs, and i didn't much wonder that swifty took it for a gun. "are you professor mccabe?" says she. "sure!" i hollers; and swifty, not lookin' for such strenuous conversation, goes up in the air about two feet. "i beg pardon," says the old girl; "but will you kindly speak into the audiphone." so i steps up closer, forgettin' that i still has the clutch on swifty, and drags him along. "ahr, chee!" says swifty. "this ain't no brother act, is it?" with that i lets him go, and me and aunt isabella gets down to business. i was lookin' for some tale about purdy--tell you about him some day--but it looks like this was a new deal; for she opens up by askin' if i knew a party by the name of dennis whaley. "do i?" says i. "i've known dennis ever since i can remember knowin' anybody. he's runnin' my place out to primrose park now." "i thought so," says aunt isabella. "then perhaps you know a niece of his, margaret whaley?" i didn't; but i'd heard of her. she's terence whaley's girl, that come over from skibbereen four or five years back, after near starvin' to death one wet season when the potato crop was so bad. well, it seems maggie has worked a couple of years for aunt isabella as kitchen girl. then she's got ambitious, quit service, and got a flatwork job in a hand laundry--eight per, fourteen hours a day, saturday sixteen. i didn't tumble why all this was worth chinnin' about until aunt isabella reminds me that she's president and board of directors of the lady pot wrestlers' improvement society. she's one of the kind that spends her time tryin' to organise study classes for hired girls who have different plans for spendin' their thursday afternoons off. seems that aunt isabella has been keepin' special tabs on maggie, callin' at the laundry to give her good advice, and leavin' her books to read,--which i got a tintype of her readin', not,--and otherwise doin' the upliftin' act accordin' to rule. but along in the early summer maggie had quit the laundry without consultin' the old girl about it. aunt isabella kept on the trail, though, run down her last boardin' place, and begun writin' her what she called helpful letters. she kept this up until she was handed the ungrateful jolt. the last letter come back to her with a few remarks scribbled across the face, indicatin' that readin' such stuff gave maggie a pain in the small of her back. but the worst of it all was, accordin' to aunt isabella, that maggie was in coney island. "think of it!" says she. "that poor, innocent girl, living in that dreadfully wicked place! isn't it terrible?" "oh, i don't know," says i. "it all depends." "hey?" says the old girl. "what say?" ever try to carry on a debate through a silver salt shaker? it's the limit. thinkin' it would be a lot easier to agree with her, i shouts out, "sure thing!" and nods my head. she nods back and rolls her eyes. "she must be rescued at once!" says aunt isabella. "her uncle ought to be notified. can't you send for him?" as it happens, dennis had come down that mornin' to see an old friend of his that was due to croak; so i figures it out that the best way would be to get him and the old lady together and let 'em have it out. i chases swifty down to west th-st. to bring dennis back in a hurry, and invites aunt isabella to make herself comfortable until he comes. she's too excited to sit down, though. she goes pacin' around the front office, now and then lookin' me over suspicious,--me bein' still in my gym. suit,--and then sizin' up the sportin' pictures on the wall. my art exhibit is mostly made up of signed photos of jeff and fitz and nelson in their ring costumes, and it was easy to see she's some jarred. "i hope this is a perfectly respectable place, young man," says she. "it ain't often pulled by the cops," says i. instead of calmin' her down, that seems to stir her up worse'n ever. "i should hope not!" says she. "how long must i wait here?" "no longer'n you feel like waitin', ma'am," says i. and just then the gym. door opens, and in walks the bishop, that i'd clean forgot all about. "why, bishop!" squeals aunt isabella. "you here!" say, it didn't need any second sight to see that the bishop would have rather met 'most anybody else at that particular minute; but he hands her the neat return. "it appears that i am," says he. "and you?" well, it was up to her to do the explainin'. she gives him the whole history of maggie whaley, windin' up with how she's been last heard from at coney island. "isn't it dreadful, bishop?" says she. "and can't you do something to help rescue her?" now i was lookin' for the bishop to say somethin' soothin'; but hanged if he don't chime in and admit that it's a sad case and he'll do what he can to help. about then swifty shows up with dennis, and aunt isabella lays it before him. now, accordin' to his own account, dennis and terence always had it in for each other at home, and he never took much stock in maggie, either. but after he'd listened to aunt isabella for a few minutes, hearin' her talk about his duty to the girl, and how she ought to be yanked off the toboggan of sin, he takes it as serious as any of 'em. "wurrah, wurrah!" says he, "but this do be a black day for the whaleys! it's the mcguigan blood comin' out in her. what's to be done, mum?" aunt isabella has a program all mapped out. her idea is to get up a rescue expedition on the spot, and start for coney. she says dennis ought to go; for he's maggie's uncle and has got some authority; and she wants the bishop, to do any prayin' over her that may be needed. "as for me," says she, "i shall do my best to persuade her to leave her wicked companions." well, they was all agreed, and ready to start, when it comes out that not one of the three has ever been to the island in their lives, and don't know how to get there. at that i sees the bishop lookin' expectant at me. "shorty," says he, "i presume you are somewhat familiar with this--er--wicked resort?" "not the one you're talkin' about," says i. "i've been goin' to coney every year since i was old enough to toddle; and i'll admit there has been seasons when some parts of it was kind of tough; but as a general proposition it never looked wicked to me." that kind of puzzles the bishop. he says he's always understood that the island was sort of a vent hole for the big sulphur works. aunt isabella is dead sure of it too, and hints that maybe i ain't much of a judge. anyway, she thinks i'd be a good guide for a place of that kind, and prods the bishop on to urge me to go. "well," says i, "just for a flier, i will." so, as soon as i've changed my clothes, we starts for the iron steamboats, and plants ourselves on the upper deck. and say, we was a sporty lookin' bunch--i don't guess! there was the bishop, in his little flat hat and white choker,--you couldn't mistake what he was,--and aunt isabella, with her grey hair and her grey and white costume, lookin' about as giddy as a marble angel on a tombstone. then there's dennis, who has put on the black whip cord prince albert he always wears when he's visitin' sick friends or attendin' funerals. the only festive lookin' point about him was the russet coloured throat hedge he wears in place of a necktie. honest, i felt sorry for them suds slingers that travels around the deck singin' out, "who wants the waiter?" every time one would come our way he'd get as far as "who wants----" and then he'd switch off with an "ah, chee!" and go away disgusted. all the way down, the old girl has her eye out for wickedness. the sight of adolph, the grocery clerk, dippin' his beak into a mug of froth, moves her to sit up and give him the stony glare; while a glimpse of a young couple snugglin' up against each other along the rail almost gives her a spasm. "such brazen depravity!" says she to the bishop. by the time we lands at the iron pier she has knocked coney so much that i has worked up a first class grouch. "come on!" says i. "let's have maggie's address and get through with this rescue business before all you good folks is soggy with sin." then it turns out she ain't got any address at all. the most she knows is that maggie's somewhere on the island. "well," i shouts into the tube, "coney's something of a place, you see! what's your idea of findin' her?" "we must search," says aunt isabella, prompt and decided. "mean to throw out a regular drag net?" says i. she does. well, say, if you've ever been to coney on a good day, when there was from fifty to a hundred thousand folks circulatin' about, you've got some notion of what a proposition of that kind means. course, i wa'n't goin to tackle the job with any hope of gettin' away with it; but right there i'm struck with a pleasin' thought. "do i gather that i'm to be the commander peary of this expedition?" says i. it was a unanimous vote that i was. "well," says i, "you know you can't carry it through on hot air. it takes coin to get past the gates in this place." aunt isabella says she's prepared to stand all the expense. and what do you suppose she passes out? a green five! "ah, say, this ain't any sunday school excursion," says i. "why, that wouldn't last us a block. guess you'll have to dig deeper or call it off." she was game, though. she brings up a couple of tens next dip, the bishop adds two more, and i heaves in one on my own hook. "now understand," says i, "if i'm headin' this procession there mustn't be any hangin' back or arguin' about the course. coney's no place for a quitter, and there's some queer corners in it; but we're lookin' for a particular party, so we can't skip any. follow close, don't ask me fool questions, and everybody keep their eye skinned for maggie. is that clear?" they said it was. "then we're off in a bunch. this way!" says i. say, it was almost too good to be true. i hadn't more'n got 'em inside of dreamland before they has their mouths open and their eyes popped, and they was so rattled they didn't know whether they was goin' up or comin' down. the bishop grabs me by the elbow, aunt isabella gets a desperate grip on his coat tails, and dennis hooks two fingers into the back of her belt. when we lines up like that we has the fat woman takin' her first camel ride pushed behind the screen. the barkers out in front of the dime attractions takes one look at us and loses their voices for a whole minute--and it takes a good deal to choke up one of them human cyclones. i gives 'em back the merry grin and blazes ahead. first thing i sees that looks good is the wiggle-waggle brass staircase, where half of the steps goes up as the other comes down. "now, altogether!" says i, feedin' the coupons to the ticket man, and i runs 'em up against the liver restorer at top speed. say that exhibition must have done the rubbernecks good! first we was all jolted up in a heap, then we was strung out like a yard of frankfurters; but i kept 'em at it until we gets to the top. aunt isabella has lost her breath and her bonnet has slid over one ear, the bishop is red in the face, and dennis is puffin' like a freight engine. "no maggie here," says i. "we'll try somewhere else." no. on the event card was the water chutes, and while we was slidin' up on the escalator they has a chance to catch their wind. they didn't get any more'n they needed though; for just as aunt isabella has started to ask the platform man if he'd seen anything of maggie whaley, a boat comes up on the cogs, and i yells for 'em to jump in quick. the next thing they knew we was scootin' down that slide at the rate of a hundred miles an hour, with three of us holdin' onto our hats, and one lettin' out forty squeals to the minute. "o-o-o o-o-o!" says aunt isabella, as we hits the water and does the bounding bounce. "that's right," says i; "let 'em know you're here. it's the style." before they've recovered from the chute ride i've hustled 'em over to one of them scenic railroads, where you're yanked up feet first a hundred feet or so, and then shot down through painted canvas mountains for about a mile. say, it was a hummer, too! i don't know what there is about travellin' fast; but it always warms up my blood, and about the third trip i feels like sendin' out yelps of joy. course, i didn't expect it would have any such effect on the bishop; but as we went slammin' around a sharp corner i gets a look at his face. and would you believe it, he's wearin' a reg'lar breakfast food grin! next plunge we take i hears a whoop from the back seat, and i knows that dennis has caught it, too. i was afraid maybe the old girl has fainted; but when we brings up at the bottom and i has a chance to turn around, i finds her still grippin' the car seat, her feet planted firm, and a kind of wild, reckless look in her eyes. "we did that last lap a little rapid," says i. "maybe we ought to cover the ground again, just to be sure we didn't miss maggie. how about repeatin' eh?" "i--i wouldn't mind," says she. "good!" says i. "percy, send her off for another spiel." and we encores the performance, with dennis givin' the donnybrook call, and the smile on the bishop's face growin' wider and wider. fun? i've done them same stunts with a gang of real sporting men, and, never had the half of it. after that my crowd was ready for anything. they forgets all about the original proposition, and tackles anything i leads them up to, from bumpin' the bumps to ridin' down in the tubs on the tickler. when we'd got through with dreamland and the steeplechase, we wanders down the bowery and hits up some hot dog and green corn rations. by the time i gets ready to lead them across surf-ave. to luna park it was dark, and about a million incandescents had been turned on. well, you know the kind of picture they gets their first peep at. course, it's nothin' but white stucco and gold leaf and electric light, with the blue sky beyond. but say, first glimpse you get, don't it knock your eye out? "whist!" says dennis, gawpin' up at the front like lie meant to swallow it. "is ut the blessed gates we're comin' to?" "magnificent!" says the bishop. and just then aunt isabella gives a gasp and sings out, "maggie!" well, as dennis says afterwards, in tellin' mother whaley about it, "glory be, would yez think ut? i hears her spake thot name, and up i looks, and as i'm a breathin' man, there sits maggie whaley in a solid goold chariot all stuck with jools, her hair puffed out like a crown, and the very neck of her blazin' with pearls and di'monds. maggie whaley, mind ye, the own daughter of terence, that's me brother; and her the boss of a place as big as the houses of parli'ment and finer than windsor castle on the king's birthday!" it was maggie all right. she was sittin' in a chariot too--you've seen them fancy ticket booths they has down to luna. and she has had her hair done up by an upholsterer, and put through a crimpin' machine. that and the brazilian near-gem necklace she wears does give her a kind of a rich and fancy look, providin' you don't get too close. she wasn't exactly bossin' the show. she was sellin' combination tickets, that let you in on so many rackets for a dollar. she'd chucked the laundry job for this, and she was lookin' like she was glad she'd made the shift. but here was four of us who'd come to rescue her and lead her back to the ironin' board. aunt isabella makes the first break. she tells maggie who she is and why she's come. "margaret," says she, "i do hope you will consent to leave this wicked life. please say you will, margaret!" "ah, turn it off!" says maggie. "me back to the sweat box at eight per when i'm gettin' fourteen for this? not on your ping pongs! fade, aunty, fade!" then the bishop is pushed up to take his turn. he says he is glad to meet maggie, and hopes she likes her new job. maggie says she does. she lets out, too, that she's engaged to the gentleman what does a refined acrobatic specialty in the third attraction on the left, and that when they close in the fall he's goin' to coach her up so's they can do a double turn in the continuous houses next winter at from sixty to seventy-five per, each. so if she ever irons another shirt, it'll be just to show that she ain't proud. and that's where the rescue expedition goes out of business with a low, hollow plunk. among the three of 'em not one has a word left to say. "well, folks," says i, "what are we here for? shall we finish the evenin' like we begun? we're only alive once, you know, and this is the only coney there is. how about it?" did we? inside of two minutes maggie has sold us four entrance tickets, and we're headed for the biggest and wooziest thriller to be found in the lot. "shorty," says the bishop, as we settles ourselves for a ride home on the last boat, "i trust i have done nothing unseemly this evening." "what! you?" says i. "why, bishop, you're a reg'lar ripe old sport; and any time you feel like cuttin' loose again, with aunt isabella or without, just send in a call for me." iii up against bentley say, where's palopinto, anyway? well neither did i. it's somewhere around dallas, but that don't help me any. texas, eh? you sure don't mean it! why, i thought there wa'n't nothin' but one night stands down there. but this palopinto ain't in that class at all. not much! it's a real torrid proposition. no, i ain't been there; but i've been up against bentley, who has. he wa'n't mine, to begin with. i got him second hand. you see, he come along just as i was havin' a slack spell. mr. gordon--yes, pyramid gordon--he calls up on the 'phone and says he's in a hole. seems he's got a nephew that's comin' on from somewhere out west to take a look at new york, and needs some one to keep him from fallin' off brooklyn bridge. "how's he travellin'," says i; "tagged, in care of the conductor?" "oh, no," says mr. gordon. "he's about twenty-two, and able to take care of himself anywhere except in a city like this." then he wants to know how i'm fixed for time. "i got all there is on the clock," says i. "and would you be willing to try keeping bentley out of mischief until i get back?" says he. "sure as ever," says i. "i don't s'pose he's any holy terror; is he?" pyramid said he wa'n't quite so bad as that. he told me that bentley'd been brought up on a big cattle ranch out there, and that now he was boss. "he's been making a lot of money recently, too," says mr. gordon, "and he insists on a visit east. probably he will want to let new york know that he has arrived, but you hold him down." "oh, i'll keep him from liftin' the lid, all right," says i. "that's the idea, shorty," says he. "i'll write a note telling him all about you, and giving him a few suggestions." i had a synopsis of bentley's time card, so as soon's he'd had a chance to open up his trunk and wash off some of the car dust i was waitin' at the desk in the waldorf. now of course, bein' warned ahead, and hearin' about this cattle ranch business, i was lookin' for a husky boy in a six inch soft-brim and leather pants. i'd calculated on havin' to persuade him to take off his spurs and leave his guns with the clerk. but what steps out of the elevator and answers to the name of bentley is a willie boy that might have blown in from asbury park or far rockaway. he was draped in a black and white checked suit that you could broil a steak on, with the trousers turned up so's to show the openwork silk socks, and the coat creased up the sides like it was made over a cracker box. his shirt was a macgregor plaid, and the band around his panama was a hand width roman stripe. "gee!" thinks i, "if that's the way cow boys dress nowadays, no wonder there's scandals in the beef business!" but if you could forget his clothes long enough to size up what was in 'em, you could see that bentley was a mild enough looker. there's lots of bank messengers and brokers' clerks just like him comin' over from brooklyn and jersey every mornin'. he was about five feet eight, and skimpy built, and he had one of these recedin' faces that looked like it was tryin' to get away from his nose. but then, it ain't always the handsome boys that behaves the best, and the more i got acquainted with bentley, the better i thought of him. he said he was mighty glad i showed up instead of mr. gordon. "uncle henry makes me weary," says he. "i've just been reading a letter from him, four pages, and most of it was telling me what not to do. and this the first time i was ever in new york since i've been old enough to remember!" "you'd kind of planned to see things, eh?" says i. "why, yes," says bentley. "there isn't much excitement out on the ranch, you know. of course, we ride into palopinto once or twice a month, and sometimes take a run up to dallas; but that's not like getting to new york." "no," says i. "i guess you're able to tell the difference between this burg and them places you mention, without lookin' twice. what is dallas, a water tank stop?" "it's a little bigger'n that," says he, kind of smilin'. but he was a nice, quiet actin' youth; didn't talk loud, nor go through any tough motions. i see right off that i'd been handed the wrong set of specifications, and i didn't lose any time framin' him up accordin' to new lines. i knew his kind like a book. you could turn him loose in new york for a week, and the most desperate thing he'd find to do would be smokin' cigarettes on the back seat of a rubberneck waggon. and yet he'd come all the way from the jumpin' off place to have a little innocent fun. "uncle henry wrote me," says he, "that while i'm here i'd better take in the metropolitan museum of art, and visit st. patrick's cathedral and grant's tomb. but say, i'd like something a little livelier than that, you know." he was so mild about it that i works up enough sympathy to last an s. p. c. a. president a year. i could see just what he was achin' for. it wa'n't a sight of oil paintin's or churches. he wanted to be able to go back among the flannel shirts and tell the boys tales that would make their eyes stick out. he was ambitious to go on a regular cut up, but didn't know how, and wouldn't have had the nerve to tackle it alone if he had known. now, i ain't ever done any red light pilotin', and didn't have any notion of beginnin' then, especially with a youngster as nice and green as bentley; but right there and then i did make up my mind that i'd steer him up against somethin' more excitin' than a front view of grace church at noon. it was comin' to him. "see here, bentley," says i, "i've passed my word to kind of look after you, and keep you from rippin' things up the back here in little old new york; but seein' as this is your first whack at it, if you'll promise to stop when i say 'whoa!' and not let on about it afterwards to your uncle henry, i'll just show you a few things that they don't have out west," and i winks real mysterious. "oh, will you?" says bentley. "by ginger! i'm your man!" so we starts out lookin' for the menagerie. it was all i could do, though, to keep my eyes off'm that trousseau of his. "they don't build clothes like them in palopinto, do they?" says i. "oh, no," says bentley. "i stopped off in chicago and got this outfit. i told them i didn't care what it cost, but i wanted the latest." "i guess you got it," says i. "that's what i'd call a night edition, base ball extra. you mustn't mind folks giraffin' at you. they always do that to strangers." bentley didn't mind. fact is, there wa'n't much that did seem to faze him a whole lot. he'd never rode in the subway before, of course, but he went to readin' the soaps ads just as natural as if he lived in harlem. i expect that was what egged me on to try and get a rise out of him. you see, when they come in from the rutabaga fields and the wheat orchards, we want 'em to open their mouths and gawp. if they do, we give 'em the laugh; but if they don't, we feel like they was throwin' down the place. so i lays out to astonish bentley. first i steers him across mulberry bend and into a pell-st. chop suey joint that wouldn't be runnin' at all if it wa'n't for the sagadahoc and elmira folks the two dollar tourin' cars bring down. with all the chinks gabblin' around outside, though, and the funny, letterin' on the bill of fare, i thought that would stun him some. he just looked around casual, though, and laid into his suey and rice like it was a plate of ham-and, not even askin' if he couldn't buy a pair of chopsticks as a souvenir. "there's a bunch of desperate characters," says i, pointin' to a table where a gang of park row compositors was blowin' themselves to a platter of chow-ghi-sumen. "yes?" says he. "there's chuck connors, and mock duck, and bill the brute, and one eyed mike!" i whispers. "i'm glad i saw them," says bentley. "we'll take a sneak before the murderin' begins," say i. "maybe you'll read about how many was killed, in the mornin' papers." "i'll look for it," says he. say, it was discouragin'. we takes the l up to rd and goes across and up the east side of madison square. "there," says i, pointin' out the manhattan club, that's about as lively as the subtreasury on a sunday, "that's canfield's place. we'd go in and see 'em buck the tiger, only i got a tip that bingham's goin' to pull it to-night. that youngster in the straw hat just goin' in is reggie." "well, well!" says bentley. oh, i sure did show bentley a lot of sights that evenin', includin' a wild tour through the tenderloin--in a broadway car. we winds up at a roof garden, and, just to give bentley an extra shiver, i asks the waiter if we wa'n't sittin' somewhere near the table that harry and evelyn had the night he was overcome by emotional insanity. "you're at the very one, sir," he says. considerin' we was ten blocks away, he was a knowin' waiter. "this identical table; hear that, bentley?" says i. "you don't say!" says he. "let's have a bracer," says i. "ever drink a soda cocktail, bentley?" he said he hadn't. "then bring us two, real stiff ones," says i. you know how they're made--a dash of bitters, a spoonful of bicarbonate, and a bottle of club soda, all stirred up in a tall glass, almost as intoxicatin' as buttermilk. "don't make your head dizzy, does it?" says i. "a little," says bentley; "but then, i'm not used to mixed drinks. we take root beer generally, when we're out on a tear." "you cow boys must be a fierce lot when you're loose," says i. bentley grinned, kind of reminiscent. "we do raise the old harry once in awhile," says he. "the last time we went up to dallas i drank three different kinds of soda water, and we guyed a tamale peddler so that a policeman had to speak to us." say! what do you think of that? wouldn't that freeze your blood? once i got him started, bentley told me a lot about life on the ranch; how they had to milk and curry down four thousand steers every night; and about their playin' checkers at the y. m. c. a. branch evenin's, and throwin' spit balls at each other durin' mornin' prayers. i'd always thought these stage cow boys was all a pipe dream, but i never got next to the real thing before. it was mighty interestin', the way he told it, too. they get prizes for bein' polite to each other durin' work hours, and medals for speakin' gentle to the cows. bentley said he had four of them medals, but he hadn't worn 'em east for fear folks would think he was proud. that gave me a line on where he got his quiet ways from. it was the trainin' he got on the ranch. he said it was grand, too, when a crowd of the boys came ridin' home from town, sometimes as late as eleven o'clock at night, to hear 'em singin' "onward, christian soldier" and tunes like that. "i expect you do have a few real tough citizens out that way, though," says i. "yes," said he, speakin' sad and regretful, "once in awhile. there was one came up from las vegas last spring, a low fellow that they called santa fe bill. he tried to start a penny ante game, but we discouraged him." "run him off the reservation, eh?" says i. "no," says bentley, "we made him give up his ticket to our annual sunday school picnic. he was never the same after that." well, say, i had it on the card to blow bentley to a welsh rabbit after the show, at some place where he could get a squint at a bunch of our night bloomin' summer girls, but i changed the program. i took him away durin' intermission, in time to dodge the new dancer that broadway was tryin' hard to be shocked by, and after we'd had a plate of ice cream in one of them celluloid papered all-nights, i led bentley back to the hotel and tipped a bell hop a quarter to tuck him in bed. somehow, i didn't feel just right about the way i'd been stringin' bentley. i hadn't started out to do it, either; but he took things in so easy, and was so willin' to stand for anything, that i couldn't keep from it. and it did seem a shame that he must go back without any tall yarns to spring. honest, i was so twisted up in my mind, thinkin' about bentley, that i couldn't go to sleep, so i sat out on the front steps of the boardin' house for a couple of hours, chewin' it all over. i was just thinkin' of telephonin' to the hotel chaplain to call on bentley in the mornin', when me friend barney, the rounds, comes along. "say, shorty," says he, "didn't i see you driftin' around town earlier in the evenin' with a young sport in mornin' glory clothes?" "he was no sport," says i. "that was bentley. he's a y. m. c. a. lad in disguise." "it's a grand disguise," says barney. "your quiet friend is sure livin' up to them clothes." "you're kiddin'," says i. "it would take a live one to do credit to that harness. when i left bentley at half-past ten he was in the elevator on his way up to bed." "i don't want to meet any that's more alive than your bentley," says he. "there must have been a hole in the roof. anyway, he shows up on my beat about eleven, picks out a swell café, butts into a party of soubrettes, flashes a thousand dollar bill, and begins to buy wine for everyone in sight. inside of half an hour he has one of his new made lady friends doin' a high kickin' act on the table, and when the manager interferes bentley licks two waiters to a standstill and does up the house detective with a chair. why, i has to get two of my men to help me gather him in. you can find him restin' around to the station house now." "barney," says i, "you must be gettin' colour blind. that can't be bentley." "you go around and take a look at him," says he. well, just to satisfy barney, i did. and say, it was bentley, all right! he was some mussed, but calm and contented. "bentley," says i, reprovin' like, "you're a bird, you are! how did it happen? did some one drug you?" "guess that ice cream must have gone to my head," says he, grinnin'. "come off!" says i. "i've had a report on you, and from what you've got aboard you ought to be as full as a goat." he wa'n't, though. he was as sober as me, and that after absorbin' a quart or so of french foam. "if i can fix it so's to get you out on bail," says i, "will you quit this red paint business and be good?" "g'wan!" says he. "i'd rather stay here than go around with you any more. you put me asleep, you do, and i can get all the sleep i want without a guide. chase yourself!" i was some sore on bentley by that time; but i went to court the next mornin', when he paid his fine and was turned adrift. i starts in with some good advice, but bentley shuts me off quick. "cut it out!" says he. "new york may seem like a hot place to rubes like you; but you can take it from me that, for a pure joy producer, palopinto has got it burned to a blister. why, there's more doing on some of our back streets than you can show up on the whole length of broadway. no more for me! i'm goin' back where i can spend my money and have my fun without bein' stopped and asked to settle before i've hardly got started." he was dead in earnest, too. he'd got on a train headed west before i comes out of my dream. then i begins to see a light. it was a good deal of a shock to me when it did come, but i has to own up that bentley was a ringer. all that talk about mornin' prayers and sunday school picnics was just dope, and while i was so busy dealin' out josh, to him, he was handin' me the lemon. my mouth was still puckered and my teeth on edge, when mr. gordon gets me on the 'phone and wants to know how about bentley. "he's come and gone," says i. "so soon?" says he. "i hope new york wasn't too much for him." "not at all," says i; "he was too much for new york. but while you was givin' him instructions, why didn't you tell him to make a noise like a hornet? it might have saved me from bein' stung." texas, eh? well, say, next time i sees a map of that state i'm goin' to hunt up palopinto and draw a ring around it with purple ink. iv the tortonis' star act what i was after was a souse in the sound; but say, i never know just what's goin' to happen to me when i gets to roamin' around westchester county! i'd started out from primrose park to hoof it over to a little beach a ways down shore, when along comes dominick with his blue dump cart. now, dominick's a friend of mine, and for a foreigner he's the most entertainin' cuss i ever met. i like talkin' with him. he can make the english language sound more like a lullaby than most of your high priced opera singers; and as for bein' cheerful, why, he's got a pair of eyes like sunny days. course, he wears rings in his ears, and likely a seven inch knife down the back of his neck. he ain't perfumed with violets either, when you get right close to; but the ash collectin' business don't call for _peau d'espagne_, does it? "hallo!" says dominick. "you lika ride?" well, i can't say i'm stuck on bein' bounced around in an ash chariot; but i knew dominick meant well, so in i gets. we'd been joltin' along for about four blocks, swappin' pigeon toed conversation, when there shows up on the road behind us the fanciest rig i've seen outside of a circus. in front, hitched up tandem, was a couple of black and white patchwork ponies that looked like they'd broke out of a sportin' print. say, with their shiny hoofs and yeller harness, it almost made your eyes ache to look at 'em. but the buggy was part of the picture, too. it was the dizziest ever--just a couple of upholstered settees, balanced back to back on a pair of rubber tired wheels, with the whole shootin' match, cushions and all, a blazin' turkey red. on the nigh side was a coachman, with his bandy legs cased in white pants and yeller topped boots; and on the other--well, say! you talk about your polka dot symphonies! them spots was as big as quarters, and those in the parasol matched the ones in her dress. i'd been gawpin' at the outfit a couple of minutes before i could see anything but the dots, and then all of a sudden i tumbles that it's sadie. she finds me about the same time, and jabs her sun shade into the small of the driver's back, to make him pull up. i tells dominick to haul in, too, but his old skate is on his hind legs, with his ears pointed front, wakin' up for the first time in five years, so i has to drop out over the tail board. "well, what do you think of the rig?" says sadie. "i guess me and dominick's old crow bait has about the same thoughts along that line," says i. "can you blame us?" "it is rather giddy, isn't it?" says she. "'most gave me the blind staggers," says i. "you ought to distribute smoked glasses along the route of procession. did you buy it some dark night, or was it made to order after somethin' you saw in a dream?" "the idea!" says sadie. "this jaunting car is one i had sent over from paris, to help my ponies get a blue ribbon at the hill'n'dale horse show. and that's what it did, too." "blue ribbon!" says i. "the judges must have been colour blind." "oh, i don't know," says sadie, stickin' her tongue out at me. "after that i've a good notion to make you walk." "i don't know as i'd have nerve enough to ride in that, anyway," says i. "is it a funeral you're goin' to?" "next thing to it," says she. "but come on, shorty; get aboard and i'll tell you all about it." so i steps up alongside the spotted silk, and the driver lets the ponies loose. say, it was like ridin' sideways in a roller coaster. sadie said she was awful glad to see me just then. she had a job on hand that she hated to do, and she needed some one to stand in her corner and cheer her up while she tackled it. seems she'd got rash a few days before and made a promise to lug the duke and duchess of kildee over to call on the wigghorns. sadie'd been actin' as sort of advance agent for their dukelets durin' their splurge over here, and mrs. wigghorn had mesmerised her into makin' a date for a call. this was the day. it would have gone through all right if some one hadn't put the duke wise to what he was up against. maybe you know about the wigghorns? course, they've got the goods, for about a dozen years ago old wigghorn choked a car patent out of some poor inventor, and his bank account's been pyramidin' so fast ever since that now he's in the eight figure class; but when it comes to bein' in the monkey dinner crowd, they ain't even counted as near-silks. "why," says sadie, "i've heard that they have their champagne standing in rows on the sideboard, and that they serve charlotte russe for breakfast!" "that's an awful thing to repeat," says i. "oh, well," says she, "mrs. wigghorn's a good natured soul, and i do think the duke might have stood her for an afternoon. he wouldn't though, and now i've got to go there and call it off, just as she's got herself into her diamond stomacher, probably, to receive them." "you couldn't ring in a couple of subs?" says i. for a minute sadie's blue eyes lights up like i'd passed her a plate of peach ice cream. "if i only could!" says she. then she shakes her head. "no," she says, "i should hate to lie. and, anyway, there's no one within reach who could play their parts." "that bein' the case," says i, "it looks like you'd have to go ahead and break the sad news. what do you want me to do--hold a bucket for the tears?" sadie said all she expected of me was to help her forget it afterwards; so we rolls along towards wigghorn arms. we'd got within a mile of there when we meets a greek peddler with a bunch of toy balloons on his shoulder, and in less'n no time at all them crazy-quilt ponies was tryin' to do back somersaults and other fool stunts. in the mix up one of 'em rips a shoe almost off, and mr. coachman says he'll have to chase back to a blacksmith shop and have it glued on. "oh, bother!" says sadie. "well, hurry up about it. we'll walk along as far as apawattuck inn and wait there." it wa'n't much of a walk. the apawattuck's a place where they deal out imitation shore dinners to trolley excursionists, and fusel oil high balls to the bubble trade. the name sounds well enough, but that ain't satisfyin' when you're real hungry. we were only killin' time, though, so it didn't matter. we strolled up just as fearless as though their clam chowders was fit to eat. and that's what fetched us up against the tortonis. they was well placed, at a corner veranda table where no one could miss seein' 'em; and, as they'd just finished a plate of chicken salad and a pint of genuine san josé claret, they was lookin' real comfortable and elegant. say, to see the droop eyed way they sized us up as we makes our entry, you'd think they was so tired doin' that sort of thing that life was hardly worth while. you'd never guess they'd been livin' in a hall bed room on crackers and bologna ever since the season closed, and that this was their first real feed of the summer, on the strength of just havin' been booked for fifty performances. he was wearin' one of them torrid suits you see in max blumstein's show window, with a rainbow band on his straw pancake, and one of these flannel collar shirts that you button under the chin with a brass safety pin. she was sportin' a peter pan peekaboo that would have made comstock gasp. and neither of 'em had seen a pay day for the last two months. but it was done good, though. they had the tray jugglers standin' around respectful, and the other guests wonderin' how two such real house of mirthers should happen to stray in where the best dishes on the card wa'n't more'n sixty cents a double portion. course, i ain't never been real chummy with tortoni--his boardin' house name's skinny welch, you know--but i've seen him knockin' around the rialto off'n on for years; so, as i goes by to the next table, i lifts my lid and says, "hello, skin. how goes it?" say, wa'n't that friendly enough? but what kind of a come back do i get? he just humps his eyebrows, as much as to say, "how bold some of these common folks is gettin' to be!" and then turns the other way. sadie and i look at each other and swap grins. "what happened?" says she. "i had a fifteen cent lump of hygeia passed to me," says i. "and with the ice trust still on top, i calls it extravagant." "who are the personages?" says she. "well, the last reports i had of 'em," says i, "they were the tortonis, waitin' to do a parlour sketch on the bargain day matinée circuit; but from the looks now i guesses they're travellin' incog--for the afternoon, anyway." "how lovely!" says sadie. our seltzer lemonades come along just then, so there was business with the straws. i'd just fished out the last piece of pineapple when jeems shows up on the drive with the spotted ponies and that side saddle cart. i gave sadie the nudge to look at the tortonis. they had their eyes glued to that outfit, like a couple of hester-st. kids lookin' at a hoky poky waggon. and it wa'n't no common "oh, i wish i could swipe that" look, either. it was a heap deeper'n that. the whole get up, from the red wheels to the silver rosettes, must have hit 'em hard, for they held their breath most a minute, and never moved. the girl was the first to break away. she turns her face out towards the sound and sighs. say, it must be tough to have ambitions like that, and never get nearer to 'em than now and then a ten block hansom ride. about then jeems catches sadie's eye, and salutes with the whip. "did you get it fixed?" says she. he says it's all done like new. signor tortoni hadn't been losin' a look nor a word, and the minute he ties us up to them speckled ponies he maps out a change of act. before i could call the waiter and get my change, tortoni was right on the ground. "i beg pardon," says he, "but isn't this my old friend, professor mccabe?" "you've sure got a comin' memory, skinny," says i. "why!" says he, gettin' a grip on my paw, "how stupid of me! really, professor, you've grown so distinguished looking that i didn't place you at all. why, this is a great pleasure, a very great pleasure, indeed!" "ye-e-es?" says i. but say, i couldn't rub it in. he was so dead anxious to connect himself with that red cart before the crowd that i just let him spiel away. inside of two minutes the honours had been done all around, and sadie was bein' as nice to the girl as she knew how. and sadie knows, though! she'd heard that sigh, sadie had; and it didn't jar me a bit when she gives them the invite to take a little drive down the road with us. well, it was worth the money, just to watch skinny judgin' up the house out of the corner of his eye. i'll bet there wa'n't one in the audience that he didn't know just how much of it they was takin' in; and by the easy way he leaned across the seat back and chinned to sadie, as we got started, you'd thought he'd been brought up in one of them carts. the madam wa'n't any in the rear, either. she was just as much to home as if she'd been usin' up a green transfer across th. if the style was new to her, or the motion gave her a tingly feelin' down her back, she never mentioned it. they did lose their breath a few, though, when we struck wigghorn arms. it's a whackin' big place, all fenced in with fancy iron work and curlicue gates fourteen feet high. "i've just got to run in a minute and say a word to mrs. wigghorn," says sadie. "i hope you don't mind waiting?" oh no, they didn't. they said so in chorus, and as we looped the loop through the shrubbery and began to get glimpses of window awnings and tiled roof, i could tell by the way they acted that they'd just as soon wait inside as not. mrs. wigghorn wasn't takin' any chances on havin' their dukelets drive up, leave their cards, and skidoo. she was right out front holdin' down a big porch rocker, with her eyes peeled up the drive. and she was costumed for the part. i don't know just what it was she had on, but i've seen plush parlour suits covered with stuff like that. she's a sizable old girl anyway, but in that rig, and with her store hair puffed out, she loomed up like a bale of hay in a door. "why, how do you do!" she squeals, makin' a swoop at sadie as soon as the wheels stopped turnin'. "and you did bring them along, didn't you? now don't say a word until i get peter--he's just gone in to brush the cigar ashes off his vest. we want to be presented to the duke and duchess together, you know. peter! pe-ter!" she shouts, and in through the front door she waddles, yellin' for the old man. and say, just by the look sadie gave me i knew what was runnin' through her head. "shorty," says she, "i've a mind to do it." "flag it," says. "you ain't got time." but there was no stoppin' her. "listen," says she to the tortonis. "can't you play duke and duchess of kildee for an hour or so?" "what are the lines?" says skinny. "you've got to improvise as you go along," says she. "can you do it?" "it's a pipe for me," says he. "flossy, do you come in on it?" did she? why, flossy was diggin' up her english accent while he was askin' the question, and by the time mrs. wigghorn got back, draggin' peter by the lapel of his dress coat, the tortonis was fairly oozin' aristocracy. it was "chawmed, don'tcher know!" and "my word!" right along from the drop of the hat. i didn't follow 'em inside, and was just as glad i didn't have to. sittin' out there, expectin' to hear the lid blow off, made me nervous enough. i wasn't afraid either of 'em would go shy on front; but when i remembered flossy's pencilled eyebrows, and skinny's flannel collar, i says to myself, "that'll queer 'em as soon as they get in a good light and there's time for the details to soak in." and i didn't know what kind of trouble the wigghorns might stir up for sadie, when they found out how bad they'd been toasted. it was half an hour before sadie showed up again, and she was lookin' merry. "what have they done with 'em," says i--"dropped 'em down the well?" sadie snickered as she climbed in and told jeems to whip up the team. "mr. and mrs. wigghorn," says she, "have persuaded the duke and duchess to spend the week's end at wigghorn arms." "gee!" says i. "can they run the bluff that long?" "it's running itself," says sadie. "the wigghorns are so overcome with the honour that they hardly know whether they're afoot or horseback; and as for your friends, they're more british than the real articles ever thought of being. i stayed until they'd looked through the suite of rooms they're to occupy, and when i left they were being towed out to the garage to pick out a touring car that suited them. they seemed already to be bored to death, too." "good!" say i. "now maybe you'll take me over to the beach and let me get in a quarter's worth of swim." "can't you put it off, shorty?" says she. "i want you to take the next train into town and do an errand for me. go to the landlady at this number, east th-st., and tell her to send mr. tortoni's trunk by express." well, i did it. it took a ten to make the landlady loosen up on the wardrobe, too; but considerin' the solid joy i've had, thinkin' about skinny and flossy eatin' charlotte russe for breakfast, and all that, i guess i'm gettin' a lot for my money. it ain't every day you have a chance to elevate a vaudeville team to the peerage. v putting pinckney on the job well, say, this is where we mark up one on pinckney. and it's time too, for he's done the grin act at me so often he was comin' to think i was gettin' into the slivers class. you know about pinckney. he's the bubble on top of the glass, the snapper on the whip lash, the sunny spot at the club. he's about as serious as a kitten playin' with a string, and the cares on his mind weigh 'most as heavy as an extra rooster feather on a spring bonnet. that's what comes of havin' a self raisin' income, a small list of relatives, and a moderate thirst. if anything bobs up that needs to be worried over--like whether he's got vests enough to last through a little trip to london and back, or whether he's doubled up on his dates--why, he just tells his man about it, and then forgets. for a trouble dodger he's got the little birds in the trees carryin' weight. pinckney's liable to show up at the studio here every day for a week, and then again i won't get a glimpse of him for a month. it's always safe to expect him when you see him, and it's a waste of time wonderin' what he'll be up to next. but one of the things i likes most about pinckney is that he ain't livin' yesterday or to-morrow. it's always this a. m. with him, and the rest of the calendar takes care of itself. so i wa'n't any surprised, as i was doin' a few laps on the avenue awhile back, to hear him give me the hail. "oh, i say, shorty!" says he, wavin' his stick. "got anything on?" "nothin' but my clothes," says i. "good!" says he. "come with me, then." "sure you know where you're goin'?" says i. oh, yes, he was--almost. it was some pier or other he was headed for, and he has the number wrote down on a card--if he could find the card. by luck he digs it up out of his cigarette case, where his man has put it on purpose, and then he proceeds to whistle up a cab. say, if it wa'n't for them cabbies, i reckon pinckney would take root somewhere. "meetin' some one, or seein' 'em off?" says i, as we climbs in. "hanged if i know yet," says pinckney. "maybe it's you that's goin'?" says i. "oh, no," says he. "that is, i hadn't planned to, you know. and come to think of it, i believe i am to meet--er--jack and jill." "names sound kind of familiar," says i. "what's the breed?" "what would be your guess?" says he. "a pair of spotted ponies," says i. "by jove!" says he, "i hadn't thought of ponies." "say," says i, sizin' him up to see if he was handin' me a josh, "you don't mean to give out that you're lookin' for a brace of something to come in on the steamer, and don't know whether they'll be tame or wild, long haired or short, crated or live stock?" "live stock!" says he, beamin'. "that's exactly the word i have been trying to think of. that's what i shall ask for. thanks, awfully, shorty, for the hint." "you're welcome," says i. "it looks like you need all the help along that line you can get. do you remember if this pair was somethin' you sent for, or is it a birthday surprise?" with that he unloads as much of the tale as he's accumulated up to date. seems he'd just got a cablegram from some firm in london that signs themselves tootle, tupper & tootle, sayin' that jack and jill would be on the _lucania_, as per letter. "and then you lost the letter?" says i. no, he hadn't lost it, not that he knew of. he supposes that it's with the rest of last week's mail, that he hasn't looked over yet. the trouble was he'd been out of town, and hadn't been back more'n a day or so--and he could read letters when there wa'n't anything else to do. that's pinckney, from the ground up. "why not go back and get the letter now?" says i. "then you'll know all about jack and jill." "oh, bother!" says he. "that would spoil all the fun. let's see what they're like first, and read about them afterwards." "if it suits you," says i, "it's all the same to me. only you won't know whether to send for a hostler or an animal trainer." "perhaps i'd better engage both," says pinckney. if they'd been handy, he would have, too; but they wa'n't, so down we sails to the pier, where the folks was comin' ashore. first thing pinckney spies after we has rushed the gangplank is a gent with a healthy growth of underbrush on his face and a lot of gold on his sleeves. by the way they got together, i see that they was old friends. "i hear you have something on board consigned to me, captain?" says pinckney. "something in the way of live stock, eh?" and he pokes cap in the ribs with his cane. "right you are," says cappie, chucklin' through his whiskers. "and the liveliest kind of live stock we ever carried, sir." pinckney gives me the nudge, as much as to say he'd struck it first crack, and then he remarks, "ah! and where are they now?" "why," says the cap, "they were cruising around the promenade deck a minute ago; but, lor' bless you, sir! there's no telling where they are now--up on the bridge, or down in the boiler room. they're a pair of colts, those two." "colts!" says pinckney, gaspin'. "you mean ponies, don't you?" "well, well, ponies or colts, it's all one. they're lively enough for either, and--heigho! here they come, the rascals!" there's whoop and a scamper, and along the deck rushes a couple of six- or seven-year old youngsters, that makes a dive for the cap'n, catches him around either leg, and almost upsets him. they was twins, and it didn't need the kilt suits just alike and the hair boxed just the same to show it, either. they couldn't have been better matched if they'd been a pair of socks, and the faces of 'em was all grins and mischief. say, anyone with a heart in him couldn't help takin' to kids like that, providin' they didn't take to him first. "here you are, sir," says the cap'n,--"here's your jack and jill, and i wish you luck with them. it'll be a good month before i can get back discipline aboard; but i'm glad i had the bringing of 'em over. here you are, you holy terrors,--here's the uncle pinckney you've been howling for!" at that they let loose of the cap, gives a war-whoop in chorus, and lands on pinckney with a reg'lar flyin' tackle, both talkin' to once. well say, he didn't know whether to holler for help or laugh. he just stands there and looks foolish, while one of 'em shins up and gets an overhand holt on his lilac necktie. about then i notices some one bearin' down on us from the other side of the deck. she was one of these tall, straight, deep chested, wide eyed girls, built like the goddess of liberty, and with cheeks like a bunch of sweet peas. say, she was all right, she was; and if it hadn't been for the paris clothes she was wearin' home i could have made a guess whether she come from denver, or dallas, or st. paul. anyway, we don't raise many of that kind in new york. she has her eyes on the youngsters. "good-bye, jack and jill," says she, wavin' her hand at 'em. but nobody gets past them kids as easy as that. they yells "miss gertrude!" at her like she was a mile off, and points to pinckney, and inside of a minute they has towed 'em together, pushed 'em up against the rail, and is makin' 'em acquainted at the rate of a mile a minute. "pleased, i'm sure," says miss gerty. "jack and jill are great friends of mine. i suppose you are their uncle pinckney." "i'm almost beginning to believe i am," says pinckney. "why," says she, "aren't you----" "oh, that's my name," says he. "only i didn't know that i was an uncle. doubtless it's all right, though. i'll look it up." with that she eyes him like she thought he was just out of the nut factory, and the more pinckney tries to explain, the worse he gets twisted. finally he turns to the twins. "see here, youngsters," says he, "which one of you is jack?" "me," says one of 'em. "i'se jack." "well, jack," says pinckney, "what is your last name?" "anstruther," says the kid. "the devil!" says pinckney, before he could stop it. then he begs pardon all around. "i see," says he. "i had almost forgotten about jack anstruther, though i shouldn't. so jack is your papa, is he? and where is jack now?" some one must have trained them to do it, for they gets their heads together, like they was goin' to sing a hymn, rolls up their eyes, and pipes out, "our--papa--is--up--there." "the deuce you say! i wouldn't have thought it!" gasps pinckney. "no, no! i--i mean i hadn't heard of it." it was a bad break, though; but the girl sees how cut up he is about it, and smooths everything out with a laugh. "i fancy jack and jill know very little of such things," says she; "but they can tell you all about marie." "marie's gone!" shouts the kids. "she says we drove her crazy." that was the way the story come out, steady by jerks. the meat of it was that one of pinckney's old chums had passed in somewhere abroad, and for some reason or other these twins of his had been shipped over to pinckney in care of a french governess. between not knowing how to herd a pair of lively ones like jack and jill, and her gettin' interested in a tall gent with a lovely black moustache, marie had kind of shifted her job off onto the rest of the passengers, specially gerty, and the minute the steamer touched the dock she had rolled her hoop. "pinckney," says i, "it's you to the bat." he looks at the twins doubtful, then he squints at me, and next he looks at miss gertrude. "by jove!" says he. "it appears that way, doesn't it? i wonder how long i am expected to keep them?" the twins didn't know; i didn't; and neither does gerty. "i had planned to take a noon train west," says she; "but if you think i could help in getting jack and jill ashore, i'll stay over for a few hours." "will you?" says he. "that's ripping good of you. really, you know, i never took care of twins before." "how odd!" says she, tearin' off a little laugh that sounds as if it come out of a music box. "i suppose you will take them home?" "home!" says pinckney. say, you'd thought he never heard the word before. "why--ah--er--i live at the club, you know." "oh," says she. "would a hotel do?" says pinckney. "you might try it," says she, throwin' me a look that was all twinkles. then we rounds up the kids' traps, sees to their baggage, and calls another cab. pinckney and the girl takes jill, i loads jack in with me, and off we starts. it was a great ride. ever try to answer all the questions a kid of that age can think up? say, i was three behind and short of breath before we'd gone ten blocks. "is all this america?" says mr. jack, pointin' up broadway. "no, sonny," says i; "this is little old new york." "where's america, then?" says he. "around the edges," says i. "i'm goin' to be president some day," says he. "are you?" "not till teddy lets go, anyway," says i. "who's teddy?" says he. "the man behind the stick," says i. "i wish i had a stick," says jack; "then i could whip the hossie. i wish i had suffin' to eat, too." "i'd give a dollar if you had," says i. it seems that jill has been struck with the same idea, for pretty soon we comes together, and pinckney shouts that we're all goin' to have lunch. now, there's a lot of eatin' shops in this town; but i'll bet pinckney couldn't name more'n four, to save his neck, and the fifth-ave. joint he picks out was the one he's most used to. it ain't what you'd call a fam'ly place. mostly the people who hang out there belong to the spender clan. it's where the thousand-dollar tenors, and the ex-steel presidents, and the pick of the pony ballet come for broiled birds and bottled bubbles. but that don't bother pinckney a bit; so we blazes right in, kids and all. the head waiter most has a fit when he spots pinckney towin' a twin with each hand; but he plants us at a round table in the middle of the room, turns on the electric light under the seashell shades, and passes out the food programs. i looks over the card; but as there wa'n't anything entered that i'd ever met before, i passes. gerty, she takes a look around, and smiles. but the twins wa'n't a bit fazed. "what will it be, youngsters?" says pinckney. "jam," says they. "jam it is," says pinckney, and orders a couple of jars. "don't you think they ought to have something besides sweets?" says miss gerty. "blessed if i know," says pinckney, and he puts it up to the kids if there wa'n't anything else they'd like. "yep!" says they eagerly. "pickles." that's what they had too, jam and pickles, with a little bread on the side. then, while we was finishin' off the grilled bones, or whatever it was pinckney had guessed at, they slides out of their chairs and organises a game of tag. i've heard of a lot of queer doin's bein' pulled off in that partic'lar caffy, but i'll bet this was the first game of cross tag ever let loose there. it was a lively one, for the tables was most all filled, and the tray jugglers was skatin' around thick. that only made it all the more interestin' for the kids. divin' between the legs of garçons loaded down with silver and china dishes was the best sport they'd struck in a month, and they just whooped it up. [illustration: the twins organize a game of tag] i could see the head waiter, standin' on tiptoes, watchin' 'em and holdin' his breath. pinckney was beginnin' to look worried too, but gerty was settin' there, as calm and smilin' as if they was playin' in a vacant lot. it was easy to see she wa'n't one of the worryin' kind. "i wonder if i shouldn't stop them?" says pinckney. before he's hardly got it out, there comes a bang and a smash, and a fat french waiter goes down with umpteen dollars' worth of fancy grub and dishes. "perhaps you'd better," says gerty. "yes," says i, "some of them careless waiters might fall on one of 'em." with that pinckney starts after 'em, tall hat, cane, and all. the kids see him, and take it that he's joined the game. "oh, here's uncle pinckney!" they shouts. "you're it, uncle pinckney!" and off they goes. that sets everybody roarin'--except pinckney. he turns a nice shade of red, and gives it up. i guess they'd put the place all to the bad, if miss gerty hadn't stood up smilin' and held her hands out to them. they come to her like she'd pulled a string, and in a minute it was all over. "pinckney," says i, "you want to rehearse this uncle act some before you spring it on the public again." "i wish i could get at that letter and find out how long this is going to last," says he, sighin' and moppin' his noble brow. but if pinckney was shy on time for letter readin' before, he had less of it now. the three of us put in the afternoon lookin' after that pair of kids, and we was all busy at that. twice miss gerty started to break away and go for a train; but both times pinckney sent me to call her back. soon's she got on the scene everything was lovely. pinckney had picked out a suite of rooms at the waldorf, and he thought as soon as he could get hold of a governess and a maid his troubles would be over. but it wa'n't so easy to pick up a pair of twin trainers. three or four sets shows up; but when they starts to ask questions about who the twins belongs to, and who pinckney was, and where miss gerty comes in, and what was i doin' there they gets a touch of pneumonia in the feet. "i ain't casting any insinuations," says one; "but i never have been mixed up in a kidnapping case before, and i guess i won't begin now." "the sassy thing!" says i, as she bangs the door. pinckney looks stunned; but miss gerty only laughs. "perhaps you'd better let me go out and find some one," says she. "and maybe i'll stay over for a day." while she was gone pinckney gets me to take a note up to his man, tellin' him to overhaul the mail and send all the london letters down. that took me less'n an hour, but when i gets back to the hotel i finds pinckney with furrows in his brow, tryin' to make things right with the manager. he'd only left the twins locked up in the rooms for ten minutes or so, while he goes down for some cigarettes and the afternoon papers; but before he gets back they've rung up everything, from the hall maids to the fire department, run the bath tub over, and rigged the patent fire escapes out of the window. "was it you that was tellin' about not wantin' to miss any fun?" says i. "don't rub it in, shorty," says he. "did you get that blamed tootle letter?" he grabs it eager. "now," says he, "we'll see who these youngsters are to be handed over to, and when." the twins had got me harnessed up to a chair, and we was havin' an elegant time, when pinckney gives a groan and hollers for me to come in and shut the door. "shorty," says he, "what do you think? there isn't anyone else. i've got to keep them." then he reads me the letter, which is from some english lawyers, sayin' that the late mr. anstruther, havin' no relations, has asked that his two children, jack and jill, should be sent over to his old and dear friend, mr. lionel ogden pinckney bruce, with the request that he act as their guardian until they should come of age. the letter also says that there's a wad of money in the bank for expenses. "and the deuce of it is, i can't refuse," says pinckney. "jack once did me a good turn that i can never forget." "well, this makes twice, then," says i. "but cheer up. for a bachelor, you're doin' well, ain't you? now all you need is an account at the grocer's, and you're almost as good as a fam'ly man." "but," says he, "i know nothing about bringing up children." "oh, you'll learn," says i. "you'll be manager of an orphan asylum yet." it wa'n't until miss gerty shows up with a broad faced swedish nurse that pinckney gets his courage back. gerty tells him he can take the night off, as she'll be on the job until mornin'; and pinckney says the thoughts of goin' back to the club never seemed quite so good to him as then. "so long," says i; "but don't forget that you're an uncle." i has a picture of pinckney takin' them twins by the hand, about the second day, and headin' for some boardin' school or private home. i couldn't help thinkin' about what a shame it was goin' to be too, for they sure was a cute pair of youngsters--too cute to be farmed out reckless. course, though, i couldn't see pinckney doin' anything else. even if he was married to one of them lady nectarines in the crowd he travels with, and had a kid of his own, i guess it would be a case of mama and papa havin' to be introduced to little gwendolyn every once in awhile by the head of the nursery department. oh, i has a real good time for a few days, stewin' over them kids, and wonderin' how they and pinckney was comin' on. and then yesterday i runs across the whole bunch, miss gerty and all, paradin' down the avenue bound for a candy shop, the whole four of 'em as smilin' as if they was startin' on a picnic. "chee, pinckney!" says i, "you look like you was pleased with the amateur uncle business." "why not?" says he. "you ought to see how glad those youngsters are to see me when i come in. and we have great sport." "hotel people still friendly?" says i. "why," says he, "i believe there have been a few complaints. but we'll soon be out of that. i've leased a country house for the summer, you know." "a house!" says i. "you with a house! who'll run it?" "s-s-s-sh!" says he, pullin' me one side and talkin' into my ear. "i'm going west to-night, to bring on her mother, and----" "oh, i see," says i. "you're goin' to offer gerty the job?" pinckney gets a colour on his cheek bones at that. "she's a charming girl, shorty," says he. "she's nothin' less," says i; "and them twins are all right too. but say, pinckney, i'll bet you never meet a steamer again without knowin' all about why you're there. eh?" vi the soaring of the sagawas well, i've been doin' a little more circulatin' among the fat-wads. it's gettin' to be a reg'lar fad with me. and say, i used to think they was a simple lot; but i don't know as they're much worse than some others that ain't got so good an excuse. i was sittin' on my front porch, at primrose park, when in rolls that big bubble of sadie's, with her behind the plate glass and rubber. "but i thought you was figurin' in that big house party out to breeze acres," says i, "where they've got a duchess on exhibition?" "it's the duchess i'm running away from," says sadie. "you ain't gettin' stage fright this late in the game, are you?" says i. "hardly," says she. "i'm bored, though. the duchess is a frost. she talks of nothing but her girls' charity school and her complexion baths. thirty of us have been shut up with her for three days now, and we know her by heart. pinckney asked me to drop around and see if i could find you. he says he's played billiards and poker until he's lost all the friends he ever had, and that if he doesn't get some exercise soon he'll die of indigestion. will you let me take you over for the night?" well, i've monkeyed with them swell house parties before, and generally i've dug up trouble at 'em; but for the sake of pinckney's health i said i'd take another chance; so in i climbs, and we goes zippin' off through the mud. sadie hadn't told me more'n half the cat-scraps the women had pulled off durin' them rainy days before we was 'most there. just as we slowed up to turn into the private road that leads up to breeze acres, one of them dinky little one-lunger benzine buggies comes along, missin' forty explosions to the minute and coughin' itself to death on a grade you could hardly see. all of a sudden somethin' goes off. bang! and the feller that was jugglin' the steerin' bar throws up both hands like he'd been shot with a ripe tomato. "caramba!" says he. "likewise gadzooks!" as the antique quits movin' altogether. i'd have known that lemon-coloured pair of lip whiskers anywhere. leonidas dodge has the only ones in captivity. i steps out of the show-case in time to see mister man lift off the front lid and shove his head into the works. "is the post mortem on?" says i. "by the beard of the prophet!" says he, swingin' around, "shorty mccabe!" "much obliged to meet you," says i, givin' him the grip. "the electro-polisho business must be boomin'," says i, "when you carry it around in a gasoline coach. but go on with your autopsy. is it locomotor ataxia that ails the thing, or cirrhosis of the sparkin' plug?" "it's nearer senile dementia," says he. "gaze on that piece of mechanism, shorty. there isn't another like it in the country." "i can believe that," says i. for an auto it was the punkiest ever. no two of the wheels was mates or the same size; the tires was bandaged like so many sore throats; the front dasher was wabbly; one of the side lamps was a tin stable lantern; and the seat was held on by a couple of cleats knocked off the end of a packing box. "looks like it had seen some first-aid repairin'," says i. "some!" says leonidas. "why, i've nailed this relic together at least twice a week for the last two months. i've used waggon bolts, nuts borrowed from wayside pumps, pieces of telephone wire, and horseshoe nails. once i ran twenty miles with the sprocket chain tied up with twine. and yet they say that the age of miracles has passed! it would need a whole machine shop to get her going again," says he. "i'll await until my waggons come up, and then we'll get out the tow rope." "waggons!" says i. "you ain't travellin' with a retinue, are you?" "that's the exact word for it," says he. and then leonidas tells me about the sagawa aggregation. ever see one of these medicine shows? well, that's what leonidas had. he was sole proprietor and managing boss of the outfit. "we carry eleven people, including drivers and canvas men," says he, "and we give a performance that the proctor houses would charge seventy-five a head for. it's all for a dime, too--quarter for reserved--and our gentlemanly ushers offer the sagawa for sale only between turns." "you talk like a three-sheet poster," says i. "where you headed for now?" "we're making a hundred-mile jump up into the mill towns," says he, "and before we've worked up as far as providence i expect we'll have to carry the receipts in kegs." that was leonidas, all over; seein' rainbows when other folks would be predictin' a johnstown flood. just about then, though, the bottom began to drop out of another cloud, so i lugged him over to the big bubble and put him inside. "sadie," says i, "i want you to know an old side pardner of mine. his name's leonidas dodge, or used to be, and there's nothing yellow about him but his hair." and say, sadie hadn't more'n heard about the sagawa outfit than she begins to smile all over her face; so i guesses right off that she's got tangled up with some fool idea. "it would be such a change from the duchess if we could get mr. dodge to stop over at breeze acres to-night and give his show," says sadie. "madam," says leonidas, "your wishes are my commands." sadie kept on grinnin' and plannin' out the program, while leonidas passed out his high english as smooth as a demonstrator at a food show. inside of ten minutes they has it all fixed. then sadie skips into the little gate cottage, where the timekeeper lives, and calls up pinckney on the house 'phone. and say! what them two can't think of in the way of fool stunts no one else can. by the time she'd got through, the sagawa aggregation looms up on the road. there was two four-horse waggons. the front one had a tarpaulin top, and under cover was a bunch of the saddest lookin' actorines and specialty people you'd want to see. they didn't have life enough to look out when the driver pulled up. the second waggon carried the round top and poles. "your folks look as gay as a gang startin' off to do time on the island," says i. "they're not as cheerful as they might be, that's a fact," says leonidas. it didn't take him long to put life into 'em, though. when he'd give off a few brisk orders they chirked up amazin'. they shed their rain coats for spangled jackets, hung out a lot of banners, and uncased a lot of pawnshop trombones and bass horns and such things. "all up for the grand street parade!" sings out leonidas. for an off-hand attempt, it wa'n't so slow. first comes pinckney, ridin' a long-legged huntin' horse and keepin' the rain off his red coat with an umbrella. then me and sadie in her bubble, towin' the busted one-lunger behind. leonidas was standin' up on the seat, wearin' his silk hat and handlin' a megaphone. next came the band waggon, everybody armed with some kind of musical weapon, and tearin' the soul out of "the merry widow" waltz, in his own particular way. the pole waggon brings up the rear. pinckney must have spread the news well, for the whole crowd was out on the front veranda to see us go past. and say, when leonidas sizes up the kind of folks that was givin' him the glad hand, he drops the imitation society talk that he likes to spout, and switches to straight manhattanese. "well, well, well! here we are!" he yells through the megaphone. "the only original sagawa show on the road, remember! come early, gents, and bring your lady friends. the doors of the big tent will open at eight o'clock--eight o'clock--and at eight-fifteen mlle. peroxide, the near queen of comedy, will cut loose on the coon songs." "my word!" says the duchess, as she squints through her glasses at the aggregation. but the rest of the guests was just ripe for something of the kind. mrs. curlew brassett, who'd almost worried herself sick at seein' her party put on the blink by a shop-worn exhibit on the inside and rain on the out, told pinckney he could have the medicine tent pitched in the middle of her italian garden, if he wanted to. they didn't, though. they stuck up the round top on the lawn just in front of the stables, and they hadn't much more'n lit the gasolene flares before the folks begins to stroll out and hit up the ticket waggon. "it's the first time i ever had the nerve to charge two dollars a throw for perches on the blue boards," says leonidas; "but that friend of yours, mr. pinckney, wanted me to make it five." anyway, it was almost worth the money. mlle. peroxide, who did the high and lofty with a job lot of last year coon songs, owned a voice that would have had a grand-st. banana huckster down and out; the monologue man was funny only when he didn't mean to be; and the black-face banjoist was the limit. then there was a juggler, and montana kate, who wore buckskin leggins and did a fake rifle-shootin' act. i tried to head leonidas off from sendin' out his tent men, rigged up in red flannel coats, to sell bottled sagawa; but he said pinckney had told him to be sure and do it. they were birds, them "gentlemanly ushers." "i'll bet i know where you picked up a lot of 'em," says i. "where?" says leonidas. "off the benches in city hall park," i says. "all but one," says he, "and he had just graduated from snake hill. but you didn't take this for one of frohman's road companies, did you?" they unloaded the sagawa, though. the audience wasn't missin' anything, and most everyone bought a bottle for a souvenir. "it's the great indian liver regulator and complexion beautifier," says leonidas in his business talk. "it removes corns, takes the soreness out of stiff muscles, and restores the natural colour to grey hair. also, ladies and gents, it can be used as a furniture polish, while a few drops in the bath is better than a week at hot springs." he was right to home, leonidas was, and it was a joy to see him. he'd got himself into a wrinkled dress suit, stuck an opera hat on the back of his head, and he jollied along that swell mob just as easy as if they'd been factory hands. and they all seemed glad they'd come. after it was over pinckney says that it was too bad to keep such a good thing all to themselves, and he wants me to see if leonidas wouldn't stay and give grand matinée performance next day. "tell him i'll guarantee him a full house," says pinckney. course, leonidas didn't need any coaxin'. "but i wish you'd find out if there isn't a butcher's shop handy," says he. "you see, we were up against it for a week or so, over in jersey, and the rations ran kind of low. in fact, all we've had to live on for the last four days has been bean soup and pilot bread, and the artists are beginning to complain. now that i've got a little real money, i'd like to buy a few pounds of steak. i reckon the aggregation would sleep better after a hot supper." i lays the case before pinckney and sadie, and they goes straight for mrs. brassett. and say! before eleven-thirty they had that whole outfit lined up in the main dinin'-room before such a feed as most of 'em hadn't ever dreamed about. there was everything, from chilled olives to hot squab, with a pint of fizz at every plate. right after breakfast pinckney began warmin' the telephone wires, callin' up everyone he knew within fifteen miles. and he sure did a good job. while he was at that i strolls out to the tent to have a little chin with leonidas, and i discovers him up to the neck in trouble. he was backed up against the centre pole, and in front of him was the whole actorette push, all jawin' at once, and raisin' seven different kinds of ructions. "excuse me for buttin' in," says i; "but i thought maybe this might be a happy family." "it ought to be, but it ain't," says leonidas. "just listen to 'em." and say, what kind of bats do you think had got into their belfries? seems they'd heard about the two-dollar-a-head crowd that was comin' to the matinée. that, and bein' waited on by a butler at dinner the night before, had gone to the vacant spot where their brains ought to be. they were tellin' leonidas that if they were goin' to play to broadway prices they were goin' to give broadway acts. mlle. peroxide allowed that she would cut out the rag time and put in a few choice selections from grand opera. montana kate hears that, and sheds the buckskin leggins. no rifle shootin' for her; not much! she had ophelia's lines down pat, and she meant to give 'em or die in the attempt. the black-face banjoist says he can impersonate sir henry irving to the life; and the juggler guy wants to show 'em how he can eat up the toreador song. "these folks want somethin' high-toned," says mlle. peroxide, "and this is the chance of a lifetime for me to fill the bill. i'd been doin' grand opera long ago if it hadn't been for the trust." "they told me at the dramatic school in dubuque that i ought to stick to shakespeare," says montana kate, "and here's where i get my hooks in." "you talk to 'em, shorty," says leonidas; "i'm hoarse." "not me," says i. "i did think you was a real gent, but i've changed my mind, mr. dodge. anyone who'll tie the can to high-class talent the way you're tryin' to do is nothin' less'n a fiend in human form." "there, now!" says the blondine. leonidas chucks the sponge. "you win," says he, "i'll let you all take a stab at anything you please, even if it comes to recitin' 'ostler joe'; but i'll be blanked if i shut down on selling sagawa!" two minutes later they were turnin' trunks upside down diggin' out costumes to fit. as soon as they began to rehearse, leonidas goes outside and sits down behind the tent, holdin' his face in his hands, like he had the toothache. "it makes me ashamed of my kind," says he. "why, they're rocky enough for a third-rate waggon show, and i supposed they knew it; but i'll be hanged if every last one of 'em don't think they've got sothern or julia marlowe tied in a knot. shorty, it's human nature glimpses like this that makes bein' an optimist hard work." "they're a bug-house bunch; all actors are," says i. "you can't change 'em, though." "i wish i wasn't responsible for this lot," says he. he was feelin' worse than ever when the matinée opens. it had stopped rainin' early in the mornin', and all the cottagers for miles around had come over to see what new doin's pinckney had hatched up. there was almost a capacity house when leonidas steps out on the stage to announce the first turn. i knew he had more green money in his clothes that minute than he'd handled in a month before, but he acted as sheepish as if he was goin' to strike 'em for a loan. "i wish to call the attention of the audience," says he, "to a few changes of program. mlle. peroxide, who is billed to sing coon songs, will render by her own request the jewel song from 'faust,' and two solos from 'lucia di lammermoor.'" and say, she did it! anyways, them was what she aimed at. for awhile the crowd held its breath, tryin' to believe it was only a freight engine whistlin' for brakes, or somethin' like that. then they began to grin. next some one touched off a giggle, and after that they roared until they were wipin' away the tears. leonidas don't look quite so glum when he comes out to present the reformed banjoist as sir henry irving. he'd got his cue, all right, and he hands out a game of talk about delayed genius comin' to the front that tickled the folks clear through. the guy never seemed to drop that he was bein' handed the lemon, and he done his worst. i thought they'd used up all the laughs they had in 'em, but montana kate as ophelia set 'em wild again. maybe you've seen amateurs that was funny, but you never see anything to beat that combination. amateurs are afraid to let themselves loose, but not that bunch. they were so sure of bein' the best that ever happened in their particular lines that they didn't even know the crowd was givin' 'em the ha-ha until they'd got through. anyway, as a rib tickler that show was all to the good. the folks nearly mobbed pinckney, tellin' him what a case he was to think up such an exhibition, and he laid it all to sadie and me. only the duchess didn't exactly seem to connect with the joke. she sat stolidly through the whole performance in a kind of a daze, and then afterwards she says: "it wasn't what i'd call really clever, you know; but, my word! the poor things tried hard enough." just before i starts for home i hunts up leonidas. he was givin' orders to his boss canvasman when i found him, and feelin' the pulse of his one-lunger, that mrs. brassett's chauffeur had tinkered up. "well, leonidas," says i, "are you goin' to put the shakespeare-sagawa combination on the ten-twenty-thirt circuit?" "not if i can prove an alibi," says he. "i've just paid a week's advance salary to that crowd of melbas and booths, and told 'em to go sign contracts with frohman and hammerstein. i may be running a medicine show, but i've got some professional pride left. now i'm going back to new york and engage an educated pig and a troupe of trained dogs to fill out the season." the last i saw of montana kate she was pacin' up and down the station platform, readin' a copy of "romeo and juliet." ain't they the pippins, though? vii rinkey and the phony lamp say, for gettin' all the joy that's comin' to you, there's nothin' like bein' a mixer. the man who travels in one class all the time misses a lot. and i sure was mixin' it when i closes with snick butters and sir hunter twiggle all in the same day. snick had first place on the card. he drifts into the studio early in the forenoon, and when i sees the green patch over the left eye i knows what's comin'. he's shy of a lamp on that side, you know--uses the kind you buy at the store, when he's got it; and when he ain't got it, he wants money. i s'pose if i was wise i'd scratched snick off my list long ago; but knowin' him is one of the luxuries i've kept up. you know how it is with them old time friends you've kind of outgrown but hate to chuck in the discard, even when they work their touch as reg'lar as rent bills. but snick and me played on the same block when we was kids, and there was a time when i looked for snick to be boostin' me, 'stead of me boostin' him. he's one of the near-smarts that you're always expectin' to make a record, but that never does. bright lookin' boy, neat dresser, and all that, but never stickin' to one thing long enough to make good. you've seen 'em. "hello, snick!" says i, as he levels the single barrel on me. "i see you've pulled down the shade again. what's happened to that memorial window of yours this time?" "same old thing," says he. "it's in at simpson's for five, and a bookie's got the five." "and now you want to negotiate a second mortgage, eh?" says i. that was the case. he tells me his newest job is handlin' the josh horn on the front end of one of these rube waggons, and just because the folks from keokuk and painted post said that lookin' at the patch took their minds off seein' the skyscrapers, the boss told him he'd have to chuck it or get the run. "he wouldn't come across with a five in advance, either," says snick. "how's that for the granite heart?" "it's like other tales of woe i've heard you tell," says i, "and generally they could be traced to your backin' three kings, or gettin' an inside tip on some beanery skate." "that's right," says he, "but never again. i've quit the sportin' life for good. just the same, if i don't show up on the waggon for the 'leven o'clock trip i'll be turned loose. if you don't believe it shorty, i'll----" "ah, don't go callin' any notary publics," says i. "here's the v to take up that ticket. but say, snick; how many times do i have to buy out that eye before i get an equity in it?" "it's yours now; honest, it is," says he. "if you say so, i'll write out a bill of sale." "no," says i, "your word goes. do you pass it?" he said he did. "thanks," says i. "i always have thought that was a fine eye, and i'm proud to own it. so long, snick." there's one good thing about snick butters; after he's made his touch he knows enough to fade; don't hang around and rub it in, or give you a chance to wish you hadn't been so easy. it's touch and go with him, and before i'd got out the last of my remarks he was on his way. it wa'n't more'n half josh, though, that i was givin' him about that phony pane of his. it was a work of art, one of the bright blue kind. as a general thing you can always spot a bought eye as far as you can see it, they're so set and stary. but snick got his when he was young and, bein' a cute kid, he had learned how to use it so well that most folks never knew the difference. he could do about everything but see with it. first off he'd trained it to keep pace with the other, movin' 'em together, like they was natural; but whenever he wanted to he could make the glass one stand still and let the other roam around. he always did that on friday afternoons when he got up to speak pieces in the grammar school. and it was no trick at all for him to look wall eyed one minute, cross eyed the next, and then straighten 'em out with a jerk of his head. maybe if it hadn't been for that eye of snick's i'd have got further'n the eighth grade. his star performance, though, was when he did a jugglin' act keepin' three potatoes in the air. he'd follow the murphies with his good eye and turn the other one on the audience, and if you didn't know how it was done, it would give you the creeps up and down the back, just watchin' him. say, you'd thought a feller with talent like that would have made a name for himself, wouldn't you? tryin' to be a sport was where snick fell down, though. he had the blood, all right, but no head. why when we used to play marbles for keeps, snick would never know when to quit. he'd shoot away until he'd lost his last alley, and then he'd pry out that glass eye of his and chuck it in the ring for another go. many a time snick's gone home wearin' a striped chiny or a pink stony in place of the store eye, and then his old lady would chase around lookin' for the kid that had won it off'm him. there's such a thing as bein' too good a loser; but you could never make snick see it. well, i'd marked up five to the bad on my books, and then swifty joe and me had worked an hour with a couple of rockin' chair commodores from the new york yacht club, gettin' 'em in shape to answer lipton's batch of spring challenges, when pinckney blows in, towin' a tubby, red faced party in a frock coat and a silk lid. "shorty," says he, "i want you to know sir hunter twiggle. sir hunter, this is the professor mccabe you've heard about." "if you heard it from pinckney," says i, "don't believe more'n half of it." with that we swaps the grip, and he says he's glad to meet up with me. but say, he hadn't been in the shop two minutes 'fore i was next to the fact that he was another who'd had to mate up his lamps with a specimen from the glass counter. "they must be runnin' in pairs," thinks i. "this'd be a good time to draw to three of a kind." course, i didn't mention it, but i couldn't keep from watchin' how awkward he handled his'n, compared to the smooth way snick could do it. i guess pinckney must have spotted me comin' the steady gaze, for pretty soon he gets me one side and whispers, "don't appear to notice it." "all right," says i; "i'll look at his feet." "no, no," says pinckney, "just pretend you haven't discovered it. he's very sensitive on the subject--thinks no one knows, and so on." "but it's as plain as a gold tooth," says i. "i know," says pinckney; "but humour him. he's the right sort." pinckney wa'n't far off, either. for a gent that acted as though he'd been born wearin' a high collar and a shiny hat, sir twiggle wasn't so worse. barrin' the stiffenin', which didn't wear off at all, he was a decent kind of a haitch eater. bein' dignified was something he couldn't help. you'd never guessed, to look at him, that he'd ever been mixed up in anything livelier'n layin' a church cornerstone, but it leaks out that he had been through all kinds of scraps in india, comes from the same stock as the old marquis of queensberry, and has followed the ring more or less himself. "i had the doubtful honour," says he, bringin' both eyes into range on me, "of backing a certain mr. palmer, whom we sent over here several years ago after a belt." "he got more'n one belt," says i. "quite so," says he, almost crackin' a smile; "one belt too many, i fancy." say, that was a real puncherino, eh? i ain't sure but what he got off more along the same line, for some of them british kind is hard to know unless you see 'em printed in the joke column. anyway, we has quite a chin, and before he left we got real chummy. he had a right to be feelin' gay, though; for he'd come over to marry a girl with more real estate deeds than you could pack in a trunk. some kin of pinckney's, this miss cornerlot was; a sort of faded flower that had hung too long on the stem. she'd run across sir hunter in london, him bein' a widower that was willin' to forget, and they'd made a go of it, nobody knew why. i judged that pinckney was some relieved at the prospects of placin' a misfit. he'd laid out for a little dinner at the club, just to introduce sir hunter to his set and brace him up for bein' inspected by the girl's aunt and other relations at some swell doin's after. i didn't pay much attention to their program at the time. it wa'n't any of my funeral who pinckney married off his leftover second cousins to; and by evenin' i'd clean forgot all about twiggle; when pinckney 'phones he'd be obliged if i could step around to a broadway hotel right off, as he's in trouble. pinckney meets me just inside the plate glass merry go round. "something is the matter with sir hunter," says he, "and i can't find out from his fool man what it is." "before we gets any deeper let's clear the ground," says i. "when you left him, was he soused, or only damp around the edges?" "oh, it's not that at all," says pinckney. "sir hunter is a gentleman--er, with a wonderful capacity." "the hippodrome tank's got that too," i says; "but there's enough fancy drinks mixed on broadway every afternoon to run it over." sir hunter has a set of rooms on the 'leventh floor. he wa'n't in sight, but we digs up rinkey. by the looks, he'd just escaped from the chorus of a musical comedy, or else an italian bakery. near as i could make out he didn't have any proper clothes on at all, but was just done up in white buntin' that was wrapped and draped around him, like a parlour lamp on movin' day. the spots of him that you could see, around the back of his neck and the soles of his feet, was the colour of a twenty-cent maduro cigar. he was spread out on the rug with his heels toward us and his head on the sill of the door leadin' into the next room. "back up, pinckney!" says i. "this must be a coloured prayer meetin' we're buttin' into." "no, it's all right," says pinckney. "that is sir hunter's man, ringhi singh." "sounds like a coon song," says i. "but he's no valet. he's a cook; can't you see by the cap?" "that's a turban," says pinckney. "sir hunter brought ringhi from india, and he wears his native costume." "gee!" says i. "if that's his reg'lar get up, he's got mark twain's phoebe snow outfit beat a mile. but does rinkey always rest on his face when he sits down?" "it's that position which puzzles me," says pinckney. "all i could get out of him was that sahib twiggle was in bed, and wouldn't see anyone." "oh, then the heathen is wise to united states talk, is he?" says i. "he understands english, of course," says pinckney, "but he declines to talk." "that's easy fixed," says i, reachin' out and grabbin' rinkey by the slack of his bloomers. "maybe his conversation works is out of kink," and i up ends rinkey into a chair. "be careful!" pinckney sings out. "they're treachous chaps." i had my eye peeled for cutlery, but he was the mildest choc'late cream you ever saw. he slumped there on the chair, shiverin' as if he had a chill comin' on, and rollin' his eyes like a cat in a fit. he was so scared he didn't know the day of the month from the time of night. "cheer up, rinkey," says i, "and act sociable. now tell the gentleman what's ailin' your boss." it was like talkin' into a 'phone when the line's out of business. rinkey goes on sendin' morse wireless with his teeth, and never unloosens a word. "look here, br'er singh," says i, "you ain't gettin' any third degree--yet! cut out the ague act and give mr. pinckney the straight talk. he's got a date here and wants to know why the gate is up." more silence from rinkey. "oh, well," says i, "i expect it ain't etiquette to jump the outside guard; but if we're goin' to get next to sir hunter, it looks like we had to announce ourselves. here goes!" i starts for the inside door; but i hadn't got my knuckles on the panel before rinkey was givin' me the knee tackle and splutterin' all kinds of language. "hey!" says i. "got the cork out, have you?" with that rinkey gets up and beckons us over into the far corner. "the lord sahib," says he, rollin' his eyes at the bed room door--"the lord sahib desire that none should come near. he is in great anger." "what's he grouchy about?" says i. "the lord sahib," says he, "will destroy to death poor ringhi singh if he reveals." "destroy to death is good," says i; "but it don't sound convincin'. i think we're bein' strung." pinckney has the same idea, so i gets a good grip on rinkey's neck. "come off!" says i. "as a liar you're too ambitious. you tell us what's the matter with your boss, or i'll do things to you that'll make bein' destroyed to death seem like fallin' on a feather bed!" and it come, quick. "yes, sahib," says he. "it is that there has been lost beyond finding the lord sahib's glorious eye." "sizzlin' sisters! another pane gone!" says i. "this must be my eye retrievin' day, for sure." but pinckney takes it mighty serious. he says that the dinner at the club don't count for so much, but that the other affair can't be sidetracked so easy. it seems that the girl has lived through one throw down, when the feller skipped off to europe just as the tie-up was to be posted, and it wouldn't do to give her a second scare of the same kind. rinkey was mighty reluctant about goin' into details, but we gets it out of him by degrees that the lord sahib has a habit, when he's locked up alone, of unscrewin' the fake lamp and puttin' it away in a box full of cotton battin'. "always in great secret," says rinkey; "for the lord sahib would not disclose. but i have seen, which was an evil thing--oh, very evil! to-night it was done as before; but when it was time for the return, alas! the box was down side up on the floor and the glorious eye was not anywhere. search! we look into everything, under all things. then comes a great rage on the lord sahib, and i be sore from it in many places." "that accounts for your restin' on your face, eh?" says i. "well, pinckney, what now?" "why," says he, "we've simply got to get a substitute eye. i'll wait here while you go out and buy another." "say, pinckney," i says, "if you was goin' down broadway at eight-thirty p. m., shoppin' for glass eyes, where'd you hit first? would you try a china store, or a gent's furnishin's place?" "don't they have them at drug stores?" says pinckney. "i never seen any glass eye counters in the ones i go to," says i. and then, right in the midst of our battin' our heads, i comes to. "oh, splash!" says i. "pinckney, if anyone asks you, don't let on what a hickory head i am. why, i've got a glass eye that sir hunter can have the loan of over night, just as well as not."' "you!" says pinckney, lookin' wild. "sure thing," says i. "it's a beaut, too. can't a feller own a glass eye without wearin' it?" "but where is it?" says pinckney. "it's with snick butters," says i. "he's usin' it, i expect. fact is, it was built for snick, but i hold a gilt edged first mortgage, and all i need to do to foreclose is say the word. come on. just as soon as we find snick you can run back and fix up sir hunter as good as new." "do you think you can find him?" says pinckney. "we've got to find him," says i. "i'm gettin' interested in this game." snick was holdin' down a chair in the smokin' room at the gilsey. he grins when he sees me, but when i puts it up to him about callin' in the loose lens for over night his jaw drops. "just my luck," says he. "here i've got bill board seats for the casino and was goin' to take the newsstand girl to the show as soon as she can get off." "sorry, snick," says i, "but this is a desperate case. won't she stand for the green curtain?" "s-s-sh!" says he. "she don't know a thing about that. i'll have to call it off. give me two minutes, will you?" that was snick, all over--losin' out just as easy as some folks wins. when he comes back, though, and i tells him what's doin', he says he'd like to know just where the lamp was goin', so he could be around after it in the mornin'. "sure," says i. "bring it along up with you, then, there won't be any chance of our losin' it." so all three of us goes back to the hotel. pinckney wa'n't sayin' a word, actin' like he was kind of dazed, but watchin' snick all the time. as we gets into the elevator, he pulls me by the sleeve and whispers: "i say, shorty, which one is it?" "the south one," says i. it wasn't till we got clear into sir hunter's reception room, under the light, that pinckney heaves up something else. "oh, i say!" says he, starin' at snick. "beg pardon for mentioning it, but yours is a--er--you have blue eyes, haven't you, mr. butters?" "that's right," says snick. "and sir hunter's are brown. it will never do," says he. "ah, what's the odds at night?" says i. "maybe the girl's colour blind, anyway." "no," says pinckney, "sir hunter would never do it. now, if you only knew of some one with a----" "i don't," says i. "snick's the only glass eyed friend i got on my repertoire. it's either his or none. you send rinkey in to ask twiggle if a blue one won't do on a pinch." mr. rinkey didn't like the sound of that program a bit, and he goes to clawin' around my knees, beggin' me not to send him in to the lord sahib. "g'wan!" says i, pushin' him off. "you make me feel as if i was bein' measured for a pair of leggin's. skiddo!" as i gives him a shove my finger catches in the white stuff he has around his head, and it begins to unwind. i'd peeled off about a yard, when out rolls somethin' shiny that snick spots and made a grab for. "hello!" says he. "what's this?" it was the stray brown, all right. that kipling coon has had it stowed away all the time. well say, there was lively doin's in that room for the next few minutes; me tryin' to get a strangle hold on rinkey, and him doin' his best to jump through a window, chairs bein' knocked over, snick hoppin' around tryin' to help, and pinckney explainin' to sir hunter through the keyhole what it was all about. when it was through we held a court of inquiry. and what do you guess? that smoked chinaman had swiped it on purpose, thinkin' if he wore it on the back of his head he could see behind him. wouldn't that grind you? but it all comes out happy. sir hunter was a little late for dinner, but he shows up two eyed before the girl, makes a hit with her folks, and has engaged snick to give him private lessons on how to make a fake optic behave like the real goods. viii pinckney and the twins say, when it comes to gettin' himself tangled up in ways that nobody ever thought of before, you can play pinckney clear across the board. but i never knew him to send out such a hard breathin' hurry call as the one i got the other day. it come first thing in the mornin' too, just about the time pinckney used to be tearin' off the second coupon from the slumber card. i hadn't more'n got inside the studio door before swifty joe says: "pinckney's been tryin' to get you on the wire." "gee!" says i, "he's stayin' up late last night! did he leave the number?" he had, and it was a sixty-cent long distance call; so the first play i makes when i rings up is to reverse the charge. "that you, shorty?" says he. "then for goodness' sake come up here on the next train! will you?" "house afire, bone in your throat, or what?" says i. "it's those twins," says he. "bad as that?" says i. "then i'll come." wa'n't i tellin' you about the pair of mated orphans that was shipped over to him unexpected; and how miss gertie, the western blush rose that was on the steamer with 'em, helps him out? well, the last i hears, pinckney is gone on miss gertie and gettin' farther from sight every minute. he's planned it out to have the knot tied right away, hire a furnished cottage for the summer, and put in the honeymoon gettin' acquainted with the ready made family that they starts in with. great scheme! suits pinckney right down to the ground, because it's different. he begins by accumulatin' a pair of twins, next he finds a girl and then he thinks about gettin' married. by the way he talked, i thought it was all settled; but hearin' this whoop for help i suspicioned there must be some hitch. there wa'n't any carnation in his buttonhole when he meets me at the station; he hasn't shaved since the day before; and there's trouble tracks on his brow. "can't you stand married life better'n this?" says i. "married!" says he. "no such luck. i never expect to be married, shorty; i'm not fit." "is this a decision that was handed you, or was it somethin' you found out for yourself?" says i. "it's my own discovery," says he. "then there's hope," says i. "so the twins have been gettin' you worried, eh? where's miss gertie?" that gives pinckney the hard luck cue, and while we jogs along towards his new place in the tub cart he tells me all about what's been happenin'. first off he owns up that he's queered his good start with miss gertie by bein' in such a rush to flash the solitaire spark on her. she ain't used to pinckney's jumpy ways. they hadn't been acquainted much more'n a week, and he hadn't gone through any of the prelim's, when he ups and asks her what day it will be and whether she chooses church or parsonage. course she shies at that, and the next thing pinckney knows she's taken a train west, leavin' him with the twins on his hands, and a nice little note sayin' that while she appreciates the honour she's afraid he won't do. "and you're left at the post?" says i. "yes," says he. "i couldn't take the twins and follow her, but i could telegraph. my first message read like this, 'what's the matter with me?' here is her answer to that," and he digs up a yellow envelope from his inside pocket. "not domestic enough. g." it was short and crisp. he couldn't give me his come back to that, for he said it covered three blanks; but it was meant to be an ironclad affidavit that he could be just as domestic as the next man, if he only had a chance. "and then?" says i. "read it," says he, handin' over exhibit two. "you have the chance now," it says. "manage the twins for a month, and i will believe you." and that was as far as he could get. now, first and last, i guess there's been dozens of girls, not countin' all kinds of widows, that's had their lassoes out for pinckney. he's been more or less interested in some; but when he really runs across one that's worth taggin' she does the sudden duck and runs him up against a game like this. "and you're tryin' to make good, eh?" says i. "what's your program?" for pinckney, he hadn't done so worse. first he hunts up the only aunt he's got on his list. she's a wide, heavy weight old girl, that's lost or mislaid a couple of husbands, but hasn't ever had any kids of her own, and puts in her time goin' to europe and comin' back. she was just havin' the trunks checked for switzerland when pinckney locates her and tells how glad he is to see her again. didn't she want to change her plans and stay a month or so with him and the twins at some nice place up in westchester? one glimpse of jack and jill with their comp'ny manners on wins her. sure, she will! so it's tip to pinckney to hire a happy home for the summer, all found. got any idea of how he tackles a job like that? most folks would take a week off and do a lot of travelling sizin' up different joints. they'd want to know how many bath rooms, if there was malaria, and all about the plumbin', and what the neighbours was like. but livin' at the club don't put you wise to them tricks. pinckney, he just rings up a real estate agent, gets him to read off a list, says, "i'll take no. ," and it's all over. next day they move out. was he stung? well, not so bad as you'd think. course, he's stuck about two prices for rent, and he signs a lease without readin' farther than the "whereas"; but, barrin' a few things like haircloth furniture and rooms that have been shut up so long they smell like the subcellars in a brewery, he says the ranch wa'n't so bad. the outdoors was good, anyway. there was lots of it, acres and acres, with trees, and flower gardens, and walks, and fish ponds, and everything you could want for a pair of youngsters that needed room. i could see that myself. "say, pinckney," says i, as we drives in through the grounds, "if you can't get along with jack and jill in a place of this kind you'd better give up. why, all you got to do is to turn 'em loose." "wait!" says he. "you haven't heard it all." "let it come, then," says i. "we will look at the house first," says he. the kids wa'n't anywhere in sight; so we starts right in on the tour of inspection. it was a big, old, slate roofed baracks, with jigsaw work on the eaves, and a lot of dinky towers frescoed with lightnin' rods. there was furniture to match, mostly the marble topped, black walnut kind, that was real stylish back in the ' 's. in the hall we runs across snivens. he was the butler; but you wouldn't guess it unless you was told. kind of a cross between a horse doctor and a missionary, i should call him--one of these short legged, barrel podded gents, with a pair of white wind harps framin' up a putty coloured face that was ornamented with a set of the solemnest lookin' lamps you ever saw off a stuffed owl. "gee, pinckney!" says i, "who unloaded that on you!" "snivens came with the place," says he. "he looks it," says i. "i should think that face would sour milk. don't he scare the twins?" "frighten jack and jill?" says pinckney. "not if he had horns and a tail! they seem to take him as a joke. but he does make all the rest of us feel creepy." "why don't you write him his release?" says i. "can't," says pinckney. "he is one of the conditions in the contract--he and the urns." "the urns?" says i. "yes," says pinckney, sighin' deep. "we are coming to them now. there they are." with that we steps into one of the front rooms, and he lines me up before a white marble mantel that is just as cheerful and tasty as some of them pieces in greenwood cemetery. on either end was what looks to be a bronze flower pot. "to your right," says pinckney, "is grandfather; to your left, aunt sabina." "what's the josh?" says i. "shorty," says he, heavin' up another sigh, "you are now in the presence of sacred dust. these urns contain the sad fragments of two great van rusters." "fragments is good," says i. "couldn't find many to keep, could they? did they go up with a powder mill, or fall into a stone crusher?" "cremated," says pinckney. then i gets the whole story of the two old maids that pinckney rented the place from. they were the last of the clan. in their day the van rusters had headed the westchester battin' list, ownin' about half the county and gettin' their names in the paper reg'lar. but they'd been peterin' out for the last hundred years or so, and when it got down to the misses van rusters, a pair of thin edged, old battle axes that had never wore anything but crape and jet bonnets, there wa'n't much left of the estate except the mortgages and the urns. rentin' the place furnished was the last card in the box, and pinckney turns up as the willin' victim. when he comes to size up what he's drawn, and has read over the lease, he finds he's put his name to a lot he didn't dream about. keepin' snivens on the pay roll, promisin' not to disturb the urns, usin' the furniture careful, and havin' the grass cut in the private buryin' lot was only a few that he could think of off hand. "you ain't a tenant, pinckney," says i; "you're a philanthropist." "i feel that way," says he. "at first, i didn't know which was worse, snivens or the urns. but i know now--it is the urns. they are driving me to distraction." "ah, do a lap!" says i. "course, i give in that there might be better parlour ornaments than potted ancestors, specially when they belong to someone else; but they don't come extra, do they? i thought it was the twins that was worryin' you?" "that is where the urns come in," says he. "here the youngsters are now. step back in here and watch." he pulls me into the next room, where we could see through the draperies. there's a whoop and a hurrah outside, the door bangs, and in tumbles the kids, with a nurse taggin' on behind. the youngsters makes a bee line for the mantelpiece and sings out: "hello, grandfather! hello, aunt sabina! look what we brought this time!" "stop it! stop it!" says the nurse, her eyes buggin' out. "boo! fraid cat!" yells the twins, and nursy skips. then they begins to unload the stuff they've lugged in, pilin' it up alongside the urns, singin' out like auctioneers, "there's some daisies for aunt sabina! and wild strawberries for grandfather! and a mud turtle for aunty! and a bird's nest for grandfather!" windin' up the performance by joinin' hands and goin' through a reg'lar war dance. pinckney explains how this was only a sample of what had been goin' on ever since they heard snivens tellin' what was in the urns. they'd stood by, listenin' with their mouths and ears wide open, and then they'd asked questions until everyone was wore out tryin' to answer 'em. but the real woe came when the yarn got around among the servants and they begun leavin' faster'n pinckney's aunt mary could send out new ones from town. "maybe the kids'll get tired of it in a few days," says i. "exactly what i thought," says pinckney; "but they don't. it's the best game they can think of, and if i allow them they will stay in here by the hour, cutting up for the benefit of grandfather and aunt sabina. it's morbid. it gets on one's nerves. my aunt says she can't stand it much longer, and if she goes i shall have to break up. if you're a friend of mine, shorty, you'll think of some way to get those youngsters interested in something else." "why don't you buy 'em a pony cart?" says i. "i've bought two," says he; "and games and candy, and parrots and mechanical toys enough to stock a store. still they keep this thing up." "and if you quit the domestic game, the kids have to go to some home, and you go back to the club?" says i. "that's it," says he. "and when miss gertie comes on, and finds you've renigged, it's all up between you and her, eh?" says i. pinckney groans. "g'wan!" says i. "go take a sleep." with that i steps in and shows myself to the kids. they yells and makes a dash for me. inside of two minutes i've been introduced to grandfather and aunt sabina, made to do a duck before both jars, and am planted on the haircloth sofa with a kid holdin' either arm, while they puts me through the third degree. they want information. "did you ever see folks burned and put in jars?" says jack. "no," says i; "but i've seen pickled ones jugged. i hear you've got some ponies." "two," says jill; "spotted ones. would you want to be burned after you was a deader?" "better after than before," says i. "where's the ponies now?" "what do the ashes look like?" says jack. "are there any clinkers?" says jill. say, i was down and out in the first round. for every word i could get in about ponies they got in ten about them bloomin' jars, and when i leaves 'em they was organisin' a circus, with grandfather and aunt sabina supposed to be occupyin' the reserved seats. honest, it was enough to chill the spine of a morgue keeper. by good luck i runs across snivens snoopin' through the hall. "see here, you!" says i. "i want to talk to you." "beg pardon, sir," says he, backin' off, real stiff and dignified; "but----" "ah, chuck it!" says i, reachin' out and gettin' hold of his collar, playful like. "you've been listenin' at the door. now what do you think of the way them kids is carryin' on in there?" "it's outrageous, sir!" says he, puffin' up his cheeks, "it's scandalous! they're young imps, so they are, sir." "want to stop all that nonsense?" says i. he says he does. "then," says i, "you take them jars down cellar and hide 'em in the coal bin." he holds up both hands at that. "it can't be done, sir," says he. "they've been right there for twenty years without bein' so much as moved. they were very superior folks, sir, very superior." "couldn't you put 'em in the attic, then?" says i. he couldn't. he says it's in the lease that the jars wa'n't to be touched. "snivens," says i, shovin' a twenty at him, "forget the lease." say, he looks at that yellowback as longin' as an east side kid sizin' up a fruit cart. then he gives a shiver and shakes his head. "not for a thousand, sir," says he. "i wouldn't dare." "you're an old billygoat, snivens," says i. and that's all the good i did with my little whirl at the game; but i tries to cheer pinckney up by tellin' him the kids wa'n't doin' any harm. "but they are," says pinckney. "they're raising the very mischief with my plans. the maids are scared to death. they say the house is haunted. four of them gave notice to-day. aunt mary is packing her trunks, and that means that i might as well give up. i'll inquire about a home to send them to this afternoon." i guess it was about four o'clock, and i was tryin' to take a snooze in a hammock on the front porch, when i hears the twins makin' life miserable for the gard'ner that was fixin' the rose bushes. "lemme dig, pat," says jill. "g'wan, ye young tarrier!" says pat "can't i help some?" says jack. "yes, if ye'll go off about a mile," says pat. "why don't the roses grow any more?" asks jill. "it's needin' ashes on 'em they are," says pat. "ashes!" says jack. "ashes!" says jill. then together, "oh, we know where there's ashes--lots!" "we'll fetch 'em!" says jill, and with that i hears a scamperin' up the steps. i was just gettin' up to chase after 'em, when i has another thought. "what's the use, anyway?" thinks i. "it's their last stunt." so i turns over and pretends to snooze. when pinckney shows up about six the twins has the pony carts out and is doin' a chariot race around the drive, as happy and innocent as a couple of pink angels. then they eats their supper and goes to bed, with nary a mention of sayin' good-night to the jars, like they'd been in the habit of doin'. next mornin' they gets up as frisky as colts and goes out to play wild indians in the bushes. they was at it all the forenoon, and never a word about grandfather and aunt sabina. pinckney notices it, but he don't dare speak of it for fear he'll break the spell. about two he comes in with a telegram. "miss gertie's coming on the four o'clock train," says he, lookin' wild. "you don't act like you was much tickled," says i. "she's sure to find out what a muss i've made of things," says he. "the moment she gets here i expect the twins will start up that confounded rigmarole about grandfather and aunt sabina again. oh, i can hear them doing it!" i let it go at that. but while he's away at the station the kitchen talk breaks loose. the cook and two maids calls for aunt mary, tells her what they think of a place that has canned spooks in the parlour, and starts for the trolley. aunt mary gets her bonnet on and has her trunks lugged down on the front porch. that's the kind of a reception we has for miss gertrude and her mother when they show up. "anything particular the matter?" whispers pinckney to me, as he hands the guests out of the carriage. "nothin' much," says i. "me and snivens and the twins is left. the others have gone or are goin'." "what is the matter?" says miss gertie. "everything," says pinckney. "i've made a flat failure. shorty, you bring in the twins and we'll end this thing right now." well, i rounds up jack and jill, and after they've hugged miss gertie until her travelin' dress is fixed for a week at the cleaners', pinckney leads us all into the front room. the urns was there on the mantel; but the kids don't even give 'em a look. "come on, you young rascals!" says he, as desperate as if he was pleadin' guilty to blowin' up a safe. "tell miss gertrude about grandfather and aunt sabina." "oh," says jack, "they're out in the flower bed." "we fed 'em to the rose bushes," says jill. "we didn't like to lose 'em," says jack; "but pat needed the ashes." "it's straight goods," says i; "i was there." and say, when miss gertrude hears the whole yarn about the urns, and the trouble they've made pinckney, she stops laughin' and holds out one hand to him over jill's shoulder. "you poor boy!" says she. "didn't you ever read omar's-- "i sometimes think that never blows so red the rose, as where some buried cæsar bled'?" say, who was this duck omar? and what's that got to do with fertilisin' flower beds with the pulverised relations of your landladies? i give it up. all i know is that pinckney's had them jars refilled with a- wood ashes, that aunt mary managed to 'phone up a new set of help before mornin', and that when i left pinckney and miss gertie and the twins was' strollin' about, holdin' hands and lookin' to be havin' the time of their lives. domestic? say, a clear havana punko, made in connecticut, ain't in it with him. ix a line on peacock alley what's the use of travelin', when there's more fun stayin' home? scenery? say, the scenery that suits me best is the kind they keep lit up all night. there's a lot of it between th-st. and the park. folks? why, you stand on the corner of d and broadway long enough and you won't miss seein' many of 'em. they most all get here sooner or later. now, look at what happens last evenin'. i was just leanin' up against the street door, real comfortable and satisfied after a good dinner, when swifty joe comes down from the studio and says there's a party by the name of merrity been callin' me up on the 'phone. "merrity?" says i. "that sounds kind of joyous and familiar. didn't he give any letters for the front of it?" "nothin' but hank," says swifty. "oh, yes," says i, gettin' the clue. "what did hank have to say?" "said he was a friend of yours, and if you didn't have nothin' better on the hook he'd like to see you around the wisteria," says swifty. with that i lets loose a snicker. honest, i couldn't help it. "ah, chee!" says swifty. "is it a string, or not? i might get a laugh out of this myself." "yes, and then again you mightn't," says i. "maybe it'd bring on nothin' but a brain storm. you wait until i find out if it's safe to tell you." with that i starts down towards th-st to see if it was really so about hank merrity; for the last glimpse i got of him he was out in colorado, wearin' spurs and fringed buckskin pants, and lookin' to be as much of a fixture there as pike's peak. it was while i was trainin' for one of my big matches, that i met up with hank. we'd picked out bedelia for a camp. you've heard of bedelia? no? then you ought to study the map. anyway, if you'd been followin' the sportin' news reg'lar a few years back, you'd remember. there was a few days about that time when more press despatches was filed from bedelia than from washington. and the pictures that was sent east; "shorty ropin' steers"--"mr. mccabe swingin' a bronco by the tail," and all such truck. you know the kind of stuff them newspaper artists strains their imaginations on. course, i was too busy to bother about what they did to me, and didn't care, anyway. but it was different with hank. oh, they got him too! you see, he had a ranch about four miles north of our camp, and one of my reg'lar forenoon stunts was to gallop up there, take a big swig of mountain spring water--better'n anything you can buy in bottles--chin a few minutes with hank and the boys, and then dog trot it back. that was how the boss of merrity's ranch came to get his picture in the sportin' page alongside of a diagram of the four different ways i had of peelin' a boiled potato. them was the times when i took my exercise with a sportin' editor hangin' to each elbow, and fellows with drawin' pads squattin' all over the place. just for a josh i lugged one of the papers that had a picture of hank up to the ranch, expectin' when he saw it, he'd want to buckle on his guns and start down after the gent that did it. you couldn't have blamed him much if he had; for hank's features wa'n't cut on what you might call classic lines. he looked more like a copy of an old master that had been done by a sign painter on the side of a barn. not that he was so mortal homely, but his colour scheme was kind of surprisin'. his complexion was a shade or two lighter than a new saddle, except his neck, which was a flannel red, with lovely brown speckles on it; and his eyes was sort of buttermilk blue, with eyebrows that you had to guess at. his chief decoration though, was a lip whisker that was a marvel--one of these ginger coloured droopers that took root way down below his mouth corners and looked like it was there to stay. but up on the ranch and down in bedelia i never heard anyone pass remarks on hank merrity's looks. he wa'n't no bad man either, but as mild and gentle a beef raiser as you'd want to see. he seemed to be quite a star among the cow punchers, and after i'd got used to his peculiar style of beauty i kind of took to him, too. the picture didn't r'ile him a bit. he sat there lookin' at it for a good five minutes without sayin' a word, them buttermilk eyes just starin', kind of blank and dazed. then he looks up, as pleased as a kid, and says, "wall, i'll be cussed! mighty slick, ain't it?" next he hollers for reney--that was mrs. merrity. she was a good sized, able bodied wild rose, reney was; not such a bad looker, but a little shy on style. a calico wrapper with the sleeves rolled up, a lot of crinkly brown hair wavin' down her back, and an old pair of carpet slippers on her feet, was reney's mornin' costume. i shouldn't wonder but what it did for afternoon and evenin' as well. mrs. merrity was more tickled with the picture than hank. she stared from the paper to him and back again, actin' like she thought hank had done somethin' she ought to be proud of, but couldn't exactly place. "sho, hank!" says she. "i wisht they'd waited until you'd put on your sunday shirt and slicked up a little." he was a real torrid proposition when he did slick up. i saw him do it once, a couple of nights before i broke trainin', when they was goin' to have a dance up to the ranch. his idea of makin' a swell toilet was to take a hunk of sheep tallow and grease his boots clear to the tops. then he ducks his head into the horse trough and polishes the back of his neck with a bar of yellow soap. next he dries himself off on a meal sack, uses half a bottle of scented hair oil on his buffalo bill thatch, pulls on a striped gingham shirt, ties a red silk handkerchief around his throat, and he's ready to receive comp'ny. i didn't see mrs. merrity after she got herself fixed for the ball; but hank told me she was goin' to wear a shirt waist that she'd sent clear to kansas city for. oh, we got real chummy before i left. he came down to see me off the day i started for denver, and while we was waitin' for the train he told me the story of his life: how he'd been rustlin' for himself ever since he'd graduated from an orphan asylum in illinois; the different things he'd worked at before he learned the cow business; and how, when he'd first met reney slingin' crockery in a railroad restaurant, and married her on sight, they'd started out with a cash capital of one five-dollar bill and thirty-eight cents in change, to make their fortune. then he told me how many steers and yearlings he owned, and how much grazin' land he'd got inside of wire. "that's doin' middlin' well, ain't it?" says he. come to figure up, it was, and i told him i didn't see why he wa'n't in a fair way to find himself cuttin' into the grape some day. "it all depends on the jayhawker," says he. "i've got a third int'rest in that. course, i ain't hollerin' a lot about it yet, for it ain't much more'n a hole in the ground; but if they ever strike the yellow there maybe we'll come on and take a look at new york." "it's worth it," says i. "hunt me up when you do." "i shore will," says hank. "good luck!" and the last i see of him he was standin' there in his buckskin pants, gawpin' at the steam cars. now, i ain't been spendin' my time ever since wonderin' what was happenin' to hank. you know how it is. maybe i've had him in mind two or three times. but when i gets that 'phone message i didn't have any trouble about callin' up my last view of him. so, when it come to buttin' into a swell fifth-ave. hotel and askin' for hank merrity, i has a sudden spasm of bashfulness. it didn't last long. "if hank was good enough for me to chum with in bedelia," says i, "he ought to have some standin' with me here. there wa'n't anything i could have asked that he wouldn't have done for me out there, and i guess if he needs some one to show him where broadway is, and tell him to take his pants out of his boot tops, it's up to me to do it." just the same, when i gets up to the desk, i whispers it confidential to the clerk. if he'd come back with a hee-haw i wouldn't have said a word. i was expectin' somethin' of the kind. but never a chuckle. he don't even grin. "hank merrity?" says he, shakin' his head. "we have a guest here, though, by the name of henry merrity--mr. henry merrity." "that's him," says i. "all the henrys are hanks when you get west of omaha. where'll i find him?" i was hopin' he'd be up in his room, practisin' with' the electric light buttons, or bracin' himself for a ride down in the elevator; but there was no answer to the call on the house 'phone; so i has to wait while a boy goes out with my card on a silver tray, squeakin', "mister merrity! mis-ter merrity!" five minutes later i was towed through the palms into the turkish smokin' room, and the next thing i knew i was lined up in front of a perfect gent. say, if it hadn't been for them buttermilk eyes, you never could have made me believe it was him. honest, them eyes was all there was left of the hank merrity i'd known in bedelia. it wa'n't just the clothes, either, though he had 'em all on,--op'ra lid, four-button white vest, shiny shoes, and the rest,--it was what had happened to his face that was stunnin' me. the lip drooper had been wiped out--not just shaved off, mind you, but scrubbed clean. the russet colour was gone, too. he was as pink and white and smooth as a roastin' pig that's been scraped and sandpapered for a window display in a meat shop. you've noticed that electric light complexion some of our broadway rounders gets on? well, hank had it. even the neck freckles had got the magic touch. course, he hadn't been turned into any he venus, at that; but as he stood, costume and all, he looked as much a part of new york as the flatiron buildin'. and while i'm buggin' my eyes out and holdin' my mouth open, he grabs me by the hand and slaps me on the back. "why, hello, shorty! i'm mighty glad to see you. put 'er there!" says he. "gee!" says i. "then it's true! now i guess the thing for me to do is to own up to maude adams that i believe in fairies. hank, who did it?" "did what?" says he. "why, made your face over and put on the fifth-ave. gloss?" says i. "do i look it?" says he, grinnin'. "would i pass?" "pass!" says i. "hank, they could use you for a sign. lookin' as you do now, you could go to any one night stand in the country and be handed the new york papers without sayin' a word. what i want to know, though, is how it happened?" "happen?" says he. "shorty, such things don't come by accident. you buy 'em. you go through torture for 'em." "say, hank," says i, "you don't mean to say you've been up against the skinologists?" well, he had. they'd kept his face in a steam box by the hour, scrubbed him with pumice stone, electrocuted his lip fringe, made him wear a sleepin' mask, and done everything but peel him alive. "look at that for a paw!" says he. "ain't it lady-like?" it was. every fingernail showed the half moon, and the palm was as soft as a baby's. "you must have been makin' a business of it," says i. "how long has this thing been goin' on?" "nearly four months," says hank, heavin' a groan. "part of that time i put in five hours a day; but i've got 'em scaled down to two now. it's been awful, shorty, but it had to be done." "how was that?" says i. "on reney's account," says he. "she's powerful peart at savvyin' things, reney is. why, when we struck town i was wearin' a leather trimmed hat and eatin' with my knife, just as polite as i knew how. we hadn't been here a day before she saw that something was wrong. 'hank,' says she, 'this ain't where we belong. let's go back.'--'what for?' says i.--'shucks!' says she. 'can't you see? these folks are different from us. look at 'em!' well, i did, and it made me mad. 'reney,' says i,' i'll allow there is something wrong with us, but i reckon it ain't bone deep. there's such a thing as burnin' one brand over another, ain't there? suppose we give it a whirl?' that's what we done too, and i'm beginnin' to suspicion we've made good." "i guess you have, hank," says i; "but ain't it expensive? you haven't gone broke to do it, have you?" "broke!" says he, smilin'. "guess you ain't heard what they're takin' out of the jayhawker these days. why, i couldn't spend it all if i had four hands. but come on. let's find reney and go to a show, somewheres." course, seein' hank had kind of prepared me for a change in mrs. merrity; so i braces myself for the shock and tries to forget the wrapper and carpet slippers. but you know the kind of birds that roost along peacock alley? there was a double row of 'em holdin' down the arm chairs on either side of the corridor, and lookin' like a livin' exhibit of spring millinery. i tried hard to imagine reney in that bunch; but it was no go. the best i could do was throw up a picture of a squatty female in a kansas city shirt waist. and then, all of a sudden, we fetches up alongside a fairy in radium silk and lace, with her hair waved to the minute, and carryin' enough sparks to light up the subway. she was the star of the collection, and i nearly loses my breath when hank says: "reney, you remember shorty mccabe, don't you?" "ah, rully!" says she liftin' up a pair of gold handled eye glasses and takin' a peek. "chawmed to meet you again, mr. mccabe." "m-m-me too," says i. it was all the conversation i had ready to pass out. maybe i acted some foolish; but for the next few minutes i didn't do anything but stand there, sizin' her up and inspectin' the improvements. there hadn't been any half way business about her. if hank was a good imitation, mrs. merrity was the real thing. she was it. i've often wondered where they all came from, them birds of paradise that we see floatin' around such places; but now i've got a line on 'em. they ain't all raised in new york. it's pin spots on the map like bedelia that keeps up the supply. reney hadn't stopped with takin' courses at the beauty doctors and goin' the limit on fancy clothes. she'd been plungin' on conversation lessons, voice culture, and all kind of parlour tricks. she'd been keepin' her eyes and ears open too, takin' her models from real life; and the finished product was somethin' you'd say had never been west of broadway or east of fourth-ave. as for her ever doin' such a thing as juggle crockery, it was almost a libel to think of it. "like it here in town, do you?" says i, firin' it at both of 'em. "like it!" says hank. "see what it's costin' us. we got to like it." she gives him a look that must have felt like an icicle slipped down his neck. "certainly we enjoy new york," says she. "it's our home, don'cha know." "gosh!" says i. i didn't mean to let it slip out, but it got past me before i knew. mrs. merrity only raises her eyebrows and smiles, as much as to say, "oh, what can one expect?" that numbs me so much i didn't have life enough to back out of goin' to the theatre with 'em, as hank had planned. course, we has a box, and it wasn't until she'd got herself placed well up in front and was lookin' the house over through the glasses that i gets a chance for a few remarks with hank. "is she like that all the time now?" i whispers. "you bet!" says he. "don't she do it good?" say, there wa'n't any mistakin' how the act hit hank. "you ought to see her with her op'ra rig on, though--tiara, and all that," says he. "go reg'lar?" says i. "tuesdays and fridays," says he. "we leases the box for them nights." that gets me curious to know how they puts in their time, so i has him give me an outline. it was something like this: coffee and rolls at ten-thirty a. m.; hair dressers, manicures, and massage artists till twelve-thirty; drivin' in the brougham till two; an hour off for lunch; more drivin' and shoppin' till five; nap till six; then the maids and valets and so on to fix 'em up for dinner; theatre or op'ra till eleven; supper at some swell café; and the pillows about two a. m. then the curtain goes up for the second act, and i see hank had got his eyes glued on the stage. as we'd come late, i hadn't got the hang of the piece before, but now i notices it's one of them gunless wild west plays that's hit broadway so hard. it was a breezy kind of a scene they showed up. to one side was an almost truly log cabin, with a tin wash basin hung on a nail just outside the front door and some real firewood stacked up under the window. off up the middle was mountains piled up, one on top of the other, clear up into the flies. the thing didn't strike me at first, until i hears hank dig up a sigh that sounds as if it started from his shoes. then i tumbles. this stage settin' was almost a dead ringer for his old ranch out north of bedelia. in a minute in comes a bunch of stage cowboys. they was a lot cleaner lookin' than any i ever saw around merrity's, and some of 'em was wearin' misfit whiskers; but barrin' a few little points like that they fitted into the picture well enough. next we hears a whoop, and in bounces the leadin' lady, rigged out in beaded leggin's, knee length skirt, leather coat, and shy ann hat, with her red hair flyin' loose. say, i'm a good deal of a come-on when it comes to the ranch business, but i've seen enough to know that if any woman had showed up at merrity's place in that costume the cow punchers would have blushed into their hats and took for the timber line. i looks at hank, expectin' to see him wearin' a grin; but he wa'n't. he's 'most tarin' his eyes out, lookin' at them painted mountains and that four-piece log cabin. and would you believe it, mrs. merrity was doin' the same! i couldn't see that either of 'em moved durin' the whole act, or took their eyes off that scenery, and when the curtain goes down they just naturally reaches out and grips each other by the hand. for quite some time they didn't say a word. then reney breaks the spell. "you noticed it, didn't you, hank?" says she. "couldn't help it, reney!" says he huskily. "i expect the old place is looking awful nice, just about now," she goes on. hank was swallowin' hard just then, so all he could do was nod, and a big drop of brine leaks out of one of them buttermilk blue eyes. reney saw it. "hank," says she, still grippin' his hand and talkin' throaty--"let's quit and go back!" say, maybe you never heard one of them flannel shirts call the cows home from the next county. a lot of folks who'd paid good money to listen to a weak imitation was treated to the genuine article. "we-e-e-ough! glory be!" yells hank, jumpin' up and knockin' over a chair. [illustration: "we--e--e--ough! glory be!" yells hank, lettin' out an earsplitter] it was an ear splitter, that was. inside of a minute there was a special cop and four ushers makin' a rush for the back of our box. "here, here now!" says one. "you'll have to leave." "leave!" says hank. "why, gol durn you white faced tenderfeet, you couldn't hold us here another minute with rawhide ropes! come on, reney; maybe there's a night train!" they didn't go quite so sudden as all that. reney got him to wait until noon next day, so she could fire a few maids and send a bale or so of paris gowns to the second hand shop; but they made me sit up till 'most mornin' with 'em, while they planned out the kind of a ranch de luxe they was goin' to build when they got back to bedelia. as near as i could come to it, there was goin' to be four chinese cooks always standin' ready to fry griddle cakes for any neighbours that might drop in, a dance hall with a floor of polished mahogany, and not a bath tub on the place. what they wanted was to get back among their old friends, put on their old clothes, and enjoy themselves in their own way for the rest of their lives. x shorty and the stray say, i don't know whether i'll ever get to be a reg'lar week-ender or not, but i've been makin' another stab at it. what's the use ownin' property in the country house belt if you don't use it now and then? so last saturday, after i shuts up the studio, i scoots out to my place in primrose park. well, i puts in the afternoon with dennis whaley, who's head gardener and farm superintendent, and everything else a three-acre plot will stand for. then, about supper time, as i'm just settlin' myself on the front porch with my heels on the stoop rail, wonderin' how folks can manage to live all the time where nothin' ever happens, i hears a chug-chuggin', and up the drive rolls a cute little one-seater bubble, with nobody aboard but a boston terrier and a boy. "chee!" thinks i, "they'll be givin' them gasolene carts to babies next. wonder what fetches the kid in here?" maybe he was a big ten or a small twelve; anyway, he wa'n't more. he's one of these fine haired, light complected youngsters, that a few years ago would have had yellow fauntleroy curls, and been rigged out in a lace collar and a black velvet suit, and had a nurse to lead him around by the hand. but the new crop of young astergould thickwads is bein' trained on different lines. this kid was a good sample. his tow coloured hair is just long enough to tousle nice, and he's bare headed at that. then he's got on corduroy knickers, a khaki jacket, black leather leggin's, and gauntlet gloves, and he looks almost as healthy as if he was poor. "hello, youngster!" says i. "did you lose the shuffer overboard?" "beg pardon," says he; "but i drive my own machine." "oh!" says i. "i might have known by the costume." by this time he's standin' up with his hand to his ear, squintin' out through the trees to the main road, like he was listenin' for somethin'. in a second he hears one of them big six-cylinder cars go hummin' past, and it seems to be what he was waitin' for. "goin' to stop, are you?" says i. "thank you," says he, "i will stay a little while, if you don't mind," and he proceeds to shut off the gasolene and climb out. the dog follows him. "givin' some one the slip?" says i. "oh, no," says he real prompt. "i--i've been in a race, that's all." "ye-e-es?" says i. "had a start, didn't you?" "a little," says he. with that he sits down on the steps, snuggles the terrier up alongside of him, and begins to look me and the place over careful, without sayin' any more. course, that ain't the way boys usually act, unless they've got stage fright, and this one didn't seem at all shy. as near as i could guess, he was thinkin' hard, so i let him take his time. i figures out from his looks, and his showin' up in a runabout, that he's come from some of them big country places near by, and that when he gets ready he'll let out what he's after. sure enough, pretty soon he opens up. "wouldn't you like to buy the machine, sir?" says he. "selling out, are you?" says i. "well, what's your askin' price for a rig of that kind?" he sizes me up for a minute, and then sends out a feeler. "would five dollars be too much?" "no," says i, "i shouldn't call that a squeeze, providin' you threw in the dog." he looks real worried then, and hugs the terrier up closer than ever. "i couldn't sell togo," says he. "you--you wouldn't want him too, would you?" when i sees that it wouldn't take much more to get them big blue eyes of his to leakin', i puts him easy on the dog question. "but what's your idea of sellin' the bubble?" says i. "why," says he, "i won't need it any longer. i'm going to be a motorman on a trolley car." "that's a real swell job," says i. "but how will the folks at home take it?" "the folks at home?" says he, lookin' me straight in the eye. "why, there aren't any. i haven't any home, you know." honest, the way he passed out that whopper was worth watchin'. it was done as cool and scientific as a real estate man takin' oath there wa'n't a mosquito in the whole county. "then you're just travelin' around loose, eh?" says i. "where'd you strike from to-day?" "chicago," says he. "do tell!" says i. "that's quite a day's run. you must have left before breakfast." "i had breakfast early," says he. "dinner in buffalo?" says i. "i didn't stop for dinner," says he. "in that case--er--what's the name?" says i. "mister smith," says he. "easy name to remember," says i. "ye-e-es. i'd rather you called me gerald, though," says he. "good," says i. "well, gerald, seein' as you've made a long jump since breakfast, what do you say to grubbin' up a little with me, eh?" that strikes him favourable, and as mother whaley is just bringin' in the platter, we goes inside and sits down, togo and all. he sure didn't fall to like a half starved kid; but maybe that was because he was so busy lookin' at mrs. whaley. she ain't much on the french maid type, that's a fact. her uniform is a checked apron over a faded red wrapper, and she has a way of puggin' her hair up in a little knob that makes her face look like one of the kind they cut out of a cocoanut. gerald eyes her for a while; then he leans over to me and whispers, "is this the butler's night off?" "yes," says i. "he has seven a week. this is one of 'em." after he's thought that over he grins. "i see," says he. "you means you haven't a butler? why, i thought everyone did." "there's a few of us struggles along without," says i. "we don't brag about it, though. but where do you keep your butler now, mr. gerald?" that catches him with his guard down, and he begins to look mighty puzzled. "oh, come," says i, "you might's well own up. you've brought the runaway act right down to the minute, son; but barrin' the details, it's the same old game. i done the same when i was your age, only instead of runnin' off in a thousand-dollar bubble, i sneaked into an empty freight car." "did you?" says he, his eyes openin' wide. "was it nice, riding in the freight car?" "never had so much fun out of a car ride since," says i. "but i was on the war path then. my outfit was a blank cartridge pistol, a scalpin' knife hooked from the kitchen, and a couple of nickel lib'ries that told all about injun killin'. don't lay out to slaughter any redskins, do you?" he looks kind of weary, and shakes his head. "well, runnin' a trolley car has its good points, i s'pose," says i; "but i wouldn't tackle it for a year or so if i was you. you'd better give me your 'phone number, and i'll ring up the folks, so they won't be worryin' about you." but say, this gerald boy, alias mr. smith, don't fall for any smooth talk like that. he just sets his jaws hard and remarks, quiet like, "i guess i'd better be going." "where to?" says i. "new haven ought to be a good place to sell the machine," says he. "i can get a job there too." at that i goes to pumpin' him some more, and he starts in to hand out the weirdest line of yarns i ever listened to. maybe he wa'n't a very skilful liar, but he was a willin' one. quick as i'd tangle him up on one story, he'd lie himself out and into another. he accounts for his not havin' any home in half a dozen different ways, sometimes killin' off his relations one by one, and then bunchin' 'em in a railroad wreck or an earthquake. but he sticks to chicago as the place where he lived last, although the nearest he can get to the street number is by sayin' it was somewhere near central park. "that happens to be in new york," says i. "there are two in chicago," says he. "all right, gerald," says i. "i give up. we'll let it go that you're playin' a lone hand; but before you start out again you'd better get a good night's rest here. what do you say?" he didn't need much urgin'; so we runs the bubble around into the stable, and i tucks him and togo away together in the spare bed. "who's the little lad?" says dennis to me. "for one thing," says i, "he's an honourary member of the ananias club. if i can dig up any more information between now and mornin', dennis, i'll let you know." first i calls up two or three village police stations along the line; but they hadn't had word of any stray kid. "that's funny," thinks i. "if he'd lived down in hester-st., there'd be four thousand cops huntin' him up by this time." but it wa'n't my cue to do the frettin'; so i lets things rest as they are, only takin' a look at the kid before i turns in, to see that he was safe. and say, that one look gets me all broke up; for when i tiptoes in with the candle i finds that pink and white face of his all streaked up with cryin', and he has one arm around togo, like he thought that terrier was all the friend he had left. gee! but that makes me feel mean! why, if i'd known he was goin' to blubber himself to sleep that way, i'd hung around and cheered him up. he'd been so brash about this runaway business, though, that i never suspicioned he'd go to pieces the minute he was left alone. and they look different when they're asleep, don't they? i guess i must have put in the next two hours' wonderin' how it was that a nice, bright youngster like that should come to quit home. if he'd come from some tenement house, where it was a case of pop bein' on the island, and maw rushin' the can and usin' the poker on him, you wouldn't think anything of it. but here he has his bubble, and his high priced terrier, and things like that, and yet he does the skip. well, there wa'n't any answer. not hearin' him stirrin' when i gets up in the mornin', i makes up my mind to let him snooze as long as he likes. so i has breakfast and goes out front with the mornin' papers. it got to be after nine o'clock, and i was just thinkin' of goin' up to see how he was gettin' on, when i sees a big green tourin' car come dashin' down into the park and turn into my front drive. there was a crowd in it; but, before i can get up, out flips a stunnin' lookin' bunch of dry goods, all veils and silk dust coat, and wants to know if i'm shorty mccabe: which i says i am. "then you have my boy here, have you?" she shoots out. and, say, by the suspicious way she looks at me, you'd thought i'd been breakin' into some nursery. i'll admit she was a beaut, all right; but the hard look i gets from them big black eyes didn't win me for a cent. "maybe if i knew who you was, ma'am," says i, "we'd get along faster." that don't soothe her a bit. she gives me one glare, and then whirls around and shouts to a couple of tough lookin' bruisers that was in the car. "quick!" she sings out. "watch the rear and side doors. i'm sure he's here." and the mugs pile out and proceed to plant themselves around the house. "sa-a-ay," says i, "this begins to look excitin'. is it a raid, or what? who are the husky boys?" "those men are in my employ," says she. "private sleut's?" says i. "they are," says she, "and if you'll give up the boy without any trouble i will pay you just twice as much as you're getting to hide him. i'm going to have him, anyway." "well, well!" says i. and say, maybe you can guess by that time i was feelin' like it was a warm day. if i'd had on a celluloid collar, it'd blown up. inside of ten seconds, i've shucked my coat and am mixin' it with the plug that's guardin' the side door. the doin's was short and sweet. he's no sooner slumped down to feel what's happened to his jaw than no. come up. he acts like he was ambitious to do damage, but the third punch leaves him on the grass. then i takes each of 'em by the ear, leads 'em out to the road, and gives 'em a little leather farewell to help 'em get under way. "sorry to muss your hired help, ma'am," says i, comin' back to the front stoop; "but this is one place in the country where private detectives ain't wanted. and another thing, let's not have any more talk about me bein' paid. if there's anyone here belongin' to you, you can have him and welcome; but cut out the hold up business and the graft conversation. now again, what's the name?" she was so mad she was white around the lips; but she's one of the kind that knows when she's up against it, too. "i am mrs. rutgers greene," says she. "oh, yes," says i. "from down on the point?" "mr. greene lives at orienta point, i believe," says she. now that was plain enough, wa'n't it? you wouldn't think i'd need postin' on what they was sayin' at the clubs, after that. but these high life break-aways are so common you can't keep track of all of 'em, and she sprung it so offhand that i didn't more'n half tumble to what she meant. "i suppose i may have gerald now?" she goes on. "sure," says i. "i'll bring him down." and as i skips up the stairs i sings out, "hey, mr. smith! your maw's come for you!" there was nothin' doin', though. i knocks on the door, and calls again. next i goes in. and say, it wa'n't until i'd pawed over all the clothes, and looked under the bed and into the closet, that i could believe it. he must have got up at daylight, slipped down the back way in his stockin' feet, and skipped. the note on the wash stand clinches it. it was wrote kind of wobbly, and the spellin' was some streaked; but there wa'n't any mistakin' what he meant. he was sorry he had to tell so many whoppers, but he wa'n't ever goin' home any more, and he was much obliged for my tip about the freight car. maybe my jaw didn't drop. "thick head!" says i, catchin' sight of myself in the bureau glass. "you would get humorous!" when i goes back down stairs i find mrs. greene pacin' the porch. "well?" says she. i throws up my hands. "skipped," says i. "do you mean to say he has gone?" she snaps. "that's the size of it," says i. "then this is rutgers's work. oh, the beast!" and she begins stampin' her foot and bitin' her lips. "that's where you're off," says i; "this is a case of----" but just then another big bubble comes dashin' up, with four men in it, and the one that jumps out and joins us is the main stem of the fam'ly. i could see that by the way the lady turns her back on him. he's a clean cut, square jawed young feller, and by the narrow set of his eyes and the sandy colour of his hair you could guess he might be some obstinate when it came to an argument. but he begins calm enough. "i'm rutgers greene," says he, "and at the police station they told me gerald was here. i'll take charge of him, if you please." "have you brought a bunch of sleut's too?" says i. he admits that he has. "then chase 'em off the grounds before i has another mental typhoon," says i. "shoo 'em!" "if they're not needed," says he, "and you object to----" "i do," says i. so he has his machine run out to the road again. "now," says i, "seein' as this is a family affair----" "i beg pardon," puts in greene; "but you hardly understand the situation. mrs. greene need not be consulted at all." "i've as much right to gerald as you have!" says she, her eyes snappin' like a trolley wheel on a wet night. "we will allow the courts to decide that point," says he, real frosty. "i don't want to butt in on any tender little domestic scene," says i; "but if i was you two i'd find the kid first. he's been gone since daylight." "gone!" says greene. "where?" "there's no tellin' that," says i. "all i know is that when he left here he was headed for the railroad track, meanin' to jump a freight train and----" "the railroad!" squeals mrs. greene. "oh, he'll be killed! oh, gerald! gerald!" greene don't say a word, but he turns the colour of a slice of swiss cheese. "oh, what can we do?" says the lady, wringin' her hands. "any of them detectives of yours know the kid by sight?" says i. they didn't. neither did greene's bunch. they was both fresh lots. "well," says i, "i'll own up that part of this is up to me, and i won't feel right until i've made a try to find him. i'm goin' to start now, and i don't know how long i'll be gone. from what i've seen i can guess that this cottage will be a little small for you two; but if you're anxious to hear the first returns, i'd advise you to stay right here. so long!" and with that i grabs my hat and makes a dash out the back way, leavin' 'em standin' there back to back. i never tracked a runaway kid along a railroad, and i hadn't much notion of how to start; but i makes for the rock ballast just as though i had the plan all mapped out. the first place i came across was a switch tower, and i hadn't chinned the operators three minutes before i gets on to the fact that an east bound freight usually passed there about six in the mornin', and generally stopped to drill on the siding just below. that was enough to send me down the track; but there wa'n't any traces of the kid. "new haven for me, then," says i, and by good luck i catches a local. maybe that was a comfortable ride, watchin' out of the rear window for somethin' i was hopin' i wouldn't see! and when it was over i hunts up the yard master and finds the freight i was lookin' for was just about due. "expectin' a consignment?" says he. "yes," says i. "i'm a committee of one to receive a stray kid." "oh, that's it, eh?" says he. "we get 'em 'most every week. i'll see that you have a pass to overhaul the empties." after i'd peeked into about a dozen box cars, and dug up nothin' more encouraging than a couple of boozy 'boes, i begun to think my calculations was all wrong. i was just slidin' another door shut when i notices a bundle of somethin' over in the far corner. i had half a mind not to climb in; for it didn't look like anything alive, but i takes a chance at it for luck, and the first thing i hears is a growl. the next minute i has togo by the collar and the kid up on my arm. it was gerald, all right, though he was that dirty and rumpled i hardly knew him. he just groans and grabs hold of me like he was afraid i was goin' to get away. why, the poor little cuss was so beat out and scared i couldn't get a word from him for half an hour. but after awhile i coaxed him to sit up on a stool and have a bite to eat, and when i've washed off some of the grime, and pulled out a few splinters from his hands, we gets a train back. first off i thought i'd 'phone mr. and mrs. greene, but then i changes my mind. "maybe it'll do 'em good to wait," thinks i. we was half way back when gerald looks up and says, "you won't take me home, will you?" "what's the matter with home, kid?" says i. "well," says he, and i could see by the struggle he was havin' with his upper lip that it was comin' out hard, "mother says father isn't a nice man, and father says i mustn't believe what she says at all, and--and--i don't think i like either of them well enough to be their little boy any more. i don't like being stolen so often, either." "stolen!" says i. "yes," says he. "you see, when i'm with father, mother is always sending men to grab me up and take me off where she is. then father sends men to get me back, and--and i don't believe i've got any real home any more. that's why i ran away. wouldn't you?" "kid," says i, "i ain't got a word to say." he was too tired and down in the mouth to do much conversing either. all he wants is to curl up with his head against my shoulder and go to sleep. after he wakes up from his nap he feels better, and when he finds we're goin' back to my place he gets quite chipper. all the way walkin' up from the station i tries to think of how it would be best to break the news to him about the grand household scrap that was due to be pulled off the minute we shows up. i couldn't do it, though, until we'd got clear to the house. "now, youngster," says i, "there's a little surprise on tap for you here, i guess. you walk up soft and peek through the door." for a minute i thought maybe they'd cleared out, he was so still about it, so i steps up to rubber, too. and there's mr. and mrs. rutgers greene, sittin' on the sofa about as close as they could get, her weepin' damp streaks down his shirt front, and him pattin' her back hair gentle and lovin'. "turn off the sprayer!" says i. "here's the kid!" well, we was all mixed up for the next few minutes. they hugs gerald both to once, and then they hugs each other, and if i hadn't ducked just as i did i ain't sure what would have happened to me. when i comes back, half an hour later, all i needs is one glance to see that a lot of private sleut's and court lawyers is out of a job. "shorty," says greene, givin' me the hearty grip, "i don't know how i'm ever goin' to----" "ah, lose it!" says i. "it was just by a fluke i got on the job, anyway. that's a great kid of yours, eh?" did i say anything about primrose park bein' a place where nothin' ever happened? well, you can scratch that. xi when rossiter cut loose as a general thing i don't go much on looks, but i will say that i've seen handsomer specimens than rossiter. he's got good height, and plenty of reach, with legs branchin' out just under his armpits--you know how them clothespin fellers are built--but when you finish out the combination with pop eyes and a couple of overhangin' front teeth-- well, what's the use? rossy don't travel on his shape. he don't have to, with popper bossin' a couple of trunk lines. when he first begun comin' to the studio i sized him up for a soft boiled, and wondered how he could stray around town alone without havin' his shell cracked. took me some time, too, before i fell to the fact that rossy was wiser'n he looked; but at that he wa'n't no knowledge trust. just bein' good natured was rossy's long suit. course, he couldn't help grinnin'; his mouth is cut that way. there wa'n't any mistakin' the look in them wide set eyes of his, though. that was the real article, the genuine i'll-stand-for-anything kind. say, you could spring any sort of a josh on rossy, and he wouldn't squeal. he was one of your shy violets, too. mostly he played a thinkin' part, and when he did talk, he didn't say much. after you got to know 'him real well, though, and was used to the way he looked, you couldn't help likin' rossiter. i'd had both him and the old man as reg'lars for two or three months, and it's natural i was more or less chummy with them. so when rossy shows up here the other mornin' and shoves out his proposition to me, i don't think nothin' of it. "shorty," says he, kind of flushin' up, "i've got a favour to ask of you." "you're welcome to use all i've got in the bank," says i. "it isn't money," says he, growin' pinker. "oh!" says i, like i was a lot surprised. "your usin' the touch preamble made me think it was. what's the go?" "i--i can't tell you just now," says he; "but i'd like your assistance in a little affair, about eight o'clock this evening. where can i find you?" "sounds mysterious," says i. "you ain't goin' up against any canfield game; are you?" "oh, i assure----" he begins. "that's enough," says i, and i names the particular spot i'll be decoratin' at that hour. "you won't fail?" says he, anxious. "not unless an ambulance gets me," says i. well, i didn't go around battin' my head all the rest of the day, tryin' to think out what it was rossiter had on the card. somehow he ain't the kind you'd look for any hot stunts from. if i'd made a guess, maybe i'd said he wanted me to take him and a college chum down to a chop suey joint for an orgy on li-chee nuts an' weak tea. so i wa'n't fidgetin' any that evenin', as i holds up the corner of nd-st., passin' the time of day with the rounds, and watchin' the harlem folks streak by to the roof gardens. right on the tick a hansom fetches up at the curb, and i sees rossiter givin' me the wig-wag to jump in. "you're runnin' on sked," says i. "where to now?" "i think your studio would be the best place," says he, "if you don't mind." i said i didn't, and away we goes around the corner. as we does the turn i sees another cab make a wild dash to get in front, and, takin' a peek through the back window, i spots a second one followin'. "are we part of a procession?" says i, pointin' 'em out to him. he only grins and looks kind of sheepish. "that's the regular thing nowadays," says he. "what! tin badgers?" says i. he nods. "they made me rather nervous at first," he says; "but after i'd been shadowed for a week or so i got used to it, and lately i've got so i would feel lost without them. to-night, though, they're rather a nuisance. i thought you might help me to throw them off the track." "but who set 'em on?" says i. "oh, it's father, i suppose," says he; not grouchy mind you, but kind of tired. "why, rossy!" says i. "i didn't think you was the sort that called for p. d. reports." "i'm not," says he. "that's just father's way, you know, when he suspects anything is going on that he hasn't been told about. he runs his business that way--has a big force looking into things all the time. and maybe some of them weren't busy; so he told them to look after me." well say! i've heard some tough things about the old man, but i never thought he'd carry a thing that far. why, there ain't any more sportin' blood in rossiter than you'd look for in a ribbon clerk. outside of the little ladylike boxin' that he does with me, as a liver regulator, the most excitin' fad of his i ever heard of was collectin' picture postals. now, i generally fights shy of mixin' up in family affairs, but someway or other i just ached to take a hand in this. "rossy," says i, "you're dead anxious to hand the lemon to them two sleut's; are you?" he said he was. "and your game's all on the straight after that, is it?" i says. "'pon my honour, it is," says he. "then count me in," says i. "i ain't never had any love for them sneak detectives, and here's where i gives 'em a whirl." but say, they're a slippery bunch. they must have known just where we was headin', for by the time we lands on the sidewalk in front of the physical culture parlours, the man in the leadin' cab has jumped out and faded. "he will be watching on the floor above," says rossiter, "and the other one will stay below." "that's the way they work it, eh?" says i. "good! come on in without lookin' around or lettin' 'em know you're on." we goes up to the second floor and turns on the glim in the front office. then i puts on a pair of gym. shoes, opens the door easy, and tiptoes down the stairs. he was just where i thought he'd be, coverin' up in the shade of the vestibule. "caught with the goods on!" says i, reachin' out and gettin' a good grip on his neck. "no you don't! no gun play in this!" and i gives his wrist a crack with my knuckles that puts his shootin' arm out of business. "you're makin' a mistake," says he. "i'm a private detective." "you're a third rate yegg," says i, "and you've been nipped tryin' to pinch a rubber door mat." "here's my badge," says he. "anybody can buy things like that at a hock shop," says i. "you come along up stairs till i see whether or no it's worth while ringin' up a cop." he didn't want to visit, not a little bit, but i was behind, persuadin' him with my knee, and up he goes. "look at what the sneak thief business is comin' to," says i, standin' him under the bunch light where rossiter could get a good look at him. he was a shifty eyed low brow that you wouldn't trust alone in a room with a hot quarter. "my name is mcgilty," says he. "even if it wa'n't, you could never prove an alibi with that face," says i. "if this young gent'll 'phone to his father," he goes on, "he'll find that i'm all right." "don't you want us to call up teddy at oyster bay? or send for your old friend bishop potter? ah, say, don't i look like i could buy fly paper without gettin' stuck? sit down there and rest your face and hands." with that i chucks him into a chair, grabs up a hunk of window cord that i has for the chest weights, and proceeds to do the bundle wrapping act on him. course, he does a lot of talkin', tellin' of the things that'll happen to me if i don't let him go right off. "i'll cheerfully pay all the expenses of a damage suit, or fines, shorty," says rossiter. "forget it!" says i. "there won't be anything of the sort. he's lettin' off a little hot air, that's all. keep your eye on him while i goes after the other one." i collared number two squattin' on the skylight stairs. for a minute or so he put up a nice little muss, but after i'd handed him a swift one on the jaw he forgot all about fightin' back. "attempted larceny of a tarred roof for yours," says i. "come down till i give you the third degree." he didn't have a word to say; just held onto his face and looked ugly. i tied him up same's i had the other and set 'em face to face, where they could see how pretty they looked. then i led rossiter down stairs. "now run along and enjoy yourself," says i. "that pair'll do no more sleut'in' for awhile. i'll keep 'em half an hour, anyway, before i throws 'em out in the street." "i'm awfully obliged, shorty," says he. "don't mention it," says i. "it's been a pleasure."' that was no dream, either. say, it did me most as much good as a trip to coney, stringin' them trussed up keyhole gazers. "your names'll look nice in the paper," says i, "and when your cases come up at special sessions maybe your friends'll all have reserved seats. sweet pair of pigeon toed junk collectors, you are!" if they wa'n't sick of the trailin' business before i turned 'em loose, it wa'n't my fault. from the remarks they made as they went down the stairs i suspicioned they was some sore on me. but now and then i runs across folks that i'm kind of proud to have feel that way. private detectives is in that class. i was still on the grin, and thinkin' how real cute i'd been, when i hears heavy steps on the stairs, and in blows rossiter's old man, short of breath and wall eyed. "where's he gone?" says he. "which one?" says i. "why, that fool boy of mine!" says the old man. "i've just had word that he was here less than an hour ago." "you got a straight tip," says i. "well, where did he go from here?" says he. "i'm a poor guesser," says i, "and he didn't leave any word; but if you was to ask my opinion, i'd say that most likely he was behavin' himself, wherever he was." "huh!" growls the old man. "that shows how little you know about him. he's off being married, probably to some yellow haired chorus girl; that's where he is!" "what! rossy?" says i. honest, i thought the old man must have gone batty; but when he tells me the whole yarn i begins to feel like i'd swallowed a foolish powder. seems that rossiter's mother had been noticin' symptoms in him for some time; but they hadn't nailed anything until that evenin', when the chump butler turns in a note that he shouldn't have let go of until next mornin'. it was from rossiter, and says as how, by the time she reads that, he'll have gone and done it. "but how do you figure out that he's picked a squab for his'n?" says i. "because they're the kind that would be most likely to trap a young chuckle head like rossiter," says the old man. "it's what i've been afraid of for a long time. who else would be likely to marry him? come! you don't imagine i think he's an apollo, just because he's my son, do you? and don't you suppose i've found out, in all these years, that he hasn't sense enough to pound sand? but i can't stay here. i've got to try and stop it, before it's too late. if you think you can be of any help, you can come along." well say, i didn't see how i'd fit into a hunt of that kind; and as for knowin' what to do, i hadn't a thought in my head just then; but seein' as how i'd butted in, it didn't seem no more'n right that i should stay with the game. so i tags along, and we climbs into the old man's electric cab. "we'll go to dr. piecrust's first, and see if he's there," says he, "that being our church." well, he wa'n't. and they hadn't seen him at another minister's that the old man said rossy knew. "if she was an actorine," says i, "she'd be apt to steer him to the place where they has most of their splicin' done. why not try there?" "good idea!" says he, and we lights out hot foot for the little church around the corner. and say! talk about your long shots! as we piles out what should i see but the carrotty topped night hawk that'd had rossy and me for fares earlier in the evenin'. "you're a winner," says i to the old man. "it's a case of waitin' at the church. ten to one you'll find rossiter inside." it was a cinch. rossy was the first one we saw as we got into the anteroom. it wa'n't what you'd call a real affectionate meetin'. the old man steps up and eyes him for a minute, like a dyspeptic lookin' at a piece of overdone steak in a restaurant, and then he remarks: "what blasted nonsense is this, sir?" "why," says rossy, shiftin' from one foot to the other, and grinnin' foolisher'n i ever saw him grin before--"why, i just thought i'd get married, that's all." "that's all, eh?" says the old man, and you could have filed a saw with his voice. "sort of a happy inspiration of the moment, was it?" "well," says rossy, "not--not exactly that. i'd been thinking of it for some time, sir." "the deuce you say!" says the old man. "i--i didn't think you'd object," says rossy. "wow!" says the old man. he'd been holdin' in a long spell, for him, but then he just boiled over. "see here, you young rascal!" says he. "what do you mean by talking that way to me? didn't think i'd object! d'ye suppose i'm anxious to have all new york know that my son's been made a fool of? think your mother and i are aching to have one of these bleached hair chorus girls in the family? got her inside there, have you?" "yes, sir," says rossy. "well, bring her out here!" says the old man. "i've got something to say to her." "all right, sir," says rossy. if there ever was a time for throwin' the hooks into a parent, it was then. but he's as good humoured and quiet about it as though he'd just been handed a piece of peach pie. "i'll bring her right out," says he. when he comes in with the lady, the old man takes one look at her and almost loses his breath for good. "eunice may ogden!" says he. "why--why on earth didn't you say so before, rossy?" "oh, hush!" says the lady. "do be still! can't you see that we're right in the middle of an elopement?" never saw eunice may, did you? well, that's what you miss by not travellin' around with the swells, same as me. i had seen her. and say, she's somethin' of a sight, too! she's a prize pumpkin, eunice is. maybe she's some less'n seven feet in her lisle threads, but she looks every inch of it; and when it comes to curves, she has lillian russell pared to a lamp post. she'd be a good enough looker if she wa'n't such a whale. as twins, she'd be a pair of beauts, but the way she stands, she's most too much of a good thing. pinckney says they call her the ogden sinking fund among his crowd. i've heard 'em say that old man ogden, who's a little, dried up runt of about five feet nothin', has never got over bein' surprised at the size eunice has growed to. when she was about fourteen and weighed only a hundred and ninety odd, he and mother ogden figured a lot on marryin' eunice into the house of lords, like they did her sister, but they gave all that up when she topped the two hundred mark. standin' there with rossiter, they loomed up like a dime museum couple; but they was lookin' happy, and gazin' at each other in that mushy way--you know how. "say," says rossiter's old man, sizin' 'em up careful, "is it all true? do you think as much of one another as all that?" there wa'n't any need of their sayin' so; but rossy speaks up prompt for the only time in his life. he told how they'd been spoons on each other for more'n a year, but hadn't dared let on because they was afraid of bein' kidded. it was the same way about gettin' married. course, their bein' neighbours on the avenue, and all that, he must have known that the folks on either side wouldn't kick, but neither one of 'em had the nerve to stand for a big weddin', so they just made up their minds to slide off easy and have it all through before anyone had a chance to give 'em the jolly. "but now that you've found it out," says rossiter, "i suppose you'll want us to wait and----" "wait nothing!" says the old man, jammin' on his hat. "don't you wait a minute on my account. go ahead with your elopement. i'll clear out. i'll go up to the club and find ogden, and when you have had the knot tied good and fast, you come home and receive a double barrelled blessing." about that time the minister that they'd been waitin' for shows up, and before i knows it i've been rung in. well, say, it was my first whack playin' back stop at a weddin', and perhaps i put up a punk performance; but inside of half an hour the job was done. and of all the happy reunions i was ever lugged into, it was when rossiter's folks and the ogdens got together afterwards. they were so tickled to get them two freak left overs off their hands that they almost adopted me into both families, just for the little stunt i did in bilkin' them p. d.'s. xii two rounds with sylvie if it hadn't been for givin' chester a show to make a gallery play, you wouldn't have caught me takin' a bite out of the quince, the way i did the other night. but say, when a young sport has spent the best part of a year learnin' swings and ducks and footwork, and when fancy boxin's about all the stunt he's got on his program, it's no more'n right he should give an exhibition, specially if that's what he aches to do. and chester did have that kind of a longin'. "who are you plannin' to have in the audience, chetty?" says i. "why," says he, "there'll be three or four of the fellows up, and maybe some of the crowd that mother's invited will drop in too." "miss angelica likely to be in the bunch?" says i. chester pinks up at that and tries to make out he hadn't thought anything about angelica's bein' there at all. but i'd heard a lot about this particular young lady, and when i sees the colour on chester his plan was as clear as if the entries was posted on a board. "all right, chetty," says i; "have it any way you say. i'll be up early saturday night." so that's what i was doin' in the smoker on the five-nine, with my gym. suit and gaslight clothes in a kit bag up on the rack. just as they shuts the gates and gives the word to pull out, in strolls the last man aboard and piles in alongside of me. i wouldn't have noticed him special if he hadn't squinted at the ticket i'd stuck in the seat back, and asked if i was goin' to get off at that station. "i was thinkin' some of it when i paid my fare," says i. "ah!" says he, kind of gentle and blinkin' his eyes. "that is my station, too. might i trouble you to remind me of the fact when we arrive?" "sure," says i; "i'll wake you up." he gives me another blink, pulls a little readin' book out of his pocket, slumps down into the seat, and proceeds to act like he'd gone into a trance. say, i didn't need more'n one glimpse to size him up for a freak. the angora haircut was tag enough--reg'lar elbert hubbard thatch he was wearin', all fluffy and wavy, and just clearin' his coat collar. that and the artist's necktie, not to mention the eye glasses with the tortoise shell rims, put him in the self advertisin' class without his sayin' a word. outside of the frills, he wa'n't a bad lookin' chap, and sizable enough for a 'longshoreman, only you could tell by the lily white hands and the long fingernails that him and toil never got within speakin' distance. "wonder what particular brand of mollycoddle he is?" thinks i. now there wa'n't any call for me to put him through the catechism, just because he was headed for the same town i was; but somehow i had an itch to take a rise out of him. so i leans over and gets a peek at the book. "readin' po'try, eh?" says i, swallowin' a grin. "beg pardon?" says he, kind of shakin' himself together. "yes, this is poetry--swinburne, you know," and he slumps down again as if he'd said all there was to say. but when i starts out to be sociable you can't head me off that way. "like it?" says i. "why, yes," says he, "very much, indeed. don't you?" he thought he had me corked there; but i comes right back at him. "nix!" says i. "swinny's stuff always hit me as bein' kind of punk." "really!" says he, liftin' his eyebrows. "perhaps you have been unfortunate in your selections. now take this, from the anactoria----" and say, i got what was comin' to me then. he tears off two or three yards of it, all about moonlight and stars and kissin' and lovin', and a lot of gush like that. honest, it would give you an ache under your vest! "there!" says he. "isn't that beautiful imagery?" "maybe," says i. "guess i never happened to light on that part before." "but surely you are familiar with his madonna mia?" says he. "that got past me too," says i. "it's here," says he, speakin' up quick. "wait. ah, this is it!" and hanged if he don't give me another dose, with more love in it than you could get in a bushel of valentines, and about as much sense as if he'd been readin' the dictionary backwards. he does it well, though, just as if it all meant something; and me settin' there listenin' until i felt like i'd been doped. "say, i take it all back," says i when he lets up. "that swinny chap maybe ain't quite up to wallace irwin; but he's got ella wheeler pushed through the ropes. i've got to see a friend in the baggage car, though, and if you'll let me climb out past i'll speak to the brakeman about puttin' you off where you belong." "you're very kind," says he. "regret you can't stay longer." was that a josh, or what? anyway, i figures i'm gettin' off easy, for there was a lot more of that blamed book he might have pumped into me if i hadn't ducked. "never again!" says i to myself. "next time i gets curious i'll keep my mouth shut." i wa'n't takin' any chances of his holdin' me up on the station platform when we got off, either. i was the first man to swing from the steps, and i makes a bee line for the road leadin' out towards chester's place, not stoppin' for a hack. pretty soon who should come drivin' after me but curlylocks. he still has his book open, though; so he gets by without spottin' me, and i draws a long breath. by the time i'd hoofed over the two miles between the stations and where chester lives i'd done a lot of breathin'. it was quite some of a place to get to, one of these new-model houses, that wears the plasterin' on the outside and has a roof made of fancy drain pipe. it's balanced right on the edge of the rocks, with the whole of long island sound for a back yard and more'n a dozen acres of private park between it and the road. "gee!" says i to chester, "i should think this would be as lonesome as livin' in a lighthouse." "not with the mob that mother usually has around," says he. if the attendance that night was a sample, i guess he was right; for the bunch that answers the dinner gong would have done credit to a summer hotel. seems that chester's old man had been a sour, unsociable old party in his day, keepin' the fam'ly shut up in a thirty-foot-front city house that was about as cheerful as a tomb, and havin' comp'ny to dinner reg'lar once a year. but when he finally quit breathin', and the lawyers had pried the checkbook out of his grip, mother had sailed in to make up for lost time. it wasn't bridge and pink teas. she'd always had a hankerin' for minglin' with the high brows, and it was them she went gunnin' for,--anything from a college president down to lady novelists. anybody that could paint a prize picture, or break into print in the thirty-five-cent magazines, or get his name up as havin' put the scoop net over a new germ, could win a week of first class board from her by just sendin' in his card. but it was tough on chester, havin' that kind of a gang around all the time, clutterin' up the front hall with their extension grips and droppin' polysyllables in the soup. chetty's brow was a low cut. maybe he had a full set of brains; but he hadn't ever had to work 'em overtime, and he didn't seem anxious to try. about all the heavy thinkin' he did was when he was orderin' lunch at the club. but he was a big, full blooded, good natured young feller, and with the exercise he got around to the studio he kept in pretty good trim. how he ever come to get stuck on a girl like angelica, though, was more'n i could account for. she's one of these slim, big eyed, breathless, gushy sort of females; the kind that tends out on picture shows, and piano recitals, and hindu lectures. chester seems to have a bad case of it, though. "is she on hand to-night, chetty?" says i. he owns up that she was. "and say, shorty," says he, "i want you to meet her. come on, now. i've told her a lot about you." "that bein' the case," says i, "here's where angelica gets a treat," and we starts out to hunt for her, chester's plan bein' to make me the excuse for the boxin' exhibit. but angelica didn't seem to be so easy to locate. first we strikes the music room, where a heavy weight gent lately come over from warsaw is tearin' a thunder storm out of the southwest corner of the piano. the room was full of folks; but nary sign of the girl with the eyes. nor she wa'n't in the libr'y, where a four-eyed duck with a crop of rusty chin spinach was gassin' away about the sun spots, or something. say, there was 'most any kind of brain stimulation you could name bein' handed out in diff'rent parts of that house; but angelica wa'n't to any of 'em. it was just by accident, as we was takin' a turn around one of the verandas facin' the water, that, we runs across a couple camped down in a corner seat under a big palm. the girl in pink radium silk was angelica. and say, by moonlight she's a bunch' of honeysuckle! the other party was our old friend curlylocks, and i has to grin at the easy way he has of pickin' out the best looker in sight and leadin' her off where she wouldn't have to listen to anybody but him. he has the po'try tap turned on full blast, and the girl is listenin' as pleased as if she had never heard anything better in her life. [illustration: he has the po'try tap turned on full blast] "confound him!" says chester under his breath. "he's here again, is he?" "looks like this part of the house was gettin' crowded, chetty," says i. "let's back out." "hanged if i do!" says he, and proceeds to do the butt in act about as gentle as a truck horse boltin' through a show window. "oh, you're here, angelica!" he growls out. "i've been hunting all over the shop for you." "s-s-sh!" says angelica, holding up one finger and him off with the other hand. "yes, i see," says chester; "but----" "oh, please run away and don't bother!" says she. "that's a good boy, now chester." "oh, darn!" says chester. that was the best he could do too, for they don't even wait to see us start. angelica gives us a fine view of her back hair, and mr. curlylocks begins where he left off, and spiels away. it was a good deal the same kind of rot he had shoved at me on the train,--all about hearts and lovin' and so on,--only here he throws in business with the eyelashes, and seems to have pulled out the soft vocal stops. chester stands by for a minute, tryin' to look holes through 'em, and then he lets me lead him off. "now what do you think of that?" says he, makin' a face like he'd tasted something that had been too long in the can. "why," says i, "it's touchin', if true. who's the home destroyer with the vaseline voice and the fuzzy nut?" "he calls himself sylvan vickers," says chester. "he's a poet--a sappy, slushy, milk and water poet. writes stuff about birds and flowers and love, and goes around spouting it to women." "why," says i, "he peeled off a few strips for me, comin' up on the cars, and i though it was hot stuff." "honest, shorty," says chester, swallowin' the string as fast as i could unwind the ball, "you--you don't like that kind of guff, do you?" "oh, well," says i, "i don't wake up in the night and cry for it, and maybe i can worry along for the next century or so without hearin' any more; but he's sure found some one that does like it, eh?" there's no sayin' but what chester held himself in well; for if ever a man was entitled to a grouch, it was him. but he says mighty little, just walks off scowlin' and settin' his teeth hard. i knew what was good for that; so i hints that he round up his chappies and go down into the gym. to work it off. chetty's enthusiasm for mitt jugglin' has all petered out, though, and it's some time before i can make him see it my way. then we has to find his crowd, that was scattered around in the different rooms, lonesome and tired; so it's late in the evenin' before we got under way. chester and me have had a round or so, and he'd just wore out one of his friends and was tryin' to tease somebody else to put 'em on, when i spots a rubber neck in the back of the hall. "o-o-h, see who's here, chetty!" says i, whisperin' over his shoulder. it was our poet friend, that has had to give up angelica to her maw. he's been strayin' around loose, and has wandered in through the gym. doors by luck. now, chester may not have any mighty intellect, but there's times when he can think as quick as the next one. he takes one glance at curlylocks, and stiffens like a bird dog pointin' a partridge. "say," says he all excited, "do you suppose--could we get him to put them on?" "not if you showed you was so anxious as all that," says i. "then you ask him, shorty," he whispers. "i'll give a hundred for just one round--two hundred." "s-s-sh!" says i. "take it easy." ever see an old lady tryin' to shoo a rooster into a fence corner, while the old man waited around the end of the woodshed with the axe? you know how gentle and easy the trick has to be worked? well, that was me explainin' to curlylocks how we was havin' a little exercise with the kid pillows,--oh, just a little harmless tappin' back and forth, so's we could sleep well afterwards,--and didn't he feel like tryin' it for a minute with chester? smooth! some of that talk of mine would have greased an axle. sylvie, old boy, he blinks at me through his glasses, like a poll parrot sizin' up a firecracker that little jimmy wants to hand him. he don't say anything, but he seems some interested. he reaches out for one of the mitts and pokes a finger into the paddin', lookin' it over as if it was some kind of a curiosity. "reg'lar swan's down cushions," says i. "like to have you try a round or so, vickers," puts in chester, as careless as he could. "professor mccabe will show you how to put them on." "ah, really?" says curlylocks. then he has to step up and inspect chester's frame up. "that's the finish!" thinks i; for chetty's a well built boy, good and bunchy around the shoulders, and when he peels down to a sleeveless jersey he looks 'most as wicked as sharkey. but, just as we're expectin' curlylocks to show how wise he was, he throws out a bluff that leaves us gaspin' for breath. "do you know," says he, "if i was in the mood for that sort of thing, i'd be charmed; but--er----" "oh, fudge!" says chetty. "i expect you'd rather recite us some poetry?" and at that one of chester's chums snickers right out. sylvie flushes up like some one had slapped him on the wrist. "beg pardon," says he; "but i believe i will try it for a little while," and he holds out his paws for me to slip on the gloves. "better shed the parlour clothes," says i. "you're liable to get 'em dusty," which last tickles the audience a lot. he didn't want to peel off even his tuxedo; but jollies him into lettin' go of it, and partin' with his collar and white tie and eye glasses too. that was as far as he'd go, though. course, it was kind of a low down game to put up on anybody; but curlylocks wa'n't outclassed any in height, nor much in weight; and, seein' as how he'd kind of laid himself open to something of the sort, i didn't feel as bad as i might. all the time, chester was tryin' to keep the grin off his face, and his chums was most wearin' their elbows out nudgin' each other. "now," says i, when i've got curlylocks ready for the slaughter, "what'll it be--two-minute rounds?" "quite satisfactory," says sylvie; and chetty nods. "then let 'er go!" says i, steppin' back. one thing i've always coached chester on, was openin' lively. it don't make any difference whether the mitts are hard or soft, whether it's a go to a finish or a private bout for fun, there's no sense in wastin' the first sixty seconds in stirrin' up the air. the thing to do is to bore in. and chester didn't need any urgin'. he cuts loose with both bunches, landin' a right on the ribs and pokin' the left into the middle of sylvie's map; so sudden that mr. poet heaves up a grunt way from his socks. "ah, string it out, chetty," says i. "string it out, so's it'll last longer." but he's like a hungry kid with a hokypoky sandwich,--he wants to take it all at one bite. and maybe if i'd been as much gone on angelica as he was, and had been put on a siding for this moonlight po'try business, i'd been just as anxious. so he wades in again with as fine a set of half arm jolts as he has in stock. by this time sylvie has got his guard up proper, and is coverin' himself almost as good as if he knew how. he does it a little awkward; but somehow, chetty couldn't seem to get through. "give him the cross hook!" sings out one of the boys. chester tries, but it didn't work. then he springs another rush, and they goes around like a couple of pinwheels, with nothin' gettin' punished but the gloves. "time!" says i, and leads sylvie over to a chair. he was puffin' some, but outside of that he was as good as new. "good blockin', old man," says i. "you're doin' fine. keep that up and you'll be all right." "think so?" says he, reachin' for the towel. the second spasm starts off different. curlylocks seems to be more awake than he was, and the first thing we knows he's fiddlin' for an openin' in the good old fashioned way. "and there's where you lose out, son," thinks i. i hadn't got through thinkin' before things begun happenin'. sylvie seems to unlimber from the waist up, and his arms acted like he'd let out an extra link in 'em. funny i hadn't noticed that reach of his before. for a second or so he only steps around chester, shootin' out first one glove and then the other, and plantin' little love pats on different parts of him, as if he was locatin' the right spots. chetty don't like havin' his bumps felt of that way, and comes back with a left swing followed by an upper cut. they was both a little wild, and they didn't connect. that wa'n't the worst of it, though. before he's through with that foolishness sylvie turns them long arms of his into a rapid fire battery, and his mitts begin to touch up them spots he's picked out at the rate of about a hundred bull's eyes to the minute. it was bing--bing--bing--biff!--with chetty's arms swingin' wide, and his block rockin', and his breath comin' short, and his knees gettin' as wabbly as a new boy speakin' a piece. before i can call the round curlylocks has put the steam into a jaw punch that sends chester to the mat as hard as though he'd been dropped out of a window. "is--is it all over?" says chetty when he comes to, a couple of minutes later. "if you leave it to me," says i, "i should say it was; unless mr. what's-his-name here wants to try that same bunch of tricks on me. how about it?" "much obliged, professor," says curlylocks, givin' a last hitch to his white tie; "but i've seen you in the ring." "well," says i, "i've heard you recite po'try; so we're even. but say, you make a whole lot better showin' in my line than i would in yours, and if you ever need a backer in either, just call on me." we shakes hands on that; and then chetty comes to the front, man fashion, with his flipper out, too. that starts the reunion, and when i leaves 'em, about one a. m., the scotch and ginger ale tide was runnin' out fast. how about angelica? ah, say, next mornin' there shows up a younger, fresher, gushier one than she is, and inside of half an hour her and curlylocks is close together on a bench, and he's got the little book out again. angelica pines in the background for about three minutes before chester comes around with the tourin' car, and the last i see of 'em they was snuggled up together in the back of the tonneau. so i guess chetty don't need much sympathisin' with, even if he was passed a couple of lime drops. xiii giving bombazoula the hook maybe i was tellin' you something about them two rockin' chair commodores from the yacht club, that i've got on my reg'lar list? they're some of pinckney's crowd, you know, and that's just as good as sayin' they're more ornamental than useful. anyway, that description's a close fit for purdy. first off i couldn't stand for purdy at all. he's one of these natty, band box chappies, with straw coloured hair slicked down as smooth as if he'd just come up from a dive, and a costume that looks as if it might have been copied from a stained glass window. you've seen them symphonies in greys and browns, with everything matched up, from their shirt studs to their shoes buttons? now, i don't mind a man's bein' a swell dresser--i've got a few hot vests myself--but this tryin' to be a mr. pastelle is runnin' the thing into the ground. purdy could stand all the improvin' the tailor could hand him, though. his eyes was popped just enough to give him a continual surprised look, and there was more or less of his face laid out in nose. course, he wa'n't to blame for that; but just the same, when he gets to comin' to the studio twice a week for glove work and the chest weights, i passes him over to swifty joe. honest, i couldn't trust myself to hit around that nose proper. but swifty uses him right. them clothes of purdy's had got swifty goin', and he wouldn't have mussed him for a farm. after i'd got used to seein' purdy around, i didn't mind him so much myself. he seemed to be a well meanin', quiet, sisterly sort of a duck, one of the kind that fills in the corners at afternoon teas, and wears out three pairs of pumps every winter leadin' cotillions. you'll see his name figurin' in the society notes: how mrs. burgess jones gave a dinner dance at sherry's for the younger set, and the cotillion was led by mr. purdy bligh. say, how's that as a steady job for a grown man, eh? but so long as i'm treated square by anyone, and they don't try to throw any lugs around where i am, i don't feel any call to let 'em in on my private thoughts. so purdy and me gets along first rate; and the next thing i knows he's callin' me shorty, and bein' as glad to see me when he comes in as if i was one of his old pals. how you goin' to dodge a thing of that kind? and then, 'fore i knows what's comin', i'm right in the middle of this bombazoula business. it wa'n't anything i butted into on purpose, now you can take that straight. it was this way: i was doin' my reg'lar afternoon stroll up the avenue, not payin' much attention to anything in particular, when a cab pulls up at the curb, and i looks around, to see purdy leanin' over the apron and makin' motions at me with his cane. "hello!" says i. "have they got you strapped in so you can't get out?" "by jove!" says he, "i never thought of jumping out, you know. beg pardon, old man, for hailing you in that fashion, but----" "cut it!" says i. "i ain't so proud as all that. what's doin'?" "it's rather a rummy go," says he; "but where can i buy some snakes?" "that's rummy, all right," says i. "have you tried sendin' him to an institute?" "sending who?" says he. "oh!" says i. "i figured this was a snake cure, throwin' a scare into somebody, that you was plannin'." "oh, dear, no," says purdy. "they're for valentine. he's fond of snakes, you know--can't get along without them. but they must be big ones--spotted, rings around them, and all that." "gee!" says i. "vally's snake tastes must be educated 'way up! guess you'll have to give in your order down at lefty white's." "and where is that?" says he. "william street, near the bridge," says i. "don't you know about lefty's?" well, he didn't; hadn't ever been below the bridge on the east side in his life; and wouldn't i please come along, if i could spare the time. so i climbs in alongside purdy and the cane, and off we goes down town, at the rate of a dollar 'n' a half an hour. i hadn't got out more'n two questions 'fore purdy cuts loose with the story of his life. "it's almost the same as asking me to choose my lot in the cemetery," says he, "this notion of aunt isabella's for sending me out to buy snakes." "i thought it was valentine they was for?" says i. "where does he come in?" that fetches us to chapter one, which begins with aunt isabella. it seems that some time back, after she'd planted one hubby in ohio and another in greenwood, and had pinned 'em both down secure with cut granite slabs, aunty had let herself go for another try. this time she gets an englishman. he couldn't have been very tough, to begin with, for he didn't last long. neither did a brother of his; although you couldn't lay that up against isabella, as brother in law got himself run over by a train. about all he left was a couple of fourteen-year-old youngsters stranded in a boarding school. that was purdy and valentine, and they was only half brothers at that, with nobody that they could look up to for anything more substantial than sympathy. so it was up to the step-aunt to do the rescue act. well, isabella has accumulated all kinds of dough; but she figures out that the whole of one half brother was about all she wanted as a souvenir to take home from dear old england. she looks the two of 'em over for a day, tryin' to decide which to take, and then purdy's 'lasses coloured hair wins out against valentine's brick dust bangs. she finds a job for vally, a place where he can almost earn a livin', gives him a nice new prayer book and her blessin', and cuts him adrift in the fog. then she grabs purdy by the hand and catches the next boat for new york. from then on it's all to the downy for purdy, barrin' the fact that the old girl's more or less tryin' to the nerves. she buys herself a double breasted house just off the avenue, gives purdy the best there is goin', and encourages him to be as ladylike as he knows how. and say, what would you expect? i'd hate to think of what i'd be now if i'd been brought up on a course of dancin' school, music lessons, and fauntleroy suits. what else was there for purdy to do but learn to drink tea with lemon in it, and lead cotillions? aunt isabella's been takin' on weight and losin' her hearin'. when she gets so that she can't eat chicken salad and ice cream at one a. m. without rememberin' it for three days, and she has to buy pearls to splice out her necklace, and have an extra wide chair put in her op'ra box, she begins to sour on the merry-merry life, scratches half the entries on her visitin' list, and joins old lady societies that meet once a month in the afternoon. "of course," says purdy, "i had no objection to all that. it was natural. only after she began to bring anastasia around, and hint very plainly what she expected me to do, i began to get desperate." "stashy wa'n't exactly your idea of a pippin, eh?" says i. that was what. accordin' to purdy's shorthand notes, stashy was one of these square chinned females that ought to be doin' a weight liftin' act with some tent show. but she wa'n't. she had too much out at int'rest for that, and as she didn't go in for the light and frivolous she has to have something to keep her busy. so she starts out as a lady preventer. gettin' up societies to prevent things was her fad. she splurges on 'em, from the kind that wants to put mufflers on steamboat whistles, to them that would like to button leggins on the statues of g. wash. for all that, though, she thinks it's her duty to marry some man and train him, and between her and aunt isabella they'd picked out purdy for the victim. "while you'd gone and tagged some pink and white, mink lined daisy may?" says i. "i hadn't thought about getting married at all," says purdy. "then you might's well quit squirmin'," says i. "if you've got two of that kind plannin' out your future, there ain't any hope." then we gets down to valentine, the half brother that has been cut loose. just as purdy has given it to aunty straight that he'd rather drop out of two clubs and have his allowance cut in half, than tie up to any such tailor made article as anastasia, and right in the middle of aunt isabella's gettin' purple faced and puffy eyed over it, along comes a lengthy letter from valentine. it ain't any hard luck wheeze, either. he's no hungry prod., vally ain't. he's been doin' some tall climbin', all these years that purdy's been collectin' pearl stick pins and gold cigarette cases, and changin' his clothes four times a day. vally has jumped from one job to another, played things clear across the board and the ends against the middle, chased the pay envelope almost off the edge of the map, and finished somewhere on the east coast of africa, where he bosses a couple of hundred coloured gentlemen in the original package, and makes easy money by bein' agent for a big firm of london iv'ry importers. he'd been makin' a trip to headquarters with a cargo, and was on his way back to the iv'ry fields, when the notion struck him to stop off in new york and say howdy to aunt isabella and brother purd. "and she hasn't talked about anything but valentine since," says purdy. "it's vally's turn to be it; eh?" says i. "you'd think so if you could hear them," says he. "anastasia is just as enthusiastic." "you ain't gettin' jealous, are you?" says i. purdy unreefs the sickliest kind of a grin you ever saw. "i was as pleased as anyone," says he, "until i found out the whole of aunt isabella's plan." and say, it was a grand right and left that she'd framed up. matin' stashy up with valentine instead of purdy was only part. her idea was to induce vally to settle down with her, and ship purdy off to look after the iv'ry job. "only fancy!" says purdy. "it's a place called bombazoula! why, you can't even find it on the chart. i'd die if i had to live in such a dreadful place." "is it too late to get busy and hand out the hot air to stashy?" says i. "looks to me like it was either you for her, or bombazoula for you." "don't!" says purdy, and he shivers like i'd slipped an icicle down his back. honest, he was takin' it so hard i didn't have the heart to rub it in. "maybe valentine'll renig--who knows?" says i. "he may be so stuck on africa that she can't call him off." "oh, aunt isabella has thought of that," says he. "she is so provoked with me that she will do everything to make him want to stay; and if i remember valentine, he'll be willing. besides, who would want to live in africa when they could stop in new york? but i do think she might have sent some one else after those snakes." "oh, yes!" says i. "i'd clean forgot about them. where do they figure in this?" "decoration," says purdy. "in my old rooms too!" seems that stashy and aunty had been reading up on bombazoula, and they'd got it down fine. then they turns to and lays themselves out to fix things up for valentine so homelike and comfortable that, even if he was ever so homesick for the jungle, like he wrote he was, he wouldn't want to go any farther. first they'd got a lot of big rubber trees and palms, and filled the rooms full of 'em, with the floors covered with stage grass, and half a dozen grey parrots to let loose. they'd even gone so far as to try to hire a couple of fake zulus from a museum to come up and sing the moonrise song; so's vally wouldn't be bothered about goin' to sleep night. the snakes twinin' around the rubber trees was to add the finishin' touch. course, they wanted the harmless kind, that's had their stingers cut out; but snakes of some sort they'd just got to have, or else they knew it wouldn't seem like home to valentine. "just as though i cared whether he is going to feel at home or not!" says purdy, real pettish. "by, jove, shorty! i've half a mind not to do it. so there!" "gee!" says i. "i wouldn't have your temper for anything. shall we signal the driver to do a pivot and head her north?" "n-n-n-o," says purdy, reluctant. and right there i gets a seventh son view of aunt isabella crackin' the checkbook at purdy, and givin' him the cold spine now and then by threatenin' to tear up the will. from that on i feels different towards him. he'd got to a point where it was either please aunt isabella, or get out and hustle; and how to get hold of real money except by shovin' pink slips at the payin' teller was part of his education that had been left out. he was up against it for fair. "say, purdy," says i, "i don't want to interfere in any family matters; but since you've put it up to me, let me get this chunk of advice off my mind: long's you've got to be nice to aunty or go on a snowball diet, i'd be nice and do it as cheerful as i could." purdy thinks that over for a minute or so. then he raps his cane on the rubber mat, straightens up his shoulders, and says, "by jove, i'll do it! i'll get the snakes!" that wa'n't so easy, though, as i'd thought. lefty white says he's sorry, but he runs a mighty small stock of snakes in winter. he's got a fine line of spring goods on the way, though, and if we'll just leave our order---- "ah, say, lefty!" says i. "you give me shootin' pains. here i goes and cracks up your joint as a first class snakery and all you can show is a few angleworms in bottles and a prospectus of what you'll have next month." "stuffed ones wouldn't do, eh?" says he. "why not?" says i. purdy wa'n't sure, but he thought he'd take a chance on 'em; so we picked out three of the biggest and spottedest ones in the shop, and makes lefty promise to get 'em up there early next forenoon, for valentine was due to show up by dinner time next night. on the way back we talks it over some more, and i tries to chirk purdy up all i could; for every time he thinks of bombazoula he has a shiverin' fit that nearly knocks him out. "i could never stand it to go there," says he--"never!" "here, here!" says i. "that's no way to meet a thing like this. what you want to do is to chuck a bluff. jump right into this reception business with both feet and let on you're tickled to death with the prospect. aunty won't take half the satisfaction in shunting you off to the monkey woods if she thinks you want to go." beats all what a little encouragement will do for some folks. by the time purdy drops me at the studio he's feelin' a whole lot better, and is prepared to give vally the long lost brother grip when he comes. but i was sorry for purdy just the same. i could see him, over there at bombazoula, in a suit of lavender pajamas, tryin' to organise a cotillion with a lot of heavy weight brunettes, wearin' brass rings in their noses and not much else. and all next day i kept wonderin' if aunt isabella's scheme was really goin' to pan. so, when purdy rushes in about four o'clock, and wants me to come up and take a look at the layout, i was just about ripe for goin' to see the show. "but i hope we can shy aunty," says i. "sometimes i get along with these old battle axes first rate, and then again i don't; and what little reputation you got left at home i don't want to queer." "oh, that will be all right," says purdy. "she has heard of you from pinckney, and she knows about how you helped me to get the snakes." "did they fit in?" says i. "come up and see," says purdy. and it was worth the trip, just to get a view of them rooms. nobody but a batty old woman would have ever thought up so many jungle stunts for the second floor of a brownstone front. "there!" says purdy. "isn't that tropical enough?" i took a long look. "well," says i, "i've never been farther south than old point, but i've seen such things pictured out before now, and if i'm any judge, this throws up a section of the cannibal belt to the life." it did too. they had the dark shades pulled down, and the light was kind of dim; but you could see that the place was chock full of ferns and palms and such. the parrots was hoppin' around, and you could hear water runnin' somewheres, and they'd trained them spotted snakes around the rubber trees just as natural as if they'd crawled up there by themselves. while we was lookin' aunt isabella comes puffin' up the stairs. "isn't it just charming, mr. mccabe?" says she, holdin' a hand up behind one ear. "i can hardly wait for dear valentine to come, i'm so anxious to see how pleased he'll be. he just dotes on jungle life. the dear boy! you must come up and take tea with him some afternoon. he's a very shy, diffident little chap; but----" at that the door bell starts ringin' like the house was afire, and bang! bang! goes someone's fist on the outside panel. course, we all chases down stairs to see what's broke loose; but before we gets to the front hall the butler has the door open, and in pushes a husky, red whiskered party, wearin' a cloth cap, a belted ulster with four checks to the square yard, and carryin' an extension leather bag about the size of a small trunk, with labels pasted all over it. "it's a blawsted shyme, that's w'at it is!" says he--"me p'yin' 'alf a bob for a two shillin' drive. these cabbies of yours is a set of bloomink 'iw'ymen!" "what name, sir?" says the butler. "nime!" roars the whiskered gent. "i'm valentine, that's who i am! tyke the luggage, you shiverin' pie face!" "oh, valentine!" squeals aunt isabella, makin' a rush at him with her arms out. "sheer off, aunty!" says he. "cut out the bally tommyrot and let me 'ave a wash. and sye, send some beggar for the brandy and soda. where's me rooms?" "i'll show you up, valentine," chips in purdy. "'ello! 'o's the little man?" says vally. "blow me if it ain't purdy! trot along up, purdy lad, and show me the digs." say, he was a bird, vally was. he talks like a cockney, acts like a bounder, and looks 'em both. aunt isabella has dropped on the hall seat, gaspin' for breath, the butler is leanin' against the wall with his mouth open; so i grabs the bag and starts up after the half brothers. just by the peachblow tint of vally's nose i got the idea that maybe the most entertainin' part of this whole program was billed to take place on the second floor. "here you are," says purdy, swingin' open the door and shovin' him in. "aunt isabella has fixed things up homelike for you, you see." "and here's your trunk," says i. "make yourself to home," and i shuts him in to enjoy himself. it took valentine just about twenty seconds to size up the interior decorations; for purdy'd turned on the incandescents so's to give him a good view, and that had stirred up the parrots some. what i was waitin' for was for him to discover the spotted snakes. i didn't think he could miss 'em, for they was mighty prominent. nor he didn't. it wasn't only us heard it, but everyone else on the block. "wow!" says he. "'elp! 'elp! lemme out! i'm bein' killed!" that was valentine, bellerin' enough to take the roof off, and clawin' around for the doorknob on the inside. he comes out as if he'd been shot through a chute, his eyes stickin' out like a couple of peeled onions, an' a grey parrot hangin' to one ear. "what's the trouble?" says purdy. "br-r-r!" says valentine, like a clogged steam whistle. "where's the nearest 'orspital? i'm a sick man! br-r-r-r!" with that he starts down the stairs, takin' three at a time, bolts through the front door, and makes a dash down the street, yellin' like a kid when a fire breaks out. purdy and me didn't have any time to watch how far he went, for aunt isabella had keeled over on the rug, the maid was havin' a fit in the parlour, and the butler was fannin' himself with the card tray. we had to use up all the alcohol and smellin' salts in the house before we could bring the bunch around. when aunty's so she can hold her head up and open her eyes, she looks about cautious, and whispers: "has--has he gone, purdy, dear?" purdy says he has. "then," she says to me, "bolt that door, and never mention his name to me again." everything's lovely now. purdy's back to the downy, and bombazoula's wiped off the map for good. and say! if you're lookin' for a set of jungle scenery and stuffed snakes, i know where you can get a job lot for the askin'. xiv a hunch for langdon say, the longer i knocks around and the more kinds i meet, the slower i am about sizin' folks up on a first view. i used to think there was only two classes, them that was my kind and them that wa'n't; but i've got over that. i don't try to grade 'em up any more; for they're built on so many different plans it would take a card index the size of a flat buildin' to keep 'em all on file. all i can make out is that there's some good points about the worst of 'em, and some of the best has their streak of yellow. anyway, i'm glad i ain't called on to write a tag for langdon. first news i had of him was what i took for inside information, bein' as it was handed me by his maw. when i gets the note askin' me to call up in the 's between five and six i don't know whether it's a bid to a tea fest or a bait for an auction. the stationery was real swell, though, and the writin' was this up and down kind that goes with the gilt crest. what i could puzzle out of the name, though, wa'n't familiar. but i follows up the invite and takes a chance. so about five-thirty i'm standin' outside the glass doors pushin' the bell. a butler with boiled egg eyes looks me over real frosty from behind the lace curtains; but the minute i says i'm shorty mccabe he takes off the tramp chain and says, "yes, sir. this way, sir." i'm towed in over the persian hall runner to the back parlour, where there's a lady and gent sittin' on opposite sides of the coal grate, with a tea tray between 'em. "i'll be drinkin' that stuff yet, if i ain't careful," thinks i. but i didn't even have to duck. the lady was so anxious to get to talkin' that she forgot to shove the cups at me, and the gent didn't act like it was his say. it was hard to tell, the way she has the lights fixed, whether she was twenty-five or fifty. anyway, she hadn't got past the kittenish stage. some of 'em never does. she don't overdo the thing, but just gushes natural; usin' her eyes, and eyebrows, and the end of her nose, and the tip of her chin when she spoke, as well as throwin' in a few shoulder lifts once in awhile. "it's so good of you to come up, professor!" says she. "isn't it, pembroke?" pembroke--he's the gent on the other side of the tray--starts to say that it was, but she don't give him a chance. she blazes right ahead, tellin' how she's heard of me and my studio through friends, and the minute she hears of it, she knows that nothing would suit langdon better. "langdon's my son, you know," says she. "honest?" says i. "te-he!" says she. "how sweet of you! hardly anyone believes it at first, though. but he's a dear boy; isn't he, pembroke?" this was pembroke's cue for fair. it's up to him to do the boost act. but all he produces is a double barrelled blink from behind the glasses. he's one of these chubby chaps, pembroke is, especially around the belt. he has pink cheeks, and a nice white forehead that almost meets the back of his collar. but he knows when to let things slide with a blink. "i guess some one's been givin' you the wrong steer," says i. "i ain't started any kindergarten class yet. the y. m. c. a. does that sort of----" "oh, dear! but langdon isn't a child, you know," says the lady. "he's a great big fellow, almost twenty-two. yes, really. and i know you'll get to be awfully fond of him. won't he, pembroke?" "we-e-e-ell----" says pembroke. "oh, he's bound to," says she. "of course, langdon doesn't always make friends easily. he is so apt to be misunderstood. why, they treated him perfectly horrid at prep. school, and even worse at college. a lot of the fellows, and, actually, some of the professors, were so rude to him that langdon said he just wouldn't stay another day! i told him i didn't blame him a bit. so he came home. but it's awfully dull for a young man like langdon here in new york, you know." "crippled, or blind or something, is he?" says i. "who, langdon? why, he's perfect--absolutely perfect!" says she. "oh, that accounts for it," says i, and pembroke went through some motions with his cheeks like he was tryin' to blow soap bubbles up in the air. well, it seems that mother has been worryin' a lot over keepin' langdon amused. think of it, in a town like this! "he detests business," says she, "and he doesn't care for theatres, or going to clubs, or reading, or society. but his poor dear father didn't care for any of those things either, except business. and langdon hasn't any head for that. all he takes an interest in is his machine." "singer or remington?" says i. "why, his auto, of course. he's perfectly devoted to that," says she; "but the police are so dreadfully particular. oh, they make such lots of trouble for langdon, and get him into such stupid scrapes. don't they, pembroke?" pembroke didn't blink at that. he nods twice. "it just keeps me worried all the time," she goes on. "it isn't that i mind paying the absurd fines, of course; but--well, you can understand. no one knows what those horrid officers will do next, they're so unreasonable. just think, that is the poor boy's only pleasure! so i thought that if we could only get langdon interested in something of an athletic nature--he's a splendid boxer, you know--oh, splendid!" "that's different," says i. "you might send him down a few times and----" "oh, but i want you to meet him first," says she, "and arouse his enthusiasm. he would never go if you didn't. i expect he will be in soon, and then-- why, that must be langdon now!" it might have been an axe brigade from the district attorney's office, or a hook and ladder company, by the sound. i didn't know whether he was comin' through the doors or bringin' 'em in with him. as i squints around i sees the egg eyed butler get shouldered into the hall rack; so i judges that langdon must be in something of a hurry. he gets over it, though, for he stamps into the middle of the room, plants his feet wide apart, throws his leather cap with the goggles on into a chair, and chucks one of them greasy bootleg gloves into the middle of the tea tray. "hello, maw!" he growls. "hello, fatty! you here again?" playful little cuss, langdon was. he's about five feet nine, short necked, and broad across the chest. but he's got a nice face--for a masked ball--eyes the colour of purple writin' ink, hair of a lovely ripe tomato shade growin' down to a peak in front and standin' up stiff and bristly; a corrugated brow, like a washboard; and an undershot jaw, same's a bull terrier. oh, yes, he was a dear boy, all right. in his leggin's and leather coat he looks too cute for any use. "who's this?" says he, gettin' sight of me sittin' sideways on the stuffed chair. "why, langdon dear," says maw, "this is professor mccabe. i was speaking to you of him, you know." he looks me over as friendly as if i was some yegg man that had been hauled out of the coal cellar. "huh!" says he. i've heard freight engines coughin' up a grade make a noise a good deal like that. say, as a rule i ain't anxious to take on new people, and it's gettin' so lately that we turn away two or three a week; but it didn't take me long to make up my mind that i could find time for a session with langdon, if he wanted it. "your maw says you do a little boxin'?" says i, smooth and soothin'. "what of it?" says he. "well," says i, "down to my studio we juggle the kid pillows once in awhile ourselves, when we ain't doin' the wand drill, or playin' bean bag." "huh!" says he once more. for a parlour conversationalist, langdon was a frost, and he has manners that would turn a subway guard green. but maw jumps in with enough buttered talk for both, and pretty soon she tells me that langdon's perfectly delighted and will be down next day. "me and mr. gallagher'll be on the spot," says i. "good evenin', ma'am." at that pembroke jumps up, makes a quick break away, and trails along too, so we does a promenade together down west end-ave. "charming young fellow, eh?" says pembroke. "sure!" says i. "but he hides it well." "you think langdon needs exercise?" says he. "never saw anyone that needed it much worse," says i. "just my notion," says he. "in fact i am so interested in seeing that langdon gets it that i am quite willing to pay something extra for----" "you don't have to," says i. "i'm almost willin' to do the payin' myself." that pleases pembroke so much he has to stop right in his tracks and shake hands. funny, ain't it, how you can get to be such good friends with anyone so sudden? we walks thirty blocks, chinnin' like brothers, and when we stops on the corner of d i've got the whole story of maw and langdon, with some of pembroke's hist'ry thrown in. it was just a plain case of mother bein' used as a doormat by her dear, darling boy. she was more or less broke in to it, for it seems that the late departed had been a good deal of a rough houser in his day, havin' been about as gentle in his ways as a 'leventh-ave. bartender entertainin' the gas house gang. he hadn't much more'n quit the game, though, before langdon got big enough to carry out the program, and he'd been at it ever since. as near as i could figure, pembroke was a boyhood friend of maw's. he'd missed his chance of bein' anything nearer, years ago, but was still anxious to try again. but it didn't look like there'd be any weddin' bells for him until langdon either got his neck broke or was put away for life. pemby wa'n't soured, though. he talked real nice about it. he said he could see how much maw thought of langdon, and it showed what good stuff she was made of, her stickin' to the boy until he'd settled on something, or something had settled on him. course, he thought it was about time she had a let up and was treated white for awhile. accordin' to the hints he dropped, i suspicions that pembroke would have ranked her a- in the queen class, and i gathers that the size of her bank account don't cut any ice in this deal, him havin' more or less of a surplus himself. i guess he'd been a patient waiter; but he'd set his hopes hard on engagin' the bridal state room for a spring trip to europe. it all comes back, though, to what could be done with langdon, and that was where the form sheet wa'n't any help. there's a million or so left in trust for him; but he don't get it until he's twenty-five. meantime, it was a question of how you're goin' to handle a youngster that's inherited the instincts of a truck driver and the income of a bank president. "it's a pity, too," says pembroke. "he hasn't any vicious habits, he's rather bright, and if he could be started right he would make quite a man, even now. he needs to be caged up somewhere long enough to' have some of the bully knocked out of him. i'm hoping you can do a little along that line." "too big a contract," says i. "all i want is to make his ears buzz a little, just as a comeback for a few of them grunts he chucked at me." and who do you suppose showed up at the studio next forenoon? him and maw; she smilin' all over and tickled to death to think she'd got him there; langdon actin' like a bear with a sore ear. "maybe you hadn't better wait," says i to her. "oh, yes," says she. "i am going to stay and watch dear langdon box, you know." well, unless i ruled her out flat, there was no way of changin' her mind; so i had to let her stay. and she saw langdon box. oh, yes! for an amateur, he puts up a fairly good exhibition, and as i didn't have the heart to throw the hook into him with her sittin' there lookin' so cheerful, about all i does is step around and block his swings and jabs. and say, with him carryin' his guard high, and leavin' the way to his meat safe open half the time, it was all i could do to hold myself back. the only fun i gets is watchin' swifty joe's face out of the corner of my eye. he was pipin' us off from the start. first his mouth comes open a foot or so as he sees me let a chance slide, and when i misses more openin's he takes on a look like some one had fed him a ripe egg. langdon is havin' the time of his life. he can hit as hard as he likes, and he don't get hit back. must have seemed real homelike to him. anyway, soon's he dopes it out that there ain't any danger at all, he bores in like a snow plough, and between blockin' and duckin' i has my hands full. just how langdon has it sized up i couldn't make out; but like as not i made somethin' of a hit with him. i put it down that way when he shows up one afternoon with his bubble, and offers to take me for a spin. it was so unexpected to find him tryin' to do somethin' agreeable that i don't feel like i ought to throw him down. so i pulls on a sweater and climbs in next to the steerin' wheel. there wa'n't anything fancy about langdon's oil waggon. he'd had the tonneau stripped off, and left just the front seat--no varnished wood, only a coat of primin' paint and a layer of mud splashed over that. but we hadn't gone a dozen blocks before i am wise to the fact that nothin' was the matter with the cog wheels underneath. "kind of a high powered cart, ain't it?" says i. "only ninety horse," says langdon, jerkin' us around a broadway car so fast that we grazed both ends at once. "you needn't hit 'er up on my account," says i, as we scoots across the plaza, makin' a cab horse stand on his hind legs to give us room. "i'm only on the second speed," says he. "wait," and he does some monkeyin' with the lever. maybe it was central park; but it seemed to me like bein' shot through a christmas wreath, and the next thing i knows we're tearin' up amsterdam-ave. say, i can see 'em yet, them folks and waggons and things we missed--women holdin' kids by the hand, old ladies steppin' out of cars, little girls runnin' across the street with their arms full of bundles, white wings with their dust cans, and boys with delivery carts. sometimes i'd just shut my eyes and listen for the squashy sound, and when it didn't come i'd open 'em and figure on what would happen if i should reach out and get langdon's neck in the crook of my arm. and it wa'n't my first fast ride in town, either. but i'd never been behind the lamps when a two-ton machine was bein' sent at a fifty-mile clip up a street crowded with folks that had almost as much right to be livin' as we did. it was a game that suited langdon all right, though. he's squattin' behind the wheel bareheaded, with his ketchup tinted hair plastered back by the wind, them purple eyes shut to a squint, his under jaw stuck out, and a kind of half grin--if you could call it that--flickerin' on and off his thick lips. i don't wonder men shook their fists at us and women turned white and sick as we cleared 'em by the thickness of a sheet of paper. i expect we left a string of cuss words three blocks long. i don't know how far we went, or where. it was all a nightmare to me, just a string of gasps and visions of what would be in the papers next day, after the coroner's jury got busy. but somehow we got through without any red on the tires, and pulls up in front of the studio. i didn't jump out in a hurry, like i wanted to. i needed a minute to think, for it seemed to me something was due some one. "nice little plaything you've got here," says i. "and that was a great ride. but sittin' still so long has kind of cramped my legs. don't feel like limberin' up a bit with the mitts, do you?" "i'd just as soon," says langdon. i was tryin' not to look the way i felt; but when we'd sent swifty down to sit in the machine, and i'd got langdon peeled off and standin' on the mat, with the spring lock snapped between him and the outside door, it seemed too good to be true. i'd picked out an old set of gloves that had the hair worked away from the knuckles some, for i wa'n't plannin' on any push ball picnic this time. just to stir his fightin' blood, and partly so i could be sure i had a good grip on my own temper, i let him get in a few facers on me. then i opens up with the side remarks i'd been thinkin' over. "say, langy," says i, sidesteppin' one of his swings for my jaw, "s'posin' you'd hit some of them people, eh? s'posin' that car of yours had caught one of them old women--biff!--like that?" and i lets go a jolt that fetches him on the cheek bone. "ugh!" says langdon, real surprised. but he shakes his head and comes back at me. "ever stop to think," says i, "how one of them kids would look after you'd got him--so?" and i shoots the left into that bull neck of his. "s-s-s-say!" sputters langdon. "what do you think you're doing, anyway?" "me?" says i. "i'm tryin' to get a few points on the bubble business. is it more fun to smash 'em in the ribs--bang!--like that? or to slug 'em in the head--biff!--so? that's right, son; come in for more. it's waitin'. there! jarred your nut a bit, that one did, eh? yes, here's the mate to it. there's plenty more on tap. oh, never mind the nose claret. it'll wipe off. keep your guard up. careful, now! you're swingin' wide. and, as i was sayin'--there, you ran into that one--this bubble scorchin' must be great sport. when you don't--biff!--get 'em--biff! you can scare 'em to death, eh? wabbly on your feet, are you? that's the stuff! keep it up. that eye's all right. one's all you need to see with. gosh! now you've got a pair of 'em." if it hadn't been for his comin' in so ugly and strong i never could have done it. i'd have weakened and let up on him long before he'd got half what was owin'. but he was bound to have it all, and there's no sayin' he wa'n't game about it. at the last i tried to tell him he'd had enough; but as long as he could keep on his pins he kept hopin' to get in just one on me; so i finally has to drop him with a stiff one behind the ear. course, if we'd had ring gloves on he'd looked like he'd been on the choppin' block; but with the pillows you can't get hurt bad. inside of ten minutes i has him all washed off and up in a chair, lookin' not much worse than before, except for the eye swellin's. and what do you guess is the first thing he does? "say, mccabe," says he, shovin' out his paw, "you're all right, you are." "so?" says i. "if i thought you was any judge that might carry weight." "i know," says he. "nobody likes me." "oh, well," says i, "i ain't rubbin' it in. i guess there's white spots in you, after all; even if you do keep 'em covered." he pricks up his ears at that, and wants to know how and why. almost before i knows it we've drifted into a heart to heart talk that a half hour before i would have said couldn't have happened. langdon ain't turned cherub; but he's a whole lot milder, and he takes in what i've got to say as if it was a bulletin from headquarters. "that's all so," says he. "but i've got to do something. do you know what i'd like best?" i couldn't guess. "i'd like to be in the navy and handle one of those big thirteen-inch guns," says he. "why not, then?" says i. "i don't know how to get in," says he. "i'd go in a minute, if i did." "you're as good as there now, then," says i. "there's a recruitin' office around on sixth-ave., not five blocks from here, and the lieutenant's somethin' of a friend of mine. is it a go?" "it is," says langdon. hanged if he didn't mean it too, and before he can change his mind we've had the papers all made out. in the mornin' i 'phones pembroke, and he comes around to lug me up while he breaks the news to maw; for he says she'll need a lot of calmin' down. i was lookin' for nothin' less than cat fits, too. but say, she don't even turn on the sprayer. "the navy!" says she. "why, how sweet! oh, i'm so glad! won't langdon make a lovely officer?" i don't know how it's goin' to work out; but there's one sure thing: it'll be some time before langdon'll be pestered any more by the traffic cops. and, now that the state room's engaged, you ought to see how well pembroke is standin' the blow. xv shorty's go with art when me and art gets into the ring together, you might as well burn the form sheet and slip the band back on your bettin' roll, for there's no tellin' who'll take the count. it was cornelia ann that got me closer to art than i'd ever been before, or am like to get again. now, i didn't hunt her up, nor she didn't come gunnin' for me. it was a case of runnin' down signals and collidin' on the stair landin'; me makin' a grand rush out of the studio for a cross town car, and she just gettin' her wind 'fore she tackled the next flight. not that i hit her so hard; but it was enough to spill the paper bundles she has piled up on one arm, and start 'em bouncin' down the iron steps. first comes a loaf of bread; next a bottle of pickles, that goes to the bad the third hop; and exhibit c was one of these ten-cent dishes of baked beans--the pale kind, that look like they'd floated in with the tide. course, that dinky tin pan they was in don't land flat. it slips out of the bag as slick as if it was greased, stands up on edge, and rolls all the way down, distributin' the mess from top to bottom, as even as if it was laid on with a brush. "my luncheon!" says she, in a reg'lar me-che-e-ild voice. "lunch!" says i. "that's what i'd call a spread. this one's on the house, but the next one will be on me. will to-morrow do?" "ye-es," says she. "sorry," says i, "but i'm runnin' behind sched. now. what's the name, miss?" "c. a. belter, top floor," says she; "but don't mind about----" "that'll be all right, too," says i, skippin' down over the broken glass and puntin' the five-cent white through the door for a goal. it's little things like that, though, that keeps a man from forgettin' how he was brought up. i'm ready enough with some cheap jolly, but when it comes to throwin' in a "beg pardon" at the right place i'm a late comer. i thinks of 'em sometime next day. course, i tries to get even by orderin' a four-pound steak, with mushroom trimmin's, sent around from the hotel on the corner; but i couldn't get over thinkin' how disappointed she looked when she saw that pan of beans doin' the pinwheel act. i know i've seen the time when a plate of pork-and in my fist would have been worth all the turkey futures you could stack in a barn, and maybe it was that way with her. anyway, she didn't die of it, for a couple of days later she knocks easy on the studio door and gets her head in far enough to say how nice it was of me to send her that lovely steak. "forget it," says i. "never," says she. "i'm going to do a bas relief of you, in memory of it." "a barrel which?" says i. honest, i wa'n't within a mile of bein' next. it comes out that she does sculpturing and wants to make a kind of embossed picture of me in plaster of paris, like what the peddlers sell around on vacant stoops. "i'd look fine on a panel, wouldn't i?" says i. "much obliged, miss, but sittin' for my halftone is where i draws the line. i'll lend you swifty joe, though." she ain't acquainted with the only registered assistant professor of physical culture in the country, but she says if he don't mind she'll try her hand on him first, and then maybe i'll let her do one of me. now, you'd thought swifty, with that before-takin' mug of his, would have hid in the cellar 'fore he'd let anybody make a cast of it; but when the proposition is sprung, he's as pleased as if it was for the front page of fox's pink. that was what fetched me up to that seven by nine joint of hers, next the roof, to have a look at what she'd done to swifty joe. he tows me up there. and say, blamed if she hadn't got him to the life, broken nose, ingrowin' forehead, whopper jaw, and all! "how about it?" says joe, grinnin' at me as proud as if he'd broke into the fordham heights hall of fame. "i never see anything handsomer--of the kind," says i. then i got to askin' questions about the sculpturin' business, and how the market was; so miss belter and me gets more or less acquainted. she was a meek, slimpsy little thing, with big, hungry lookin' eyes, and a double hank of cinnamon coloured hair that i should have thought would have made her neck ache to carry around. judgin' by the outfit in her ranch, the sculp-game ain't one that brings in sable lined coats and such knickknacks. there was a bed couch in one corner, a single burner gas stove on an upended trunk in another, and chunks of clay all over the place. light housekeepin' and art don't seem to mix very well. maybe they're just as tasty, but i'd as soon have my eggs cooked in a fryin' pan that hadn't been used for a mortar bed. we passed the time of day reg'lar after that, and now and then she'd drop into the front office to show me some piece she'd made. i finds out that the c. a. in her name stands for cornelia ann; so i drops the miss belter and calls her that. "father always calls me that, too," says she. "yes?" says i. that leads up to the story of how the old folks out in minnekeegan have been backin' her for a two years' stab at art in a big city. seems it has been an awful drain on the fam'ly gold reserve, and none of 'em took any stock in such foolishness anyway, but she'd jollied 'em into lettin' her have a show to make good, and now the time was about up. "well," says i, "you ain't all in, are you?" her under lip starts to pucker up at that, and them hungry eyes gets foggy; but she takes a new grip on herself, makes a bluff at grinnin', and says, throaty like, "it's no use pretending any longer, i--i'm a failure!" say, that makes me feel like an ice cream sign in a blizzard. i hadn't been lookin' to dig up any private heart throbs like that. but there it was; so i starts in to cheer her up the best i knew how. "course," says i, "it's a line i couldn't shake a nickel out of in a year; but if it suited me, and i thought i was onto my job, i'd make it yield the coin, or go good and hungry tryin'." "perhaps i have gone hungry," says she, quiet like. "honest?" says i. "that steak lasted me for a week," says she. there was more particulars followed that throws cornelia ann on the screen in a new way for me. grit! why, she had enough to sand a tarred roof. she'd lived on ham knuckles and limed eggs and swiss cheese for months. she'd turned her dresses inside out and upside down, lined her shoes with paper when it was wet, and wore a long sleeved shirt waist when there wa'n't another bein' used this side of the prairies. and you can judge what that means by watchin' the women size each other up in a street car. "if they'd only given me half a chance to show what i could do!" says she. "but i didn't get the chance, and perhaps it was my fault. so what's the use? i'll just pack up and go back to minnekeegan." "minnekeegan!" says i. "that sounds tough. what then?" "oh," says she, "my brother is foreman in a broom factory. he will get me a job at pasting labels." "say," says i, gettin' a quick rush of blood to the head, "s'posen i should contract for a full length of swifty joe to hang here in----" "no you don't!" says she, edgin' off. "it's good of you, but charity work isn't what i want." say, it wa'n't any of my funeral, but that broom fact'ry proposition stayed with me quite some time. the thoughts of anyone havin' to go back to a place with a name like minnekeegan was bilious enough; but for a girl that had laid out to give macmonnies a run for the gold medal, the label pastin' prospect must have loomed up like a bad dream. there's one good thing about other folks's troubles though--they're easy put on the shelf. soon's i gets to work i forgets all about cornelia ann. i has to run out to rockywold that afternoon, to put mr. purdy pell through his reg'lar course of stunts that he's been takin' since some one told him he was gettin' to be a forty-fat. there was a whole bunch of swells on hand; for it's gettin' so, now they can go and come in their own tourin' cars, that winter house parties are just as common as in summer. "thank heaven you've come!" says mr. pell. "it gives me a chance to get away from cards for an hour or so." "guess you need it," says i. "you look like the trey of spades." then pinckney shows up in the gym., and he no sooner sees us at work with the basket ball than he begins to peel off. "i say there!" says he. "count me in on some of that, or i'll be pulled into another rubber." about an hour later, after they'd jollied me into stayin' all night, i puts on a sweater and starts out for some hoof exercise in the young blizzard that was makin' things white outside. sadie holds me up at the door. her cheeks was blazin', and i could see she was holdin' the sullivan temper down with both hands. "hello!" says i. "what's been stirrin' you up?" "bridge!" snaps she. "i guess if you'd been glared at for two hours, and called stupid when you lost, and worse names when you won, you'd feel like throwing the cards at some one." "well, why didn't you?" says i. "i did," says she, "and there's an awful row on; but i don't care! and if you don't stop that grinnin', i'll----" well, she does it. that's the way with sadie, words is always too slow for her. inside of a minute she's out chasin' me around the front yard and peltin' me with snow balls. "see here," says i, diggin' a hunk of snow out of one ear, "that kind of sport's all to the merry; but if i was you i'd dress for the part. snowballin' in slippers and silk stockin's and a lace dress is a pneumonia bid, even if you are such a warm one on top." "who's a red head?" says she. "you just wait a minute, shorty mccabe, and i'll make you sorry for that!" it wa'n't a minute, it was nearer fifteen; but when sadie shows up again she's wearin' the slickest canuck costume you ever see, all blanket stripes and red tassels, like a girl on a gift calendar. "whe-e-e!" says she, and the snow begins to fly in chunks. it was the damp, packy kind that used to make us go out and soak the tall hats when we was kids. and sadie hasn't forgot how to lam 'em in, either. we was havin' it hot and lively, all over the lawn, when the first thing i knows out comes mrs. purdy pell and pinckney and a lot of others, to join in the muss. they'd dragged out a whole raft of toboggan outfits from the attic, and the minute they gets 'em on they begins to act as coltish as two-year-olds. well say, you wouldn't have thought high rollers like them, that gets their fun out of playin' the glass works exhibit at the op'ra, and eatin' one a. m. suppers at sherry's, and doublin' no trumps at a quarter a point, could unbuckle enough to build snow forts, and yell like indians, and cut up like kids generally. but they does--washed each other's faces, and laughed and whooped it up until dark. didn't need the dry martinis to jolly up appetites for that bunch when dinner time come, and if there was anyone awake in rockywold after ten o'clock that night it was the butler and the kitchen help. i looked for 'em to forget it all by mornin' and start in again on their punky card games; but they was all up bright and early, plannin' out new stunts. there'd been a lot of snow dropped durin' the night, and some one gets struck with the notion that buildin' snow men would be the finest sport in the world. they couldn't hardly wait to eat breakfast before they gets on their blanket clothes and goes at it. they was rollin' up snow all over the place, as busy as 'longshoremen--all but pinckney. he gives out that him and me has been appointed an art committee, to rake in an entrance fee of ten bones each and decide who gets the purse for doin' the best job. "g'wan!" says i. "i couldn't referee no such fool tournament as this." "that's right, be modest!" says he. "don't mind our feelings at all." then sadie and mrs. pell butts in and says i've just got to do it; so i does. we gives 'em so long to pile up their raw material, and half an hour after that to carve out what they thinks they can do best, nothin' barred. some starts in on teddy bears, one gent plans out a cop; but the most of 'em don't try anything harder'n plain snow men, with lumps of coal for eyes, and pipes stuck in to finish off the face. it was about then that count skiphauser moves out of the background and begins to play up strong. he's one of these big, full blooded pretzels that's been everywhere, and seen everything, and knows it all, and thinks there ain't anything but what he can do a little better'n anybody else. "oh, well," says he, "i suppose i must show you what snow carving really is. i won a prize for this sort of thing in berlin, you know." "it's all over now," says i to pinckney. "you heard skippy pickin' himself for a winner, didn't you?" "he's a bounder," says pinckney, talkin' corner-wise--"lives on his bridge and poker winnings. he mustn't get the prize." but skiphauser ain't much more'n blocked out a head and shoulders 'fore it was a cinch he was a ringer, with nothin' but a lot of rank amateurs against him. soon's the rest saw what they was up against they all laid down, for he was makin' 'em look like six car fares. course, there wa'n't nothin' to do but join the gallery and watch him win in a walk. "oh, it's a bust of bismarck, isn't it?" says one of the women. "how clever of you, count!" at that skippy throws out his chest and begins to chuck in the flourishes. that kind of business suited him down to the ground. he cocks his head on one side, twists up his lip whiskers like billy the tooth, and goes through all the motions of a man that knows he's givin' folks a treat. "hates himself, don't he?" says i. "he must have graduated from some tombstone foundry." pinckney was wild. so was sadie and mrs. purdy pell, on account of the free-for-all bein' turned into a game of solitaire. "i just wish," says sadie, "that there was some way of taking him down a peg. if i only knew of someone who----" "i do, if you don't," says i. say, what do you reckon had been cloggin' my thought works all that time. i takes the three of 'em to one side and springs my proposition, tellin' 'em i'd put it through if they'd stand for it. would they? they're so tickled they almost squeals. i gets swifty joe at the studio on the long distance and gives him his instructions. it was a wonder he got it straight, for sometimes you can't get an idea into his head without usin' a brace and bit, but this trip he shows up for a high brow. pretty quick we gets word that it's all o. k. pinckney bulletins it to the crowd that, while sadie's pulled out of the competition, she's asked leave to put on a sub, and that the prize awardin' will be delayed until after the returns are all in. meantime i climbs into the sleigh and goes down to meet the express. sure enough, cornelia ann was aboard, a bit hazy about the kind of a stunt that's expected of her, but ready for anything. i don't go into many details, for fear of givin' her stage fright; but i lets her know that if she's got any sculpturin' tricks up her sleeve now's the time to shake 'em out. "i've been tellin' some friends of mine," says i, "that when it comes to clay art, or plaster of paris art, you was the real lollypop; and i reckoned that if you could do pieces in mud, you could do 'em just as well in snow." "snow!" says she. "why, i never tried." maybe i'd banked too much on cornelia, or perhaps she was right in sayin' this was out of her line. anyway, it was a mighty disappointed trio that sized her up when i landed her under the porte cochère. when she's run her eye over the size and swellness of the place i've brought her to, and seen a sample of the folks, she looks half scared to death. and you wouldn't have played her for a fav'rite, either, if you'd seen the cheap figure she cut, with them big eyes rollin' around, as if she was huntin' for the nearest way out. but we give her a cup of hot tea, makes her put on a pair of fleece lined overshoes and somebody's persian lamb jacket, and leads her out to make a try for the championship. some of 'em was sorry of her, and tried to be sociable; but others just stood around and snickered and whispered things behind their hands. honest, i could have thrown brickbats at myself for bein' such a mush head. that wouldn't have helped any though, so i gets busy and rolls together a couple of chunks of snow about as big as flour barrels and piles one on top of the other. "it's up to you, cornie," says i. "can't you dig something or other out of that?" she don't say whether she can or can't, but just walks around it two or three times, lookin' at it dreamy, like she was in a trance. next she braces up a bit, calls for an old carvin' knife and a kitchen spoon, and goes to work, the whole push watchin' her as if she was some freak in a cage. i pipes off her motions for awhile real hopeful, and then i edges out where i could look the other way. why say, all she'd done was to hew out something that looks like a lot of soap boxes piled up for a bonfire. it was a case of funk, i could see that; and maybe i wa'n't feelin' like i'd carried a gold brick down to the subtreasury and asked for the acid test. then i begins to hear the "oh's!" and "ah's!" come from the crowd. first off i thought they was guyin' her, but when i strolls back near enough for a peek at what she was up to, my mouth comes open, too. say, you wouldn't believe it less'n you'd seen it done, but she was just fetchin' out of that heap of snow, most as quick and easy as if she was unpackin' it from a crate, the stunningest lookin' altogether girl that i ever see outside a museum. i don't know who it was supposed to be, or why. she's holdin' up with one hand what draperies she's got--which wa'n't any too many--an' with the other she's reachin' above her head after somethin' or other--maybe the soap on the top shelf. but she was a beaut, all right. and all cornelia was doin' to bring her out was just slashin' away careless with the knife and spoon handle, hardly stoppin' a second between strokes. she simply had 'em goggle eyed. i reckon they'd seen things just as fine and maybe better, but they hadn't had a front seat before, while a little ninety-pound cinnamon top like cornelia ann stepped up and yanked a whitewashed angel out of a snow heap. "it's wonderful!" says mrs. purdy pell. "looks to me like we had skippy fingerin' the citrus, don't it?" says i. the count he's been standin' there with his mouth open, like the rest of us, only growin' redder 'n' redder. but just then cornelia makes one last swipe, drops her tools, and steps back to take a view. we all quits to see what's comin' next. well, she looks and looks at that lady reacher she's dug out, never sayin' a word; and before we knows it she's slumped right down there in the snow, with both hands over her face, doin' the weep act like a kid. in two shakes it was sadie and mrs. purdy pell to the rescue, one on each side, while the rest of us gawps on and looks foolish. "what is it, you poor darling?" says sadie. finally, after a good weep, cornie unloosens her trouble. "oh, oh!" says she. "i just know it's going to rain to-morrow!" now wouldn't that give you a foolish fit? "what of it?" says sadie. "that," says she, pointin' to the snow lady. "she'll be gone forever. oh, it's wicked, wicked!" "well," says i, "she's too big to go in the ice box." "never mind, dear," says mrs. purdy pell; "you shall stay right here and do another one, in solid marble. i'll give you a thousand for a duplicate of that." "and then you must do something for me," says sadie. "and me, too," says mrs. dicky madison. i didn't wait to hear any more, for boostin' lady sculpturesses ain't my reg'lar work. but, from all i hear of cornelia ann, she won't paste labels in any broom fact'ry. for your simple liver and slow quitter, art's all right; but it's a long shot, at that. what? xvi why ferdy ducked say, there's no tellin', is there? sometimes the quietest runnin' bubbles blows up with the biggest bang. now look at ferdy. he was as retirin' and modest as a new lodge member at his first meetin'. why, he's so anxious to dodge makin' a show of himself that when he comes here for a private course i has to lock the studio door and post swifty joe on the outside to see that nobody butts in. all the dobsons is that way. they're the kind of folks that lives on fifth-ave., with the front shades always pulled down, and they shy at gettin' their names in the papers like it was bein' served with a summons. course, they did have their dose of free advertisin' once, when that tootsy peroxide bobbed up and tried to break old peter dobson's will; but that case happened so long ago, and there's been so many like it since, that hardly anybody but the dobsons remembers it. must have been a good deal of a jolt at the time, though; for as far as i've seen, they're nice folks, and the real thing in the fat wad line, specially ferdy. he's that genteel and refined he has to have pearl grey boxin' gloves to match his gym. suit. well, i wa'n't thinkin' any of him, or his set, havin' just had a session with a brewer's son that i've took on durin' the dull season, when i looks out into the front office and sees my little old bishop standin' there moppin' his face. "hello, bishop!" i sings out. "thought you was in newport, herdin' the flock." "so i was, shorty," says he, "until six hours ago. i came down to look for a stray lamb." "tried wall street?" says i. "he is not that kind of a lamb," says the bishop. "it is ferdinand dobson. have you seen him recently?" "what! ferdy?" says i. "not for weeks. they're all up at their lenox place, ain't they?" no, they wa'n't. and then the bishop puts me next to a little news item that hadn't got into the society column yet. ferdy, after gettin' to be most twenty-five, has been hooked. the girl's name was alicia, and soon's i heard it i placed her, havin' seen her a few times at different swell ranches where i've been knockin' around in the background. as i remembers her, she has one of these long, high toned faces, and a shape to match--not what you'd call a neck twister, but somethin' real classy and high browed, just the sort you'd look for ferdy to tag. seems they'd been doin' the lovey-dovey for more'n a year; but all on the sly, meetin' each other at afternoon teas, and now and then havin' a ten-minute hand holdin' match under a palm somewhere. they was so cute about it that even their folks didn't suspect it was a case of honey and honey boy; not that anyone would have raised a kick, but because ferdy don't want any fuss made about it. when alicia's mother gets the facts, though, she writes a new program. she don't stand for springin' any quiet weddin's on her set. she plans a big party, where the engagement bulletin is to be flashed on the screen reg'lar and proper, so's folks can be orderin' their dresses and weddin' presents. ferdy balks some at the thought of bein' dragged to the centre of the stage; but he grits his teeth and tells 'em that for this once they can go as far as they like. he even agrees to leave home for a week and mix it at a big house party, just to get himself broke in to meetin' strangers. up to within two days of the engagement stunt he was behavin' lovely; and the next thing they knows, just when he should be gettin' ready to show up at newport, he can't be found. it has all the looks of his leavin' his clothes on the bank and jumpin' the night freight. course, the dobsons ain't sayin' a word to alicia's folks yet. they gets their friends together to organise a still hunt for ferdy; and the bishop bein' one of the inside circle, he's sent out as head scout. "and i am at my wits' ends," says he. "no one has seen him in newport, and i can't find him at any of his clubs here." "how about the fifth-ave. mausoleum?" says i. "his man is there," says the bishop; "but he seems unable to give me any information." "does, eh?" says i. "well, you take it from me that if anyone's got a line on ferdy, it's that clam faced kupps of his. he's been trained so fine in the silence business that he hardly dares open his mouth when he eats. go up there and put him through the wringer." "do what?" says the bishop. "give him the headquarters quiz," says i. "tell him you come straight from mother and sisters, and that ferdy's got to be found." "i hardly feel equal to doing just that," says the bishop in his mild way. "now if you could only----" "why, sure!" says i. "it'd do me good to take a whirl out of that englishman. i'll make him give up!" he's a bird though, that kupps. i hadn't talked with him two minutes before i would have bet my pile he knew all about where ferdy was roostin' and what he was up to; but when it come to draggin' out the details, you might just as well have been tryin' to pry up a pavin' stone with a fountain pen. was ferdy in town, or out of town, and when would he be back? kupps couldn't say. he wouldn't even tell how long it was since he had seen ferdy last. and say, you know how pig headed one of them hen brained cockneys can be? i feels my collar gettin' tight. "look here, hiccups!" says i. "you----" "kupps, sir," says he. "thomas kupps is my full nyme, sir." "well, teacups, then, if that suits you better," says i. "you don't seem to have got it into your head that the bishop ain't just buttin' in here for the fun of the thing. this matter of retrievin' ferdy is serious. now you're sure he didn't leave any private messages, or notes or anything of that kind?" "nothink of the sort, sir; nothink whatever," says kupps. "well, you just show us up to his rooms," says i, "and we'll have a look around for ourselves. eh, bishop?" "perhaps it would be the best thing to do," says the bishop. kupps didn't want to do it; but i gives him a look that changes his mind, and up we goes. i was thinkin' that if ferdy had got chilly feet at the last minute and done the deep dive, maybe he'd left a few lines layin' around his desk. there wa'n't anything in sight, though; nothin' but a big photograph of a wide, full chested lady, propped up against the rail. "that don't look much like the fair alicia," says i. the bishop puts on his nigh-to glasses and says it ain't. he thinks it must have been took of a lady that he'd seen ferdy chinnin' at the house party, where he got his last glimpse of him. "good deal of a hummin' bird, she is, eh?" says i, pickin' it up. "tutty tut! look what's here!" behind it was a photo of alicia. "and here's somethin' else," says i. on the back of the big picture was scribbled, "from ducky to ferdy," and the date. "yesterday!" gasps the bishop. "well, well!" says i. "that's advancin' the spark some! if he meets her only a week or so ago, and by yesterday she's got so far as bein' his ducky, it looks like alicia'd have to get out and take the car ahead." the bishop acts stunned, gazin' from me to the picture, as if he'd been handed one on the dizzy bone. "you--you don't mean," says he, "that you suspect ferdy of--of----" "i hate to think it," says i; "but this looks like a quick shift. kupps, who's ferdy's lady friend?" "mr. dobson didn't sye, sir," says kupps. "very thoughtless of him," says i. "come on, bishop, we'll take this along as a clue and see what vandy has to say." he's a human kodak, vandy is--makes a livin' takin' pictures for the newspapers. you can't break into the swell push, or have an argument with teddy, or be tried for murder, without vandy's showin' up to make a few negatives. so i flashes the photo of ducky on him. "who's the wide one?" says i. "why, don't you know who that is, shorty?" says he. "say, do you think i'd be chasin' up any flashlight pirate like you, if i did?" says i. "what's her name?" "that's madam brooklini, of course," says he. "what, the thousand-dollar-a-minute warbler?" says i. "and me seein' her lithographs all last winter! gee, bishop! i thought you followed grand opera closer'n that." "i should have recalled her," says the bishop; "but i see so many faces----" "only a few like that, though," says i. "vandy, where do you reckon mrs. greater new york could be located just about now?" vandy has the whole story down pat. seems she's been over here out of season bringin' suit against her last manager; but havin' held him up for everything but the gold fillin' in his front teeth, she is booked to sail back to her irish castle at four in the mornin'. he knows the steamer and the pier number. "four a. m., eh?" says i. "that means she's likely to be aboard now, gettin' settled. bishop, if that ducky business was a straight steer, it's ten to one that a friend of ours is there sayin' good-bye. shall we follow it up?" "i can hardly credit it," says he. "however, if you think----" "it's no cinch," says i; "but this is a case where it won't do to bank on past performances. from all the signs, ferdy has struck a new gait." the bishop throws up both hands. "how clearly you put it," says he, "and how stupid of me not to understand! should we visit the steamer, or not?" "bishop," says i, "you're a good guesser. we should." and there wa'n't any trouble about locatin' the high artist. all we has to do is to walk along the promenade deck until we comes to a suite where the cabin stewards was poppin' in and out, luggin' bunches of flowers and baskets of fruit, and gettin' the book signed for telegrams. the bishop was for askin' questions and sendin' in his card; but i gets him by the sleeve and tows him right in. i hadn't made any wrong guess, either. there in the corner of the state room, planted in a big wicker arm chair, with a jar of long stemmed american beauts on one side, was madam brooklini. on the other side, sittin' edgeways on a canvas stool and holdin' her left hand, was ferdy. i could make a guess as to how the thing had come around; ferdy breakin' from his shell at the house party, runnin' across brooklini under a soft light, and losin' his head the minute she begins cooin' low notes to him. that's what she was doin' now, him gazin' up at her, and her gazin' down at him. it was about the mushiest performance i ever see. "ahem!" says the bishop, clearin' his throat and blushin' a lovely maroon colour. "i--er--we did not intend to intrude; but----" then it was up to ferdy to show the red. he opens his mouth and gawps at us for a whole minute before he can get out a word. "why--why, bishop!" he pants. "what--how----" before he has time to choke, or the bishop can work up a case of apoplexy, i jumps into the ring. "excuse us doin' the goat act," says i; "but the bishop has got some word for you from the folks at home, and he wants to get it off his mind." "ah, friends of yours, ferdy?" says madam brooklini, throwin' us about four hundred dollars' worth of smile. there was nothin' for ferdy to do then but pull himself together and make us all acquainted. and say, i never shook hands with so much jewelry all at once before! she has three or four bunches of sparks on each finger, not to mention a thumb ring. oh, there wa'n't any mistakin' who skimmed the cream off the box office receipts after you'd took a look at her! and for a straight front venus she was the real maraschino. course, even if the complexion was true, you wouldn't put her down as one of this spring's hatch; but for a broad, heavy weight girl she was the fancy goods. and when she cuts loose with that eighteen-carat voice of hers, and begins to roll them misbehavin' eyes, you forgot how the chair was creakin' under her. the bishop has all he can do to remember why he was there; but he manages to get out that he'd like a few minutes on the side with ferdy. "if your message relates in any way to my return to newport," says ferdy, stiffenin' up, "it is useless. i am not going there!" "but, my dear ferdy----" begins the bishop, when the lady cuts in. "that's right, bishop," says she. "i do hope you can persuade the silly boy to stop following me around and teasing me to marry him." "oh, naughty!" says i under my breath. the bishop just looks from one to the other, and then he braces up and says, "ferdinand, this is not possible, is it?" it was up to ferdy again. he gives a squirm or two as he catches the bishop's eye, and the dew was beginnin' to break out on his noble brow, when ducky reaches over and gives his hand a playful little squeeze. that was a nerve restorer. "bishop," says he, "i must tell you that i am madly, hopelessly, in love with this lady, and that i mean to make her my wife." "isn't he the dearest booby you ever saw!" gurgles madam brooklini. "he has been saying nothing but that for the last five days. and now he says he is going to follow me across the ocean and keep on saying it. but you must stop, ferdy; really, you must." "never!" says ferdy, gettin' a good grip on the cut glass exhibit. "such persistence!" says ducky, shiftin' her searchlights from him to us and back again. "and he knows i have said i would not marry again. i mustn't. my managers don't like it. why, every time i marry they raise a most dreadful row. but what can i do? ferdy insists, you see; and if he keeps it up, i just know i shall have to take him. please be good, ferdy!" wouldn't that make you seasick? but the bishop comes to the front like he'd heard a call to man the lifeboat. "it may influence you somewhat," says he, "to learn that for nearly a year ferdinand has been secretly engaged to a very estimable young woman." "i know," says she, tearin' off a little giggle. "ferdy has told me all about alicia. what a wicked, deceitful wretch he is! isn't he? aren't you ashamed, ferdy, to act so foolish over me?" if ferdy was, he hid it well. all he seemed willin' to do was to sit there, holdin' her hand and lookin' as soft as a custard pie, while the lady williamsburg tells what a tough job she has dodgin' matrimony, on account of her yieldin' disposition. i didn't know whether to hide my face in my hat, or go out and lean over the rail. i guess the bishop wa'n't feelin' any too comfortable either; but he was there to do his duty, so he makes one last stab. "ferdinand," says he, "your mother asked me to say that----" "tell her i was never so happy in my life," says ferdy, pattin' a broadside of solitaires and marquise rings. "come on, bishop," says i. "there's only one cure for a complaint of that kind, and it looks like ferdy was bound to take it." we was just startin' for the deck, when the door was blocked by a steward luggin' in another sheaf of roses, and followed by a couple of middle aged, jolly lookin' gents, smokin' cigars and marchin' arm in arm. one was a tall, well built chap in a silk hat; the other was a short, pussy, ruby beaked gent in french flannels and a panama. "hello, sweety!" says the tall one. "peekaboo, dearie!" sings out the other. "dick! jimmy!" squeals madam brooklini, givin' a hand to each of 'em, and leavin' ferdy holdin' the air. "oh, how delightfully thoughtful of you!" "tried to ring in old grubby, too," says dick; "but he couldn't get away. he chipped in for the flowers, though." "dear old grubby!" says she. "let's see, he was my third, wasn't he?" "why, dearie!" says dicky boy, "i was number three. grubby was your second." "really!" says she. "but i do get you so mixed. oh!" and then she remembers ferdy. "ducky, dear," she goes on, "i do want you to know these gentlemen--two of my former husbands." "wha-a-at!" gasps ferdy, his eyes buggin' out. i hears the bishop groan and flop on a seat behind me. honest, it was straight! dick and jimmy was a couple of discards, old grubby was another, and inside of a minute blamed if she hadn't mentioned a fourth, that was planted somewhere on the other side. course, for a convention there wouldn't have been a straight quorum; but there was enough answerin' roll call to make it pass for a reunion, all right. and it was a peach while it lasted. the pair of has-beens didn't have long to stay, one havin' to get back to chicago and the other bein' billed to start on a yachtin' trip. they'd just run over to say by-by; and tell how they was plannin' an annual dinner, with the judges and divorce lawyers for guests. yes, yes, they was a jolly couple, them two! all the bishop could do was lay back and fan himself as he listens, once in awhile whisperin' to himself, "my, my!" as for ferdy, he looked like he'd been hypnotised and was waitin' to be woke up. the pair was sayin' good-bye for the third and last time, when in rushes a high strung, nervous young feller with a pencil behind his ear and a pad in his hand. "well, larry, what is it now?" snaps out madam brooklini, doin' the lightnin' change act with her voice. "i am engaged, you see." "can't help it," says larry. "got fourteen reporters and eight snapshot men waiting to do the sailing story for the morning editions. shall i bring 'em up?" "but i am entertaining two of my ex-husbands," says the lady, "and----" "great!" says larry. "we'll put 'em in the group. who's the other?" "oh, that's only ferdy," says she. "i haven't married him yet." "bully!" says larry. "we can get half a column of space out of him alone. he goes in the pictures too. we'll label him 'next,' or 'number five elect,' or something like that. line 'em up outside, will you?" "oh, pshaw!" says madam brooklini. "what a nuisance these press agents are! but larry is so enterprising. come, we'll make a splendid group, the four of us. come, ferdy." "reporters!" ferdy lets it come out of him kind of hoarse and husky, like he'd just seen a ghost. but i knew the view that he was gettin'; his name in the headlines, his picture on the front page, and all the chappies at the club and the whole newport crowd chucklin' and nudgin' each other over the story of how he was taggin' around after an op'ra singer that had a syndicate of second hand husbands. "no, no, no!" says he. it was the only time i ever heard ferdy come anywhere near a yell, and i wouldn't have believed he could have done it if i hadn't had my eyes on him as he jumps clear of the corner, makes a flyin' break through the bunch, and streaks it down the deck for the forward companionway. me and the bishop didn't wait to see the finish of that group picture. we takes after ferdy as fast as the bishop's wind would let us, he bein' afraid that ferdy was up to somethin' desperate, like jumpin' off the dock. all ferdy does, though, is jump into a cab and drive for home, us trailin' on behind. we was close enough at the end of the run to see him bolt through the door; but kupps tells us that mr. dobson has left orders not to let a soul into the house. early next mornin', though, the bishop comes around and asks me to go up while he tries again, and after we've stood on the steps for ten minutes, waitin' for kupps to take in a note, we're shown up to ferdy's bed room. he's in silk pajamas and bath robe, lookin' white and hollow eyed. every mornin' paper in town is scattered around the room, and not one of 'em with less than a whole column about how madam brooklini sailed for europe. "any of 'em got anything to say about number five?" says i. "thank heaven, no!" groans ferdy. "bishop, what do you suppose poor dear alicia thinks of me, though?" "why, my son," says the bishop, his little eyes sparklin', "i suppose she is thinking that it is 'most time for you to arrive in newport, as you promised." "then she doesn't know what an ass i've been?" says ferdy. "no one has told her?" "shorty, have you?" says the bishop. and when ferdy sees me grinnin', and it breaks on him that me and the bishop are the only ones that know about this dippy streak of his, he's the thankfulest cuss you ever saw. alicia? he could hardly get there quick enough to suit him; and the knot's to be tied inside of the next month. "marryin's all right," says i to ferdy, "so long's you don't let the habit grow on you." xvii when swifty was going some say, i don't play myself for any human cheese tester, but i did think i had swifty joe gallagher all framed up long ago. not that i ever made any special study of swifty; but knowin' him for as long as i have, and havin' him helpin' me in the studio, i got the notion that i was wise to most of his curves. i've got both hands in the air now, though. goin' back over the last few months too, i can see where i might have got a line on him before. but, oh no! nothin' could jar me out of believin' he wouldn't ever run against the form sheet i'd made out. the first glimmer i gets was when i finds joe in the front office one day, planted before the big lookin' glass, havin' a catch as catch can with his hair. "hully chee!" says he, dippin' one of my military brushes in the wash basin. "that's fierce, ain't it, shorty?" "if it's your nerve in helpin' yourself to my bureau knickknacks," says i, "i agree with you." "ah, can the croak!" says he. "i ain't eatin' the bristles off, am i!" "oh, i'm not fussin'," says i; "but what you need to use on that thatch is a currycomb and a lawn rake." "ah, say!" says he, "i don't see as it's so much worse than others i know of. it's all right when i can get it to lay down in the back. how's that, now?" "great!" says i. "couldn't be better if you'd used fish glue." maybe you never noticed how swifty's top piece is finished off? he has a mud coloured growth that's as soft as a shoe brush. it behaves well enough when it's dry; but after he's got it good and wet it breaks up into ridges that overlap, same as shingles on a roof. but then, you wouldn't be lookin' for any camel's hair finish on a nut like swifty's--not with that face. course, he ain't to blame for the undershot jaw, nor the way his ears lop, nor the width of his smile. we don't all have gifts like that, thanks be! and it wa'n't on purpose swifty had his nose bent in. that come from not duckin' quick enough when gans swung with his right. so long as he kept in his class, though, and wa'n't called on to understudy kyrle bellew, swifty met all the specifications. if i was wantin' a parlour ornament, i might shy some at swifty's style of beauty; but showin' bilious brokers how to handle the medicine ball is a job that don't call for an exchange of photographs. he may have an outline that looks like a map of a stone quarry, and perhaps his ways are a little on the fritz, but swifty's got good points that i couldn't find bunched again if i was to hunt through a crowd. so, when i find him worryin' over the set of his back hair, i gets interested. "what's the coiffure for, anyway?" says i. "goin' to see the girl, eh?" course, that was a josh. you can't look at swifty and try to think of him doin' the romeo act without grinnin'. "ahr, chee!" says he. now, i've sprung that same jolly on him a good many times; but i never see him work up a colour over it before. still, the idea of him gettin' kittenish was too much of a strain on the mind for me to follow up. it was the same about his breakin' into song. he'd never done that, either, until one mornin' i hears a noise comin' from the back room that sounds like some one blowin' on a bottle. i steps over to the door easy, and hanged if i didn't make out that it was swifty takin' a crack at something that might be, "oh, how i love my lulu!" "you must," says i, "if it makes you feel as bad as all that. does lulu know it?" "ahr, chee!" says he. ever hear swifty shoot that over his shoulder without turnin' his head? talk about your schools of expression! none of 'em could teach anyone to put as much into two words as swifty does into them. they're a whole vocabulary, the way he uses 'em. "was you tryin' to sing," says i, "or just givin' an imitation of a steamboat siren on a foggy night?" but all i could get out of swifty was another "ahr, chee!" he was too happy and satisfied to join in any debate, and inside of ten minutes he's at it again; so i lets him spiel away. "well," thinks i, "i'm glad my joy don't have any such effect on me as that. i s'pose i can stand it, if he can." it wa'n't more'n two nights later that i gets another shock. i was feelin' a little nervous, to begin with, for i'd billed myself to do a stunt i don't often tackle. it was nothin' else than pilotin' a fluff delegation to some art studio doin's. sounds like a percy job, don't it? but it was somethin' put up to me in a way i couldn't dodge. maybe you remember me tellin' you awhile back about cornelia ann belter? she was the minnekeegan girl that had a room on the top floor over the physical culture studio, and was makin' a stab at the sculpture game--the one that we got out to rockywold as a ringer in the snow carvin' contest. got her placed now? well, you know how that little trick of makin' a snow angel brought her in orders from mrs. purdy pell, and sadie, and the rest? and she didn't do a thing but make good, either. i hadn't seen her since she quit the building; but i'd heard how she was doin' fine, and here the other day i gets a card sayin' she'd be pleased to have my company on a wednesday night at half after eight, givin' an address on fifth avenue. "corny must be carvin' the cantaloup," thinks i, and then forgets all about it until sadie holds me up and wants to know if i'm goin'. "nix," says i. "them art studio stunts is over my head." "oh, pshaw!" says sadie. "how long since you have been afraid of miss belter? didn't you and i help her to get her start? she'll feel real badly if you don't come." "she'll get over that," says i. "but mrs. pell and i will have to go alone if you don't come with us," says she. "mr. pell is out of town, and pinckney is too busy with those twins and that western girl of his. you've got to come, shorty." "that settles it," says i. "why didn't you say so first off?" so that was what i was doin' at quarter of eight that night, in my open face vest and dinky little tuxedo, hustlin' along d-st., wonderin' if the folks took me for a head waiter late to his job. you see, after i gets all ragged out i finds i've left my patent leathers at the studio. swifty has said he was goin' to take the night off too, so i'm some surprised to see the front office all lit up like there was a ball goin' on up there. i takes the steps three at a time, expectin' to find a couple of yeggs movin' out the safe; but when i throws the door open what should i see, planted in front of the mirror, but swifty joe. not that i was sure it was him till i'd had a second look. it was swifty's face, and swifty's hair, but the costume was a philopena. it would have tickled a song and dance artist to death. anywhere off'n the variety stage, unless it was at a fourth ward chowder party, it would have drawn a crowd. perhaps you can throw up a view of a pin-head check in brown and white, blocked off into four-inch squares with red and green lines; a double breasted coat with scalloped cuffs on the sleeves, and silk faced lapels; a pink and white shirt striped like an awnin'; a spotted butterfly tie; yellow shoes in the latest oleomargarin tint; and a caffy-o-lay bean pot derby with a half-inch brim to finish off the picture. it was a sizzler, all right. for a minute i stands there with my mouth open and my eyes bugged, takin' in the details. if i could, i would have skipped without sayin' a word, for i see i'd butted in on somethin' that was sacred and secret. but swifty's heard me come in, and he's turned around waitin' for me to give a verdict. not wantin' to hurt his feelin's, i has to go careful. "swifty," says i, "is that you?" he only grins kind of foolish, sticks his chin out, and saws his neck against his high collar, like a cow usin' a scratchin' post. "blamed if i didn't take you for henry dixey, first shot," says i, walkin' around and gettin' a new angle. "gee! but that's a swell outfit!" "think so?" says he. "will it make 'em sit up?" "will it!" says i. "why, you'll have 'em on their toes." i didn't know how far i could go on that line without givin' him a grouch; but he seems to like it, so i tears off some more of the same. "swifty," says i, "you've got a bunch of tiger lilies lookin' like a faded tea rose. you've got a get-up there that would win out at a cakewalk, and if you'll take it over to third-ave. sunday afternoon you'll be the best bet on the board." "honest?" says he, grinnin' way back to his ears. "i was after somethin' a little fancy, i'll own up." "well, you got it," says i. "where'd you have it built?" "over the bridge," says he. say, it's a wonder some of them south brooklyn cloth carpenters don't get the blind staggers, turnin' out clothes like that; ain't it? "must be some special occasion?" says i. "d'jer think i'd be blowin' myself like this if it wa'n't?" says he. "you bet, it's extra special." "with a skirt in the background?" says i. "uh-huh," says he, springin' another grin. "naughty, naughty!" says i. "ahr, say," says he, tryin' to look peevish, "you oughter know better'n that! you never heard of me chasin' the lizzies yet, did you? this is a real lady,--nice and classy, see?" "some one on fifth-ave.?" says i, unwindin' a little string. but he whirls round like i'd jabbed him with a pin. "who tipped you off to that?" says he. "guessed it by the clothes," says i. that simmers him down, and i could see he wanted to be confidential the worst way. he wouldn't let go of her name; but i gathers it's some one he's known for quite a spell, and that she's sent him a special invite for this evenin'. "asks me to call around, see?" says he. "now, i put it up to you, shorty, don't that look like i got some standin' with her?" "she must think pretty well of you, that's a fact," says i, "and i judge that you're willin' to be her honey boy. ain't got the ring in your vest pocket, have you?" "maybe that ain't so much of a joke as you think," says he, settin' the bean pod lid a little more on one side. "z-z-z-ipp!" says i. "that's goin' some! well, well, but you are a cute one, swifty. why, i never suspicioned such a thing. luck to you, my lad, luck to you!" and i pats him on the back. "i don't know what chances you had before; but in that rig you can't lose." "i guess it helps," says he, twistin' his neck to get a back view. he was puttin' on the last touches when i left. course, i was some stunned, specially by the fifth-ave. part of it. but then, it's a long street, and it's gettin' so now that all kinds lives on it. i was a little behind sched. when i gets to sherry's, where i was to pick up sadie and mrs. purdy pell; but at that it was ten or fifteen minutes before they gets the tourin' car called up and we're all tucked away inside. it don't take us long to cover the distance, though, and at twenty to nine we hauls up at miss belter's number. i was just goin' to pile out when i gets a glimpse of a pair of bright yellow shoes carryin' a human checker board. "s-s-s-sh!" says i to the ladies. "wait up a second till we see where he goes." "why, who is it?" says sadie. "swifty joe," says i. "you might not think it from the rainbow uniform, but it's him. that's the way he dresses the part when he starts out to kneel to his lady love." "really!" says mrs. pell. "is he going to do that?" "got it straight from him," says i. "there! he's worked his courage up. now he takes the plunge." "why!" says sadie, "that is miss belter's number he's going into." "she don't live on all five floors, does she?" says i. "no; but it's odd, just the same," says she. i thought so myself; so i gives 'em the whole story of how i come to know about what he was up to. by that time he was climbing the stairs, and as soon as we finds the right door i forgets all about swifty in sizin' up cornelia ann. say, what a difference a little of the right kind of dry goods will make in a girl, won't it? the last i saw of cornie she was wearin' a skirt that sagged in the back, a punky lid that might have come off the top of an ash can, and shoes that had run over at the heel. but prosperity had sure blown her way, and she'd bought a wardrobe to suit the times. not that she'd gone and loaded herself down like she was a window display. it was just a cucumber green sort of cheese cloth that floated around her, and there wa'n't a frill on it except some silvery braid where the square hole had been chopped out to let her head and part of her shoulders through. but at that it didn't need any paris tag. and say, i'd always had an idea that cornelia ann was rated about third row back. seein' the way she showed up there, though, with all that cinnamon coloured hair of hers piled on top of her head, and her big eyes glistenin', i had to revise the frame up. it didn't take me long to find out she'd shook the shrinkin' violet game, too. she steps up and gives us the glad hand and the gurgly jolly just as if she'd been doin' it all her life. it wa'n't any cheap hang-out that cornie has tacked her name plate on, either. there was expensive rugs on the floor, and brass lamps hangin' from the ceilin', and pieces of tin armor hung around on the walls, with nary a sign of an oil stove or a foldin' bed. a lot of folks was already on the ground. they was swells too, and they was floatin' around so thick that it was two or three minutes before i gets a view of what was sittin' under the big yellow sik lamp shade in the corner. say, who do you guess? swifty joe! honest, for a minute i thought i must be havin' a nerve spasm and seein' things that wa'n't so. but it was him, all right; big as life, and lookin' as prominent as a soap ad. on the back cover of a magazine. there was plenty of shady places in the room that he might have picked, but he has hunted out the bright spot. he's sittin' on one of these funny cross legged roman stools, with his toes turned in, and them grid-iron pants pulled up to show about five inches of macgregor plaid socks. and he has a satisfied look on his face that i couldn't account for no way. course, i thinks right off that he's broke into the wrong ranch and is waitin' for some one to come and show him the way out. and then, all of a sudden, i begins to remember things. you know, it was swifty that cornelia ann used to get to pose for her when she had the top floor back in our building. she made an embossed clay picture of him that joe used to gaze at by the hour. and once he showed me her photo that she'd given him. then there was the special invite he'd been tellin' me about. not bein' used to gettin' such things, he'd mistook that card to her studio openin' as a sort of private billy ducks, and he'd built up a dream about him and her havin' a hand-holdin' session all to themselves. "great cats!" thinks i. "can it be cornelia ann he's gone on?" well, all you had to do to get the answer was to watch swifty follow her around with his eyes. you'd thought, findin' himself in a bunch of top-notchers like that, and rigged out the way he was, he'd been feelin' like a green strawb'ry in the bottom of the basket. but nothin' of that kind had leaked through his thick skull. cornie was there, and he was there, dressed accordin' to his own designs, and he was contented and happy as a turtle on a log, believin' the rest of us had only butted in. i was feelin' all cut up over his break, and tryin' to guess how cornelia was standin' it, when she floats up to me and says: "wasn't it sweet of mr. gallagher to come? have you seen him?" "seen him!" says i. "you don't notice any bandage over my eyes, do you? notice the get up. why, he looks like a section of a billboard." "oh, i don't mind his clothes a bit," says she. "i think he's real picturesque. besides, i haven't forgotten that he used to pose for me when hiring models meant going without meals. i wish you would see that he doesn't get lonesome before i have a chance to speak to him again." "he don't look like he needed any chirkin' up," says i; "but i'll go give him the howdy." so i trots over to the yellow shade and ranges myself up in front of him. "you might's well own up, swifty," says i. "is cornie the one?" "uh-huh," says he. "told her about it yet?" says i. "ahr, chee!" says he. "give a guy a chance." "sure," says i. "but go slow, joey, go slow." i don't know how it happened, for all i told about it was sadie and mrs. purdy pell; but it wa'n't long before everyone in the joint was next to swifty, and was pipin' him off. they all has to be introduced and make a try at gettin' him to talk. for awhile he has the time of his life. mostly he just grins; but now and then he throws in an "ahr, chee!" that knocks 'em silly. the only one that don't fall for what's up is cornelia ann. she gets him to help her pass out the teacups and the cake, and tells everyone about how swifty helped her out on the model business when she was livin' on pickled pigs' feet and crackers. fin'lly folks begins to dig out their wraps and come up to tell her how they'd had a bully time. but joe never makes a move. sadie and mrs. pell wa'n't in any hurry either, and the first thing i knows there's only the five of us left. i see sadie lookin' from joe to cornie, and then passin' mrs. pell the smile. cornelia ann sees it too, and she has a synopsis of the precedin' chapters all in a minute. but she don't get flustered a bit. she sails over to the coat room, gets swifty's lid, and comes luggin' it out. "i'm awfully glad you came, mr. gallagher," says she, handin' out the bean pot, "and i hope to see you again when i have another reception--next year." "eh?" says swifty, like he was wakin' up from a dream. "next year! why, i thought that--" "yes, but you shouldn't," says she. "good night." then he sees the hat, and a light breaks. he grabs the lid and makes a dash for the door. "isn't he odd?" says cornelia. well say, i didn't know whether i'd get word that night that swifty had jumped off the bridge, or had gone back to the fusel oil. he didn't do either one, though; but when he shows up at the studio next mornin' he was wearin' his old clothes, and his face looks like he was foreman of a lemon grove. "ah, brace up, swifty," says i. "there's others." he just shakes his head and sighs, and goes off into a corner as if he wanted to die slow and lingerin'. then saturday afternoon, when it turns off so warm and we begins the noon shut down, i thinks i'll take a little run down to coney and hear the frankfurters bark. i was watchin' 'em load the boys and girls into a roller coaster, when along comes a car that has something familiar in it. here's swifty, wearin' his brass band suit, a cigar stickin' out of one corner of his mouth, and an arm around a fluffy haired flossie girl that was chewin' gum and wearin' a fruit basket hat. they was lookin' happy. "say, swifty," i sings out, "don't forget about cornie." "ahr, chee!" says he, and off they goes down the chute for another ten-cent ride. but say, i'm glad all them south brooklyn art clothes ain't goin' to be wasted. xviii playing wilbur to show it's all right. you can put the teddy sign on anything you read in the papers about matrimony's bein' a lost art, and collectin' affinities bein' the latest fad; for the plain, straight, old, love-honour-and-cherish business is still in the ring. i have pinckney's word for it, and pinckney ought to know. oh, yes, he's an authority now. sure, it was miss gerty, the twin tamer. and say, what do you suppose they did with that gift pair of terrors, jack and jill, while they was makin' the weddin' tour? took 'em along. honest, they travels for ten weeks with two kids, five trunks, and a couple of maids. "you don't look like no honeymoon couple," says i, when i meets 'em in jersey city. "i'd take you for an explorin' party." "we are," says pinckney, grinnin'. "we've been explorin' the western part of the united states. we have discovered colorado springs, the yosemite, and a lot more very interesting places, all over again." "you'll be makin' a new map, i expect," says i. "it would be new to most new yorkers," says he. and i've been tryin' ever since to figure out whether or no that's a knock. now and then i has a suspicion that pinckney's acquired some new bug since he's been out through the alfalfa belt; but maybe his idea of the west's bein' such a great place only comes from the fact that gerty was produced there. perhaps it's all he says too; but i notice he seems mighty glad to get back to main-st., n. y. you'd thought so if you'd seen the way he trails me around over town the first day after he lands. we was on the go from noon until one a. m., and his cab bill must have split a twenty up fine. what tickles me, though, is that he's the same old pinckney, only more so. bein' married don't seem to weigh no heavier on his mind than joinin' another club. so, instead of me losin' track of him altogether, he shows up here at the studio oftener than before. and that's how it was he happens to be on hand when this overgrown party from the ham orchard blows in. just at the minute, though, pinckney was back in the dressin' room, climbin' into his frock coat after our little half-hour session on the mat; so swifty joe and me was the reception committee. as the door opens i looks up to see about seven foot of cinnamon brown plaid cloth,--a little the homeliest stuff i ever see used for clothes,--a red and green necktie, a face the colour of a ripe tomato, and one of these buckskin tinted felt hats on top of that. measurin' from the peak of the stetson to the heels of his no. cinderellas, he must have been some under ninety inches, but not much. and he has all the grace of a water tower. whoever tried to build that suit for him must have got desperate and cut it out with their eyes shut; for it fit him only in spots, and them not very near together. but what can you do with a pair of knock knees and shoulders that slope like a hip roof? not expectin' any freaks that day, and bein' too stunned to make any crack on our own hook, me and swifty does the silent gawp, and waits to see if it can talk. for a minute he looks like he can't. he just stands here with his mouth half open, grinnin' kind of sheepish and good natured, as if we could tell what he wanted just by his looks. fin'lly i breaks the spell. "hello, sport," says i. "if you see any dust on top of that chandelier, don't mention it." he don't make any reply to that, just grins a little wider; so i gives him a new deal. "you'll find huber's museum down on th-st.," says i. "or have you got a bowery engagement?" this seems to twist him up still more; but it pulls the cork. "excuse me, friends," says he; "but i'm tryin' to round up an eatin' house that used to be hereabouts." "eatin' house?" says i. "if you mean the fried egg parlour that was on the ground floor, that went out of business months ago. but there's lots more just as good around on sixth-ave., and some that carry stock enough to fill you up part way, i guess." "i wa'n't lookin' to grub up just yet," says he. "i was huntin' for--for some one that worked there." and say, you wouldn't have thought anyone with a natural sunset colour like that could lay on a blush. but he does, and it's like throwin' the red calcium on a brick wall. "oh, tush, tush!" says i. "you don't mean to tell me a man of your size is trailin' some lizzie maud?" he cants his head on one side, pulls out a blue silk handkerchief, and begins to wind it around his fore finger, like a bashful kid that's been caught passin' a note in school. "her--her name's zylphina," says he,--"zylphina beck." "gee!" says i. "sounds like a new kind of music box. no relation, i hope?" "not yet," says he, swingin' his shoulders; "but we've swapped rings." "of all the cut-ups!" says i. "and just what part of the plowed fields do you and zylphina hail from?" "why, i'm from hoxie," says he, as though that told the whole story. "do tell!" says i. "is that a flag station or just a four corners? somewhere in ohio, ain't it?" "sheridan county, kansas," says he. "well, well!" says i. "now i can account for your size. have to grow tall out there, don't you, so's not to get lost in the wheat patch?" say, for a josh consumer, he was the easiest ever. all he does is stand there and grin, like he was the weak end of a variety team. but it seems a shame to crowd a willin' performer; so i was just tellin' him he'd better go out and hunt up a city directory in some drug store, when pinckney shows up, lookin' interested. "there!" says i. "here's a man now that'll lead you straight to zylphina in no time. pinckney, let me make you acquainted with mister--er----" "cobb," says the hoxie gent, "wilbur cobb." "from out west," i puts in, givin' pinckney the nudge. "he's yours." it ain't often i has a chance to unload anything like that on pinckney, so i rubs it in. the thoughts of him towin' around town a human extension like this wilbur strikes swifty joe so hard that he most has a chokin' fit. but you never know what turn pinckney's goin' to give to a jolly. he don't even crack a smile, but reaches up and hands mr. cobb the cordial shake, just as though he'd been a pattern sized gent dressed accordin' to the new fall styles. "ah!" says pinckney. "i'm very glad to meet anyone from the west. what state, mr. cobb?" and inside of two minutes he's gettin' all the details of this zylphina hunt, from the ground up, includin' an outline of wilbur's past life. seems that wilbur'd got his first start in maine; but 'way back before he could remember much his folks had moved to kansas on a homestead. then, when wilbur tossled out, he takes up a quarter section near hoxie, and goes to corn farmin' for himself, raisin' a few hogs as a side line. barrin' bein' caught in a cyclone or two, and gettin' elected junior kazook of the sheridan county grange, nothin' much happened to wilbur, until one day he took a car ride as far west as colby junction. that's where he meets up with zylphina. she was jugglin' stop over rations at the railroad lunch counter. men must have been mighty scarce around the junction, or else she wants the most she can get for the money; for, as she passes wilbur a hunk of petrified pie and draws him one muddy, with two lumps on the saucer, she throws in a smile that makes him feel like he'd stepped on a live third rail. accordin' to his tell, he must have hung around that counter all day, eatin' through the pie list from top to bottom and back again, until it's a wonder his system ever got over the shock. but zylphina keeps tollin' him on with googoo eyes and giggles, sayin' how it does her good to see a man with a nice, hearty appetite, and before it come time for him to take the night train back they'd got real well acquainted. he finds out her first name, and how she's been a whole orphan since she was goin' on ten. after that wilbur makes the trip to colby junction reg'lar every sunday, and they'd got to the point of talkin' about settin' the day when she was to become mrs. cobb, when zylphina gets word that an aunt of hers that kept a boardin' house in fall river, massachusetts, wants her to come on east right away. aunty has some kind of heart trouble that may finish her any minute, and, as zylphina was the nearest relation she had, there was a show of her bein' heiress to the whole joint. course, zylphina thinks she ought to tear herself loose from the pie counter; but before she quits the junction her and wilbur takes one last buggy ride, with the reins wound around the whip socket most of the way. she weeps on wilbur's shirt front, and says no matter how far off she is, or how long she has to wait for him to come, she'll always be his'n on demand. and wilbur says that just as soon as he can make the corn and hog vineyard hump itself a little more, he'll come. so zylphina packs a shoe box full of fried chicken, blows two months' wages into a yard of yellow railroad ticket, and starts toward the cotton mills. it's a couple of months before wilbur gets any letter, and then it turns out to be a hard luck tale, at that. zylphina has found out what a lime tastes like. she's discovered that the fall river aunt hasn't anything more the matter with her heart than the average landlady, and that what she's fell heiress to is only a chance to work eighteen hours a day for her board. so she's disinherited herself and is about to make a bold jump for new york, which she liked the looks of as she came through, and she'll write more later on. it was later--about six months. zylphina says she's happy, and hopes wilbur is the same. she's got a real elegant job as cashier in a high-toned, twenty-five cent, reg'lar-meal establishment, and all in the world she has to do is to sit behind a wire screen and make change. it's different from wearin' an apron, and the gents what takes their food there steady treats her like a perfect lady. new york is a big place; but she's getting so she knows her way around quite well now, and it would seem funny to go back to a little one-horse burg like colby. and that's all. nothin' about her bein' wilbur's on demand, or anything of that kind. course, it's an antique old yarn; but it was all fresh to wilbur. not bein' much of a letter writer, he keeps on feedin' the hogs punctual, and hoein' the corn, and waitin' for more news. but there's nothin' doin'. "then," says he, "i got to thinkin' and thinkin', and this fall, being as how i was coming as far east as chicago on a shipper's pass, i reckons i'd better keep right on here, hunt zylphina up, and take her back with me." the way he tells it was real earnest, and at some points them whey coloured eyes of his moistens up good an' dewy; but he finishes strong and smilin'. you wouldn't guess, though, that any corn fed romance like that would stir up such a blood as pinckney? a few months back he wouldn't have listened farther'n the preamble; but now he couldn't have been more interested if this was a case of romeo astor and juliet dupeyster. "shorty," says he, "can't we do something to help mr. cobb find this young lady?" "do you mean it," says i, "or are you battin' up a josh?" he means it, all right. he spiels off a lot of gush about the joy of unitin' two lovin' hearts that has got strayed; so i asks wilbur if he can furnish any description of zylphina. sure, he can. he digs up a leather wallet from his inside pocket and hands out a tintype of miss beck, one of these portraits framed in pale pink paper, taken by a wagon artist that had wandered out to the junction. judgin' by the picture, zylphina must have been a sure enough prairie-rose. she's wearin' her hair loose over her shoulders, and a genuine shy ann hat, one of those ten-inch brims with the front pinned back. the pug nose and the big mouth wa'n't just after the venus model; but it's likely she looked good to wilbur. i takes one squint and hands it back. "nix, never!" says i. "i've seen lots of fairies on d-st., but none like that. put it back over your heart, wilbur, and try an ad. in the lost column." but pinckney ain't willin' to give up so easy. he says how mr. cobb has come more'n a thousand miles on this tender mission, and it's up to us to do our best towards helping him along. i couldn't see just where we was let into this affair of wilbur's; but as pinckney's so set on it, i begins battin' my head for a way of takin' up the trail. and it's wonderful what sleuth work you can do just by usin' the 'phone liberal. first i calls up the agent of the buildin', and finds that the meal fact'ry has moved over to eighth-ave. then i gets that number and brings zylphina's old boss to the wire. sure, he remembers miss beck. no, she ain't with him now. he thinks she took a course in manicurin', and one of the girls says she heard of her doin' the hand holdin' act in an apartment hotel on west th-st. after three tries we has zylphina herself on the 'phone. "guess who's here," says i. "that you, roland?" says she. "aw, pickles!" says i. "set the calendar back a year or so, and then come again. ever hear of wilbur, from hoxie, kan.?" whether it was a squeal or a snicker, i couldn't make out; but she was on. as i couldn't drag wilbur up to the receiver, i has to carry through the talk myself, and i makes a date for him to meet her in front of the hotel at six-thirty that evenin', when the day shift of nail polishers goes off duty. "does that suit, wilbur?" says i. does it? you never saw so much pure joy spread over a single countenance as what he flashes up. he gives me a grip i can feel yet, and the grin that opens his face was one of these reg'lar ear connectors. pinckney was tickled too, and it's all i can do to get him off one side where i can whisper confidential. "maybe it ain't struck you yet," says i, "that zylphina's likely to have changed some in her ideas as to what a honey boy looks like. now wilbur's all right in his way; but ain't he a little rugged to spring on a lady manicure that hasn't seen him for some time?" and when pinckney comes to take a close view, he agrees that mr. cobb is a trifle fuzzy. "but we can spruce him up," says pinckney. "there are four hours to do it in." "four weeks would be better," says i; "it's considerable of a contract." that don't bother pinckney any. he's got nothing else on hand for the afternoon, and he can't plan any better sport than improvin' wilbur's looks so zylphina's first impression'll be a good one. he begins by making wilbur peel the cinnamon brown costume, drapin' him in a couple of bath robes, while swifty takes the suit out to one of these pants-pressed-while you wait places. when it comes back with creases in the legs, he hustles wilbur into a cab and starts for a barber shop. say, i don't suppose cobb'll ever know it; but if he'd been huntin' for expert help along that line, he couldn't have tumbled into better hands than he did when pinckney gets interested in his case. when they floats in again, along about six o'clock, i hardly knows wilbur for the same party. he's wearin' a long black ulster that covers up most of the plaid nightmare; he's shook the woolly lid for a fall block derby, he's had his face scraped and powdered, and his neck ringlets trimmed up; and he even sports a pair of yellow kids and a silver headed stick. "gosh!" says i. "looks like you'd run him through a finishing machine. why, he'll have zylphina after him with a net." "yes," says pinckney. "i fancy he'll do now." as for wilbur, he only looks good natured and happy. course, pinckney wants to go along with him, to see that it all turns out right; and he counts me in too, so off we starts. i was a little curious to get a glimpse of zylphina myself, and watch how stunned she'd be. for we has it all framed up how she'll act. havin' seen the tintype, i can't get it out of my head that she's still wearin' her hair loose and looking like m'liss in the first act. "hope she'll be on time," says i, as we turns the corner. there was more or less folks goin' and comin' from the ladies' entrance; but no girl like the one we was lookin' for. so we fetches up in a bunch opposite the door and prepares to wait. we hadn't stood there a minute, before there comes a squeal from behind, and some one says: "why, wilbur cobb! is that you?" and what do you guess shows up? there at the curb is a big, open tourin' car,--one of the opulent, shiny kind,--with a slick looking shuffer in front, and, standin' up in the tonneau, a tart little lady wearin' broadway clothes that was right up to the minute, hair done into breakfast rolls behind, and a long pink veil streamin' down her back. only by the pug nose and the mouth could i guess that it might be zylphina. and it was. there wa'n't any gettin' away from the fact that she was a little jarred at seein' wilbur lookin' so cute; but that was nothin' to the jolt she handed us. mr. cobb, he just opens his mouth and gazes at her like she was some sort of an exhibit. and pinckney, who'd been expectin' something in a dollar-thirty-nine shirtwaist and a sagged skirt, is down and out. it didn't take me more'n a minute to see that if zylphina has got to the stage where she wears pony jackets and rides in expensive bubbles, our little pie counter romance is headed for the ash can. "stung in both eyes!" says i under my breath, and falls back. "well, well!" says zylphina, holdin' out three fingers. "when did you hit broadway, wilbur?" it was all up to cobb then. he drifts up to the tonneau and gathers in the fingers dazed like, as if he was walkin' in his sleep; but he gets out somethin' about bein' mighty glad to see her again. zylphina sizes him up kind of curious, and smiles. "you must let me introduce you to my friend," says she. "roland, this is mr. cobb, from kansas." mr. shuffer grins too, as he swaps grips with wilbur. it was a great joke. "he's awfully nice to me, roland is," says zylphina, with a giggle. "and ain't this a swell car, though? roland takes me to my boardin' house in it 'most every night. but how are the corn and hogs doin', wilbur?" say, there was a topic wilbur was up on. he throws her a grateful grin and proceeds to unlimber his conversation works. he tells zylphina how many acres he put into corn last spring, how much it shucked to the acre, and how many head of hogs he has just sent to the ham and lard lab'ratory. that brand of talk sounds kind of foolish there under the arc lights; but zylphina pricks up her ears. "ten carloads of hogs!" says she. "is that a kid, or are you just havin' a dream?" "i cal'late it'll be twenty next fall," says he, fishin' for somethin' in his pocket. "here's the packing house receipts for the ten, anyway." "let's see," says she, and by the way she skins her eye over them documents you could tell that zylphina'd seen the like before. also she was somethin' of a ready reckoner. "oh, wilbur!" says she, makin' a flyin' leap and landin' with her arms around his neck. "i'm yours, wilbur, i'm yours!" and wilbur, he gathers her in. "roland," says i, steppin' up to the shuffer, "you can crank up. hoxie's won out in the tenth." xix at home with the dillons i was expectin' to put in a couple of days doin' the sad and lonely, sadie havin' made a date to run out to rocky wold for the week end; but friday night when i'm let off at the seventh floor of the perzazzer--and say, no matter how many flights up home is, there's no place like it--who should i see but sadie, just takin' off her hat. across by the window is one of the chamber maids, leanin' up against the casing and snifflin' into the expensive draperies. "well, well!" says i. "is this a rehearsal for a hank ibsen sprinkler scene, or is it a case of missin' jewels?" "it's nothing of the sort, shorty," says sadie, giving me the shut-off signal. then she turns to the girl with a "there, there, nora! everything will be all right. and i will be around sunday afternoon. run along now, and don't worry." with that she leads nora out to the door and sends her away with a shoulder pat. "who's been getting friendly with the help now; eh, sadie?" says i. "and what's the woe about?" course she begins at the wrong end, and throws in a lot of details that only lumbers up the record; but after she's been talkin' for half an hour--and sadie can separate herself from a lot of language in that time--i gets a good workin' outline of this domestic tragedy that has left damp spots on our window curtains. it ain't near so harrowin', though, as you might suspect. seems that nora has the weepin' habit. that's how sadie come to remember havin' seen her before. also it counts for nora's shiftin' so often. folks like mrs. purdy pell and the twombley-cranes can't keep a girl around that's liable to weep into the soup or on the card tray. if it wa'n't for that, nora'd been all right; for she's a neat lookin' girl, handy and willin',--one of these slim, rosy cheeked, black haired, north of ireland kind, that can get big wages, when they have the sense, which ain't often. well, she'd changed around until she lands here in the fresh linen department, workin' reg'lar twelve-hour shifts, one afternoon off a week, and a four-by-six room up under the copper roof, with all the chance in the world to weep and no one to pay any attention to her, until sadie catches her at it. trust sadie! when she finds nora leakin' her troubles out over an armful of clean towels, she drags her in here and asks for the awful facts. then comes the fam'ly history of the dillons, beginnin' on the old rent at ballyshannon and endin' in a five-room flat on double fifth-ave. when she comes to mentionin' larry dillon, i pricks up my ears. "what! not the old flannel mouth that's chopped tickets at the d-st. station ever since the l was built?" says i. "he's been discharged," says sadie. "did you know him?" did i know larry? could anyone live in this burg as long as i have, without gettin' acquainted with that old country face, or learnin' by heart his "ha-a-a-ar-lem thr-r-rain! ha-a-a-ar-lem!"? there's other old timers that has the brogue, but never a one could touch larry. a purple faced, grumpy old pirate, with a disposition as cheerful as a man waitin' his turn at the dentist's, and a heart as big as a ham, he couldn't speak a civil word if he tried; but he was always ready to hand over half his lunch to any whimperin' newsy that came along, and he's lent out more nickels that he'll ever see again. but about the other dillons, i got my first news from sadie. there was four of 'em, besides nora. one was tom, who had a fine steady job, drivin' a coal cart for the consolidated. a credit to the family, tom was; havin' a wife and six kids of his own, besides votin' the straight tammany ticket since he was nineteen. next there was maggie, whose man was on the stage,--shiftin' scenery. then there was kate, the lady sales person, who lived with the old folks. and last there was aloysius, the stray; and wherever he was, heaven help him! for he was no use whatever. "i take it that 'loyshy's the brunette southdown of the dillon flock," says i. "what particular brand of cussedness does he make a specialty of?" sadie says that nora hadn't gone much into particulars, except that when last heard of he'd joined the salvationists, which had left old larry frothin' at the mouth. he'd threatened to break aloysius into two pieces on sight, and he'd put the ban on speakin' his name around the house. "followin' the tambourine!" says i. "that's a queer stunt for a dillon. the weeps was for him, then?" they wa'n't. 'loyshy's disappearin' act had been done two or three years back. the tears was all on account of the fortieth weddin' anniversary of the dillons, fallin' as it did just a week after larry had the spell of rheumatism which got him laid off for good. it's a nice little way the inter-met. people has of rewardin' the old vets. an inspector finds larry, with his hand tied to the chopper handle, takes a look at his cramped up fingers, puts down his number, and next payday he gets the sack. "so you've found another candidate for your private pension list, have you, sadie?" says i. but that's another wrong guess. the dillons ain't takin' charity, not from anyone. it's the dillon sisters to the rescue. they rustles around until they find larry a job as night watch, in where it's warm. then they all chips in for the new tenth-ave. flat. maggie brings her man and the two kids, the lady kate sends around her trunks with the furniture, and nora promises to give up half of her twenty to keep things going. and then the bradys, who lives opposite, has to spring their blow out. they'd been married forty years too; but just because one of their boys was in the fire department, and 'lizzie brady was workin' in a sixth-ave. hair dressin' parlour, they'd no call to flash such a bluff,--frosted cake from the baker, with the date done in pink candy, candles burnin' on the mantelpiece, a whole case of st. louis on the front fire escape, and the district boss drivin' around in one of connely's funeral hacks. who was the bradys, that they should have weddin' celebrations when the dillons had none? kate, the lady sales person, handed out that conundrum. she supplies the answer too. she allows that what a brady can make a try at, a dillon can do like it ought to be done. so they've no sooner had the gas and water turned on at the new flat than she draws up plans for a weddin' anniversary that'll make the brady performance look like a pan of beans beside a standing rib roast. she knows what's what, the lady kate does. she's been to the real things, and they calls 'em "at homes" in harlem. the dillons will be at home sunday the nineteenth, from half after four until eight, and the bradys can wag their tongues off, for all she cares. it'll be in honour of the fortieth wedding anniversary of mr. and mrs. lawrence dillon, and all the family connections, and all friends of the same, is to have a bid. "well, that's the limit!" says i. "did you tell the girl they'd better be layin' in groceries, instead of givin' an imitation tea?" "certainly not!" says sadie. "why shouldn't they enjoy themselves in their own way?" "eh?" says i. "oh, i take it all back. but what was the eye swabbin' for, then?" by degrees i gets the enacting clause. the arrangements for the party was goin' on lovely,--larry was havin' the buttons sewed onto the long tailed coat he was married in, the scene shifter had got the loan of some stage props to decorate the front room, there was to be ice cream and fancy cakes and ladies' punch. father kelley had promised to drop in, and all was runnin' smooth,--when mother dillon breaks loose. and what do you guess is the matter with her? she wants her 'loyshy. if there was to be any fam'ly convention and weddin' celebration, why couldn't she have her little aloysius to it? she didn't care a split spud how he'd behaved, or if him and his father had had words; he was her youngest b'y, and she thought more of him than all the rest put together, and she wouldn't have a hand in any doin's that 'loyshy was barred from comin' to. as nora put it, "when the old lady speaks her mind, you got to listen or go mad from her." she don't talk of anything else, and when she ain't talkin' she's cryin' her eyes out. old larry swore himself out of breath, the lady kate argued, and maggie had done her best; but there was nothin' doin'. they'd got to find aloysius and ask him to the party, or call it off. but findin' 'loyshy wa'n't any cinch. he'd left the army long ago. he wa'n't in any of the fifteen-cent lodgin' houses. the police didn't have any record of him. he didn't figure in the hospital lists. the nearest anyone came to locatin' him was a handbook man the scene shifter knew, who said he'd heard of 'loyshy hangin' around the gravesend track summer before last; but there was no use lookin' for him there at this time of year. it wa'n't until they'd promised to advertise for aloysius in the papers that mother dillon quit takin' on and agreed to wear the green silk she'd had made for nora's chistenin'. "yes, and what then?" says i. "why," says sadie, "nora's afraid that if aloysius doesn't turn up, her mother will spoil the party with another crying spell; and she knows if he does come, her father will throw him out." "she has a happy way of lookin' at things," says i. "was it for this you cut out going to rockywold?" "of course," says sadie. "i am to pour tea at the dillons' on sunday afternoon. you are to come at five, and bring pinckney." "ah, pickles, sadie!" says i. "this is----" "please, shorty!" says she. "i've told nora you would." "i'll put it up to pinckney," says i, "and if he's chump enough to let himself loose in tenth-ave. society, just to help the dillons put it over the bradys, i expect i'll be a mark too. but it's a dippy move." course, i mistrusted how pinckney would take it. he thinks he's got me on the rollers, and proceeds to shove. he hasn't heard more'n half the tale before he begins handin' me the josh about it's bein' my duty to spread sunshine wherever i can. "it's calcium the dillons want," says i. "but i hadn't got to tellin' you about aloysius." "what's that?" says he. "aloysius dillon, did you say?" "he's the one that's playin' the part of the missing prod.," says i. "what is he like?" says pinckney, gettin' interested. "accordin' to descriptions," says i, "he's a useless little runt, about four feet nothin' high and as wide as a match, with the temper of a striped hornet and the instincts of a yellow kyoodle. but he's his mother's pet, just the same, and if he ain't found she threatens to throw fits. don't happen to know him, do you?" "why," says pinckney, "i'm not sure but i do." it looks like a jolly; but then again, you never can tell about pinckney. he mixes around in so many sets that he's like to know 'most anybody. "well," says i, "if you run across aloysius at the club, tell him what's on for sunday afternoon." "i will," says pinckney, lettin' out a chuckle and climbin' into his cab. i was hoping that maybe sadie would renige before the time come; but right after dinner sunday she makes up in her second best afternoon regalia, calls a hansom, and starts for tenth-ave., leavin' instructions how i was to show up in about an hour with pinckney, and not to forget about handin' out our cards just as if this was a swell affair. i finds pinckney got up in his frock coat and primrose pants, and lookin' mighty pleased about something or other. "huh!" says i. "you seem to take this as a reg'lar cut-up act. i call it blamed nonsense, encouragin' folks like the dillons to----" but there ain't any use arguin' with pinckney when he's feelin' that way. he only grins and looks mysterious. we don't have to hunt for the number of the dillons' flat house, for there's a gang of kids on the front steps and more out in the street gawpin' up at the lighted windows. we makes a dive through them and tackles the four flights, passin' inspection of the tenants on the way up, every door bein' open. "who's comin' now?" sings out a women from the second floor back. "only a couple of willies from the store," says a gent in his shirt sleeves, givin' us the stare. from other remarks we heard passed, it was clear the dillons had been tootin' this party as something fine and classy, and that they wa'n't making good. the signs of frost grows plainer as we gets nearer the scene of the festivities. all the dillon family was there, right enough, from the youngest kid up. old larry has had his face scraped till it shines like a copper stewpan, and him and mother dillon is standin' under a green paper bell hung from a hook in the ceiling. i could spot tom, the coal cart driver, by the ring of dust under his eyelashes; and there was no mistakin' lady kate, the sales person, with the double row of coronet hair rolls pinned to the top of her head. over in the corner, too, was sadie, talkin' to father kelley. but there wa'n't any great signs of joy. the whole party sizes up me and pinckney as if they was disappointed. i can't say what they was lookin' for from us; but whatever it was, we didn't seem to fill the bill. and just when the gloom is settlin' down thickest, mother dillon begins to sniffle. "now, mother," says nora, soothin' like, "remember there's company." "ah, bad scran to the lot of yez!" says the old lady. "where's my aloysius? where is he, will ye tell me that?" "divvul take such a woman!" says old larry. "tut, tut!" says father kelley. "will you look at the bradys now!" whispers maggie, hoarselike. it wa'n't easy guessin' which windows in the block was theirs, for every ledge has a pillow on it, and a couple of pairs of elbows on every pillow, but i took it that the bradys was where they was grinnin' widest. you could tell, though, that the merry laugh was bein' passed up and down, and it was on the dillons. and then, as i was tryin' to give sadie the get-away sign, we hears a deep honk outside, and i sees the folks across the way stretchin' their necks out. in a minute there's a scamperin' in the halls like a stampede at a synagogue, and we hears the "ah-h-hs!" coming up from below. we all makes a rush for the front and rubbers out to see what's happenin'. by climbin' on a chair and peekin' over the top of the lady kate's hair puffs, i catches a glimpse of a big yellow and black bodied car, with a footman in a bearskin coat holdin' open the door. "oh-o-o-oh! look what's here?" squeals eight little dillons in chorus. you couldn't blame 'em, either, for the hat that was bein' squeezed out through the door of the car was one of these broadway thrillers, four feet across, and covered with as many green ostrich feathers as you could carry in a clothes basket. what was under the feather lid we couldn't see. followin' it out of the machine comes somethin' cute in a butter colored overcoat and a brown derby. in a minute more we gets the report that the procession is headed up the stairs, and by the time we've grouped ourselves around the room with our mouths open, in they floats. in the lead, wearin' the oleo coat with yellow silk facin's, was a squizzled up little squirt with rat eyes and a mean little face about as thick as a slice of toast, and the same colour. his clothes, though, is a pome in browns and yellows, from the champagne tinted no. shoes to the tobacco coloured no. hat, leavin' out the necktie, which was a shade somewhere between a blue store front and a bottle of purple ink. even if i hadn't seen the face, i could have guessed who it was, just by the get-up. course, there's been a good many noisy dressers floatin' around the grill room district this winter, but there always has to be one real scream in every crowd; and this was it. "if it ain't shrimp!" says i. "hello, shorty!" says he, in that little squeak of his. and at that some one swoops past me. there's a flapping of green silk skirt, and mother dillon has given him the high tackle. "aloysius! my little 'loyshy!" she squeals. and say, you could have pushed me over with one finger. here i'd been hearin' for the last two seasons about this jock that had come up from stable helper in a night, and how he'd been winning on nine out of every ten mounts, and how all the big racing men was overbiddin' each other to get him signed for their stables. some of pinckney's sportin' friends had towed shrimp into the studio once or twice, and besides that i'd read in the papers all about his giddy wardrobe, and his big swede valet, and the english chorus girl that had married him. but in all this talk of sadie's about the dillon fam'ly, i'd never so much as guessed that aloysius, the stray, was one and the same as shrimp dillon. here he was, though, in the dillon flat, with mother dillon almost knockin' his breath out pattin' him on the back, and all the little dillons jumpin' around and yellin', "uncle 'loyshy, uncle 'loyshy!" and kate and maggie and nora waitin' their turns; and the rest of us, includin' old larry and me and sadie, lookin' foolish. the only one that acts like he wa'n't surprised is pinckney. well, as soon as shrimp can wiggle himself clear, and shake the little dillons off his legs, he hauls mrs. shrimp to the front and does the honours. and say, they make a pair that would draw a crowd anywhere! you know the style of chorus ladies the lieblers bring over,--the lengthy, high chested, golden haired kind? well, she's one of the dizziest that ever stood up to make a background for the pony ballet. and she has on a costume--well, it goes with the hat, which it puttin' it strong. if the sight of her and the circus coloured car wa'n't enough to stun the neighbours and send the bradys under the bed, they had only to wait till the swede valet and the footman began luggin' up the sheaf of two-dollar roses and the basket of champagne. i was watchin' old larry to see how he was takin' it. first he looks shrimp up and down, from the brown hat to the yellow shoes, and then he gazes at mrs. shrimp. then his stiff lower jaw begins saggin' down, and his knobby old fingers unloosens from the grip they'd got into at first sight of 'loyshy. it's plain that he was some in doubt about that chuckin' out programme he'd had all framed up. what larry had been expectin' should the boy turn up at all, was something that looked like it had been picked out of the bread line. and here was a specimen of free spender that had "keep the change!" pasted all over him. then, before he has it half figured out, they're lined up in front of each other. but old larry ain't one to do the sidestep. "aloysius," says he, scowlin' down at him, "where do ye be afther gettin' ut?" "out of the ponies, old stuff. where else?" says shrimp. "bettin'?" says larry. "bettin' nothin'!" says shrimp. "mud ridin'." "allow me," says pinckney, pushin' in, "to introduce to you all, ladies and gentlemen, mr. shrimp dillon, one of the best paid jockeys in america." "and what might they be payin' the likes of him for bein' a jockey?" says old larry. "why," says pinckney, "it was something like twenty thousand this season, wasn't it, shrimp?" "countin' bonuses and all," says shrimp, "it was nearer thirty-two." "thirty-two thou----" but larry's mouth is open so wide he can't get the rest out. he just catches his breath, and then, "'loyshy, me lad, give us your hand on it." "ahem!" says father kelley, pickin' up his hat, "this seems to be a case where the prodigal has returned--and brought his veal with him." "that's a thrue word," says larry. "'tis a proud day for the dillons." did they put it over the bradys? well, say! all the bradys has to do now, to remember who the dillons are, is to look across the way and see the two geranium plants growin' out of solid silver pots. course, they wa'n't meant for flower pots. they're champagne coolers; but mother dillon don't know the difference, so what's the odds? anyway, they're what 'loyshy brought for presents, and i'll bet they're the only pair west of sixth-avenue. xx the case of rusty quinn say, i ain't one of the kind to go around makin' a noise like a pickle, just because i don't happen to have the same talents that's been handed out to others. about all i got to show is a couple of punch distributors that's more or less educated, and a block that's set on some solid. not much to get chesty over; but the combination has kept me from askin' for benefit performances, and as a rule i'm satisfied. there's times, though, when i wish--say, don't go givin' me the hee-haw on this--when i wish i could sing. ah, i don't mean bein' no grand opera tenor, with a throat that has to be kept in cotton battin' and a reputation that needs chloride of lime. what would suit me would be just a plain, every day la-la-la outfit of pipes, that i could turn loose on coon songs when i was alone, or out with a bunch in the moonlight. i'd like to be able to come in on a chorus now and then, without havin' the rest of the crowd turn on me and call for the hook. what music i've got is the ingrowin' kind. when anybody starts up a real lively tune i can feel it throbbin' and bumpin' away in my head, like a blowfly in a milk bottle; but if ever i try uncorkin' one of my warbles, the people on the next block call in the children, and the truck drivers begin huntin' for the dry axle. now look at what bein' musical did for rusty quinn. who's rusty? well, he ain't much of anybody. i used to wonder, when i'd see him kickin' around under foot in different places, how it was he had the nerve to go on livin'. useless! he appeared about as much good to the world as a pair of boxin' gloves would be to the armless wonder. first i saw of rusty was five or six years back, when he was hangin' around my trainin' camp. he was a long, slab sided, loose jointed, freckled up kid then, always wearin' a silly, good natured grin on his homely face. about all the good you could say of rusty was that he could play the mouth organ, and be good natured, no matter how hard he was up against it. if there was anything else he could do well, no one ever found it out, though he tried plenty of things. and he always had some great scheme rattlin' round in his nut, something that was goin' to win him the big stake. but it was a new scheme every other day, and, outside of grinnin' and playin' the mouth organ, all i ever noticed specially brilliant about him was the way he used cigarettes as a substitute for food. long's he had a bag of fact'ry sweepin's and a book of rice papers he didn't mind how many meals he missed, and them long fingers of his was so well trained they could roll dope sticks while he slept. well, it had been a year or so since i'd run across him last, and if i'd thought about him at all, which i didn't, it would have been to guess what fin'lly finished him; when this affair out on long island was pulled off. the swells that owns country places along the south shore has a horse show about this time every year. as a rule they gets along without me bein' there to superintend; but last week i happens to be down that way, payin' a little call on mr. jarvis, an old reg'lar of mine, and in the afternoon he wants to know if i don't want to climb up on the coach with the rest of the gang and drive over to see the sport. now i ain't so much stuck on this four-in-hand business. it's jolty kind of ridin', anyway, and if the thing upsets you've got a long ways to fall; but i always likes takin' a look at a lot of good horses, so i plants myself up behind, alongside the gent that does the tara-tara-ta act on the copper funnel, and off we goes. it ain't any of these common fair grounds horse shows, such as anyone can buy a badge to. this is held on the private trottin' track at windymere--you know, that big estate that's been leased by the twombley-cranes since they started makin' their splurge. and say, they know how to do things in shape, them folks. there's a big green and white striped tent set up for the judges at the home plate, and banked around that on either side was the traps and carts and bubbles of some of the crispest cracker jacks on mrs. astor's list. course, there was a lot of people i knew; so as soon as our coach is backed into position i shins down from the perch and starts in to do the glad hand walk around. that's what fetches me onto one of the side paths leadin' up towards the big house. i was takin' a short cut across the grass, when i sees a little procession comin' down through the shrubbery. first off it looks like some one was bein' helped into their coat; but then i notices that the husky chap behind was actin' more vigorous than polite. he has the other guy by the collar, and was givin' him the knee good and plenty, first shovin' him on a step or two, and then jerkin' him back solid. loomin' up in the rear was a gent i spots right off for mr. twombley-crane himself, and by the way he follows i takes it he's bossin' the job. "gee!" says i to myself, "here's some one gettin' the rough chuck-out for fair." and then i has a glimpse of a freckly face and the silly grin. the party gettin' the run was rusty quinn. he's lookin' just as seedy as ever, being costumed in a faded blue jersey, an old pair of yellow ridin' pants, and leggin's that don't match. the bouncer is a great, ham fisted, ruddy necked britisher, a man twice the weight of rusty, with a face shaped like a punkin. as he sees me slow up he snorts out somethin' ugly and gives quinn an extra hard bang in the back with his knee. and that starts my temperature to risin' right off. "why don't you hit him with a maul, you bloomin' aitch eater," says i. "hey, rusty! what you been up to now?" "your friend's been happre'ended a-sneak thievin', that's w'at!" growls out the beef chewer. "g'wan," says i. "i wouldn't believe the likes of you under oath. rusty, how about it?" quinn, he gives me one of them batty grins of his and spreads out his hand. "honest, shorty," says he, "i was only after a handful of turkish cigarettes from the smokin' room. i wouldn't touched another thing; cross m' heart, i wouldn't!" "'ear 'im!" says the britisher. "and 'im caught prowlin' through the 'ouse!" with that he gives rusty a shake that must have loosened his back teeth, and prods him on once more. "ah, say," says i, "you ain't got no call to break his back even if he was prowlin'. cut it out, you big mucker, or----" say, i shouldn't have done it, seein' where i was; but the ugly look on his mug as he lifts his knee again seems to pull the trigger of my right arm, and i swings in one on that punkin head like i was choppin' wood. he drops rusty and comes at me with a rush, windmill fashion, and i'm so happy for the next two minutes, givin' him what he needs, that i've mussed up his countenance a lot before i sends in the one that finds the soft spot on his jaw and lands him on the grass. "here, here!" shouts mr. twombley-crane, comin' up just as his man does the back shoulder fall. "why, mccabe, what does this mean?" "nothin' much," says i, "except that i ain't in love with your particular way of speedin' the partin' guest." "guest!" says he, flushin' up. "the fellow was caught prowling. besides, by what right do you question my method of getting rid of a sneak thief?" "oh, i don't stop for rights in a case of this kind," says i. "i just naturally butts in. i happens to know that rusty here, ain't any more of a thief than i am. if you've got a charge to make, though, i'll see that he's in court when----" "i don't care to bother with the police," says he. "i merely want the fellow kicked off the place." "sorry to interfere with your plans," says i; "but he's been kicked enough. i'll lead him off, though, and guarantee he don't come back, if that'll do?" we both simmered down after he agrees to that proposition. the beef eater picks himself up and limps back to the house, while i escorts rusty as far as the gates, givin' him some good advice on the way down. seems he'd been workin' as stable helper at windymere for a couple of weeks, his latest dream bein' that he was cut out for a jockey; but he'd run out of dope sticks and, knowin' they was scattered around reckless in the house, he'd just walked in lookin' for some. "which shows you've lost what little sense you ever had," says i. "now here's two whole dollars, rusty. go off somewheres and smoke yourself to death. nobody'll miss you." rusty, he just grins and moseys down the road, while i goes back to see the show, feelin' about as much to home, after that run in, as a stray pup in church. it was about an hour later, and they'd got through the program as far as the youngsters' pony cart class, to be followed by an exhibit of fancy farm teams. well, the kids was gettin' ready to drive into the ring. there was a bunch of 'em, mostly young girls all togged out in pink and white, drivin' dinky shetlands in wicker carts covered with daisies and ribbons. in the lead was little miss gladys, that the twombley-cranes think more of than they do their whole bank account. the rigs was crowded into the main driveway, ready to turn into the track as soon as the way was cleared, and it sure was a sight worth seein'. i was standin' up on the coach, takin' it in, when all of a sudden there comes a rumblin', thunderin' sound from out near the gates, and folks begins askin' each other what's happened. they didn't have to wait long for the answer; for before anyone can open a mouth, around the curve comes a cloud of dust, and out dashes a pair of big greys with one of them heavy blue and yellow farm waggons rattlin' behind. it was easy to guess what's up then. one of the farm teams has been scared. next thing that was clear was that there wa'n't any driver on the waggon, and that them crazy horses was headed straight for that snarl of pony carts. there wa'n't any yellin' done. i guess 'most every body's throat was too choked up. i know mine was. i only hears one sound above the bang and rattle of them hoofs and wheels. that was a kind of a groan, and i looks down to see mr. twombley-crane standin' up in the seat of a tourin' car, his face the colour of a wax candle, and such a look in his eyes as i ain't anxious to see on any man again. next minute he'd jumped. but it wa'n't any use. he was too far away, and there was too big a crowd to get through. even if he could have got there soon enough, he couldn't have stopped them crazy brutes any more'n he could have blocked a cannon ball. i feels sick and faint in the pit of my stomach, and the one thing i wants to do most just then is to shut my eyes. but i couldn't. i couldn't look anywhere but at that pair of tearin' horses and them broad iron wheels. and that's why i has a good view of something that jumps out of the bushes, lands in a heap in the waggon, and then scrambles toward the front seat as quick as a cat. i see the red hair and the blue jersey, and that's enough. i knows it's that useless rusty quinn playin' the fool. now, if he'd had a pair of arms like jeffries, maybe there'd been some hope of his pullin' down them horses inside the couple of hundred feet there was between their front toe calks and where little miss gladys was sittin' rooted to the cushions of her pony cart. but rusty's muscle development is about equal to that of a fourteen-year boy, and it looks like he's goin' to do more harm than good when he grabs the reins from the whip socket. but he stands up, plants his feet wide, and settles back for the pull. almost before anyone sees his game, he's done the trick. there's a smash that sounds like a buildin' fallin' down, a crackin' and splinterin' of oak wood and iron, a rattlin' of trace chains, a couple of soggy thumps,--and when the dust settles down we sees a grey horse rollin' feet up on either side of a big maple, and at the foot of the tree all that's left of that yellow and blue waggon. rusty had put what strength he had into one rein at just the right time, and the pole had struck the trunk square in the middle. for a minute or so there was a grand hurrah, with mothers and fathers rushin' to grab their youngsters out of the carts and hug 'em; which you couldn't blame 'em for doin', either. as for me, i drops off the back of the coach and makes a bee line for that wreck, so i'm among the first dozen to get there. i'm in time to shove my shoulder under the capsized waggon body and hold it up. well, there ain't any use goin' into details. what we took from under there didn't look much like a human bein', for it was as limp and shapeless as a bag of old rags. but the light haired young feller that said he was a medical student guessed there might be some life left. he wa'n't sure. he held his ear down, and after he'd listened for a minute he said maybe something could be done. so we laid it on one of the side boards and lugged it up to the house, while some one jumps into a sixty-horse power car and starts for a sure enough doctor. it was durin' the next ten minutes, when the young student was cuttin' off the blue jersey and the ridin' pants, and pokin' and feelin' around, that mr. twombley-crane gets the facts of the story. he didn't have much to say; but, knowin' what i did, and seein' how he looked, i could easy frame up what was on his mind. he gives orders that whatever was wanted should be handed out, and he was standin' by holdin' the brandy flask himself when them washed out blue eyes of rusty's flickers open for the first time. "i--i forgot my--mouth organ," says rusty. "i wouldn't of come back--but for that." it wa'n't much more'n a whisper, and it was a shaky one at that. so was mr. twombley-crane's voice kind of shaky when he tells him he thanks the lord he did come back. and then rusty goes off in another faint. next a real doc. shows up, and he chases us all out while him and the student has a confab. in five minutes or so we gets the verdict. the doc. says rusty is damaged pretty bad. things have happened to his ribs and spine which ought to have ended him on the spot. as it is, he may hold out another hour, though in the shape he's in he don't see how he can. but if he could hold out that long the doc. knows of an a- sawbones who could mend him up if anyone could. "then telephone for him at once, and do your best meanwhile," says mr. twombley-crane. by that time everyone on the place knows about rusty and his stunt. the front rooms was full of people standin' around whisperin' soft to each other and lookin' solemn,--swell, high toned folks, that half an hour before hardly knew such specimens as rusty existed. but when the word is passed around that probably he's all in, they takes it just as hard as if he was one of their own kind. when it comes to takin' the long jump, we're all pretty much on the same grade, ain't we? i begun to see where i hadn't any business sizin' up rusty like i had, and was workin' up a heavy feelin' in my chest, when the doc. comes out and asks if there's such a party as shorty mccabe present. i knew what was comin'. rusty has got his eyes open again and is callin' for me. i finds him half propped up with pillows on a shiny mahogany table, his face all screwed up from the hurt inside, and the freckles showin' up on his dead white skin like peach stains on a table cloth. "they say i'm all to the bad, shorty," says he, tryin' to spring that grin of his. "aw, cut it out!" says i. "you tell 'em they got another guess. you're too tough and rugged to go under so easy." "think so?" says he, real eager, his eyes lightin' up. "sure thing!" says i. say, i put all the ginger and cheerfulness i could fake up into that lie. and it seems to do him a heap of good. when i asks him if there's anything he wants, he makes another crack at his grin, and says: "a paper pipe would taste good about now." "let him have it," says the doc. so the student digs out his cigarette case, and we helps rusty light up. "ain't there somethin' more, rusty?" says i. "you know the house is yours." "well," says he, after a few puffs, "if this is to be a long wait, a little music would help. there's a piano over in the corner." i looks at the doc. and shakes my head. he shakes back. "i used to play a few hymns," says the student. "forget 'em, then," says rusty. "a hymn would finish me, sure. what i'd like is somethin' lively." "doc.," says i, "would it hurt?" "couldn't," says he. also he whispers that he'd use chloroform, only rusty's heart's too bad, and if he wants ragtime to deal it out. "wish i could," says i; "but maybe i can find some one who can." with that i slips out and hunts up mrs. twombley-crane, explainin' the case to her. "why, certainly," says she. "where is effie? i'll send her in right away." she's a real damson plum, effie is; one of the cute, fluffy haired kind, about nineteen. she comes in lookin' scared and sober; but when she's had a look at rusty, and he's tried his grin on her, and said how he'd like to hear somebody tear off somethin' that would remind him of broadway, she braces right up. "i know," says she. and say, she did know! she has us whirl the baby grand around so's she can glance over the top at rusty, tosses her lace handkerchief into one corner of the keyboard, pushes back her sleeves until the elbow dimples show, and the next thing we know she's teasin' the tumpety-tum out of the ivories like a professor. she opens up with a piece you hear all the kids whistlin',--something with a swing and a rattle to it, i don't know what. but it brings rusty up on his elbow and sets him to keepin' time with the cigarette. then she slides off into "poor john!" and rusty calls out for her to sing it, if she can. can she? why, she's got one of them sterling silver voices, that makes vesta victoria's warblin' sound like blowin' a fish horn, and before she's half through the first verse rusty has joined in. "come on!" says he, as they strikes the chorus. "everybody!" say, the doc. was right there with the goods. he roars her out like a good one; and the student chap wa'n't far behind, either. you know how it goes-- john, he took me round to see his moth-er, his moth-er, his moth-er! and while he introduced us to each oth-er-- eh? well, maybe that ain't just the way it goes; but i can think the tune right. that was what i was up against then. i knew i couldn't make my voice behave; so all i does is go through the motions with my mouth and tap the time out with my foot. but i sure did ache to jump in and help rusty out. it was a great concert. she gives us all them classic things, like "the bird on nellie's hat," "waiting at the church," "no wedding bells for me," and so on; her fingers just dancin', and her head noddin' to rusty, and her eyes kind of encouragin' him to keep his grip. twice, though, he has to quit, as the pain twists him; and the last time, when he flops back on the pillows, we thought he'd passed in for good. but in a minute or so he's up again' callin' for more. say, maybe you think miss effie didn't have some grit of her own, to sit there bangin' out songs like that, expectin' every minute to see him keel over. but she stays with it, and we was right in the middle of that chorus that goes-- in old new york, in old new york, the peach crop's always fine-- when the foldin' doors was slid back, and in comes the big surgeon gent we'd been waitin' for. you should have seen the look on him too, as he sizes up them three singin', and rusty there on the table, a cigarette twisted up in his fingers, fightin' down a spasm. "what blasted idiocy is this?" he growled. "new kind of pain killer, doc.," says i. "tell you all about it later. what you want to do now is get busy." well, that's the whole of it. he knew his book, that bone repairer did. he worked four hours steady, puttin' back into place the parts of rusty that had got skewgeed; but when he rolls down his sleeves and quits he leaves a man that's almost as good as ever, barrin' a few months to let the pieces grow together. i was out to see rusty yesterday, and he's doin' fine. he's plannin', when he gets around again, to take the purse that was made up for him and invest it in airship stock. "and if ever i make a million dollars, shorty," says he, "i'm goin' to hand over half of it to that gent that sewed me up." "good!" says i. "and if i was you i'd chuck the other half at the song writers." zane grey's novels may be had wherever books are sold. ask for grosset & dunlap's list. the light of western stars a new york society girl buys a ranch which becomes the center of frontier warfare. her loyal superintendent rescues her when she is captured by bandits. a surprising climax brings the story to a delightful close. the rainbow trail the story of a young clergyman who becomes a wanderer in the great uplands--until at last love and faith awake. desert gold the story describes the recent uprising along the border, and ends with the finding of the gold which two prospectors had willed to the girl who is the story's heroine. riders of the purple sage a picturesque romance of utah of some forty years ago when mormon authority ruled. the prosecution of jane withersteen is the theme of the story. the last of the plainsmen this is the record of a trip which the author took with buffalo jones, known as the preserver of the american bison, across the arizona desert and of a hunt in "that wonderful country of deep canyons and giant pines." the heritage of the desert a lovely girl, who has been reared among mormons, learns to love a young new englander. the mormon religion, however, demands that the girl shall become the second wife of one of the mormons--well, that's the problem of this great story. the short stop the young hero, tiring of his factory grind, starts out to win fame and fortune as a professional ball player. his hard knocks at the start are followed by such success as clean sportsmanship, courage and honesty ought to win. betty zane this story tells of the bravery and heroism of betty, the beautiful young sister of old colonel zane, one of the bravest pioneers. the lone star ranger after killing a man in self defense, buck duane becomes an outlaw along the texas border. in a camp on the mexican side of the river, he finds a young girl held prisoner, and in attempting to rescue her, brings down upon himself the wrath of her captors and henceforth is hunted on one side by honest men, on the other by outlaws. the border legion joan randle, in a spirit of anger, sent jim cleve out to a lawless western mining camp, to prove his mettle. then realizing that she loved him--she followed him out. on her way, she is captured by a bandit band, and trouble begins when she shoots kelts, the leader--and nurses him to health again. here enters another romance--when joan, disguised as an outlaw, observes jim, in the throes of dissipation. a gold strike, a thrilling robbery--gambling and gun play carry you along breathlessly. the last of the great scouts by helen cody wetmore and zane grey the life story of colonel william f. cody, "buffalo bill," as told by his sister and zane grey. it begins with his boyhood in iowa and his first encounter with an indian. we see "bill" as a pony express rider, then near fort sumter as chief of the scouts, and later engaged in the most dangerous indian campaigns. there is also a very interesting account of the travels of "the wild west" show. no character in public life makes a stronger appeal to the imagination of america than "buffalo bill," whose daring and bravery made him famous. grosset & dunlap, publishers, new york * * * * * john fox, jr's. stories of the kentucky mountains may be had wherever books are sold. ask for grosset and dunlap's list. the trail of the lonesome pine. illustrated by f. c. yohn. the "lonesome pine" from which the story takes its name was a tall tree that stood in solitary splendor on a mountain top. the fame of the pine lured a young engineer through kentucky to catch the trail, and when he finally climbed to its shelter he found not only the pine but the foot-prints of a girl. and the girl proved to be lovely, piquant, and the trail of these girlish foot-prints led the young engineer a madder chase than "the trail of the lonesome pine." the little shepherd of kingdom come illustrated by f. c. yohn. this is a story of kentucky, in a settlement known as "kingdom come." it is a life rude, semi-barbarous; but natural and honest, from which often springs the flower of civilization. "chad," the "little shepherd" did not know who he was nor whence he came--he had just wandered from door to door since early childhood, seeking shelter with kindly mountaineers who gladly fathered and mothered this waif about whom there was such a mystery--a charming waif, by the way, who could play the banjo better that anyone else in the mountains. a knight of the cumberland. illustrated by f. c. yohn. the scenes are laid along the waters of the cumberland, the lair of moonshiner and feudsman. the knight is a moonshiner's son, and the heroine a beautiful girl perversely christened "the blight." two impetuous young southerners fall under the spell of "the blight's" charms and she learns what a large part jealousy and pistols have in the love making of the mountaineers. included in this volume is "hell fer-sartain" and other stories, some of mr. fox's most entertaining cumberland valley narratives. _ask for complete free list of g. & d. popular copyrighted fiction_ grosset & dunlap, west th st., new york * * * * * grosset & dunlap's dramatized novels the kind that are making theatrical history may be had wherever books are sold. ask for grosset & dunlap's list within the law. by bayard veiller & marvin dana. illustrated by wm. charles cooke. this is a novelization of the immensely successful play which ran for two years in new york and chicago. the plot of this powerful novel is of a young woman's revenge directed against her employer who allowed her to be sent to prison for three years on a charge of theft, of which she was innocent. what happened to mary. by robert carlton brown. illustrated with scenes from the play. this is a narrative of a young and innocent country girl who is suddenly thrown into the very heart of new york, "the land of her dreams," where she is exposed to all sorts of temptations and dangers. the story of mary is being told in moving pictures and played in theatres all over the world. the return of peter grimm. by david belasco. illustrated by john rae. this is a novelization of the popular play in which david warfield, as old peter grimm, scored such a remarkable success. the story is spectacular and extremely pathetic but withal, powerful, both as a book and as a play. the garden of allah. by robert hichens. this novel is an intense, glowing epic of the great desert, sunlit, barbaric, with its marvelous atmosphere of vastness and loneliness. it is a book of rapturous beauty, vivid in word painting. the play has been staged with magnificent cast and gorgeous properties. ben hur. a tale of the christ. by general lew wallace. the whole world has placed this famous religious-historical romance on a height of pre-eminence which no other novel of its time has reached. the clashing of rivalry and the deepest human passions, the perfect reproduction of brilliant roman life, and the tense, fierce atmosphere of the arena have kept their deep fascination. a tremendous dramatic success. bought and paid for. by george broadhurst and arthur hornblow. illustrated with scenes from the play. a stupendous arraignment of modern marriage which has created an interest on the stage that is almost unparalleled. the scenes are laid in new york, and deal with conditions among both the rich and poor. the interest of the story turns on the day-by-day developments which show the young wife the price she has paid. _ask for complete free list of g. & d. popular copyrighted fiction_ grosset & dunlap, west th st., new york * * * * * myrtle reed's novels may be had wherever books are sold. ask for grosset and dunlap's list lavender and old lace. a charming story of a quaint corner of new england, where by-gone romance finds a modern parallel. the story centers round the coming of love to the young people on the staff of a newspaper--and it is one of the prettiest, sweetest and quaintest of old-fashioned love stories. master of the vineyard. a pathetic love story of a young girl, rosemary. the teacher of the country school, who is also master of the vineyard, comes to know her through her desire for books. she is happy in his love till another woman comes into his life. but happiness and emancipation from her many trials come to rosemary at last. the book has a touch of humor and pathos that will appeal to every reader. old rose and silver. a love story,--sentimental and humorous,--with the plot subordinate to the character delineation of its quaint people and to the exquisite descriptions of picturesque spots and of lovely, old, rare treasures. a weaver of dreams this story tells of the love-affairs of three young people, with an old-fashioned romance in the background. a tiny dog plays an important role in serving as a foil for the heroine's talking ingeniousness. there is poetry, as well as tenderness and charm, in this tale of a weaver of dreams. a spinner in the sun. an old-fashioned love story, of a veiled lady who lives in solitude and whose features her neighbors have never seen. there is a mystery at the heart of the book that throws over it the glamour of romance. the master's violin. a love story in a musical atmosphere. a picturesque, old german virtuoso consents to take for his pupil a handsome youth who proves to have an aptitude for technique, but not the soul of an artist. the youth cannot express the love, the passion and the tragedies of life as can the master. but a girl comes into his life, and through his passionate love for her, he learns the lessons that life has to give--and his soul awakes. grosset & dunlap, publishers, new york * * * * * the novels of george barr mccutcheon may be had wherever books are sold. ask for grosset and dunlap's list graustark. illustrated with scenes from the play. with the appearance of this novel, the author introduced a new type of story and won for himself a perpetual reading public. it is the story of love behind a throne in a new and strange country. beverly of graustark. illustrations by harrison fisher. this is a sequel to "graustark." a bewitching american girl visits the little principality and there has a romantic love affair. prince of graustark. illustrations by a. i. keller. the prince of graustark is none other than the son of the heroine of "graustark." beverly's daughter, and an american multimillionaire with a brilliant and lovely daughter also figure in the story. brewster's millions. illustrated with scenes from the photo-play. a young man, required to spend one million dollars in one year; in order to inherit seven, accomplishes the task in this lively story. cowardice court. illus. by harrison fisher and decorations by theodore hapgood. a romance of love and adventure, the plot forming around a social feud in the adirondacks in which an english girl is tempted into being a traitor by a romantic young american. the hollow of her hand. illustrated by a. i. keller. a story of modern new york, built around an ancient enmity, born of the scorn of the aristocrat for one of inferior birth. what's-his-name. illustrations by harrison fisher. "what's-his-name" is the husband of a beautiful and popular actress who is billboarded on broadway under an assumed name. the very opposite manner in which these two live their lives brings a dramatic climax to the story. _ask for complete free list of g. & d. popular copyrighted fiction_ grosset & dunlap, west th st., new york * * * * * the novels of stewart edward white may be had wherever books are sold. ask for grosset and dunlap's list the blazed trail. illustrated by thomas fogarty. a wholesome story with gleams of humor, telling of a young man who blazed his way to fortune through the heart of the michigan pines. the call of the north. ills. with scenes from the play. the story centers about a hudson bay trading post, known as "the conjuror's house" (the original title of the book.) the riverman. ills. by n. c. wyeth and c. f. underwood. the story of a man's fight against a river and of a struggle between honesty and grit on the one side, and dishonesty and shrewdness on the other. rules of the game. illustrated by lejaren a. hiller. the romance of the son of "the riverman." the young college hero goes into the lumber camp, is antagonized by "graft," and comes into the romance of his life. gold. illustrated by thomas fogarty. the gold fever of ' is pictured with vividness. a part of the story is laid in panama, the route taken by the gold-seekers. the forest. illustrated by thomas fogarty. the book tells of the canoe trip of the author and his companion into the great woods. much information about camping and outdoor life. a splendid treatise on woodcraft. the mountains. illustrated by fernand lungren. an account of the adventures of a five months' camping trip in the sierras of california. the author has followed a true sequence of events. the cabin. illustrated with photographs by the author. a chronicle of the building of a cabin home in a forest-girdled meadow of the sierras. full of nature and woodcraft, and the shrewd philosophy of "california john." the gray dawn. illustrated by thomas fogarty. this book tells of the period shortly after the first mad rush for gold in california. a young lawyer and his wife, initiated into the gay life of san francisco, find their ways parted through his downward course, but succeeding events bring the "gray dawn of better things" for both of them. _ask for complete free list of g. & d. popular copyrighted fiction_ grosset & dunlap, west th st., new york * * * * * b. m. bower's novels thrilling western romances large mos. handsomely bound in cloth. illustrated chip, of the flying u a breezy wholesome tale, wherein the love affairs of chip and delia whitman are charmingly and humorously told. chip's jealousy of dr. cecil grantham, who turns out to be a big, blue eyed young woman is very amusing. a clever, realistic story of the american cow-puncher. the happy family a lively and amusing story, dealing with the adventures of eighteen jovial, big hearted montana cowboys. foremost amongst them, we find ananias green, known as andy, whose imaginative powers cause many lively and exciting adventures. her prairie knight a realistic story of the plains, describing a gay party of easterners who exchange a cottage at newport for the rough homeliness of a montana ranch-house. the merry-hearted cowboys, the fascinating beatrice, and the effusive sir redmond, become living, breathing personalities. the range dwellers here are everyday, genuine cowboys, just as they really exist. spirited action, a range feud between two families, and a romeo and juliet courtship make this a bright, jolly, entertaining story, without a dull page. the lure of dim trails a vivid portrayal of the experience of an eastern author, among the cowboys of the west, in search of "local color" for a new novel. "bud" thurston learns many a lesson while following "the lure of the dim trails", but the hardest, and probably the most welcome, is that of love. the lonesome trail "weary" davidson leaves the ranch for portland, where conventional city life palls on him. a little branch of sage brush, pungent with the atmosphere of the prairie, and the recollection of a pair of large brown eyes soon compel his return. a wholesome love story. the long shadow a vigorous western story, sparkling with the free, outdoor, life of a mountain ranch. its scenes shift rapidly and its actors play the game of life fearlessly and like men. it is a fine love story from start to finish. _ask for complete free list of g. & d. popular copyrighted fiction_ grosset & dunlap, west th st., new york * * * * * charming books for girls may be had wherever books are sold. ask for grosset and dunlap's list when patty went to college, by jean webster. illustrated by c. d. williams. one of the best stories of life in a girl's college that has ever been written. it is bright, whimsical and entertaining, lifelike, laughable and thoroughly human. just patty, by jean webster. illustrated by c. m. relyea. patty is full of the joy of living, fun-loving, given to ingenious mischief for its own sake, with a disregard for pretty convention which is an unfailing source of joy to her fellows. the poor little rich girl. by eleanor gates. with four full page illustrations. this story relates the experience of one of those unfortunate children whose early days are passed in the companionship of a governess, seldom seeing either parent, and famishing for natural love and tenderness. a charming play as dramatized by the author. rebecca of sunnybrook farm, by kate douglas wiggin. one of the most beautiful studies of childhood--rebecca's artistic, unusual and quaintly charming qualities stand out midst a circle of austere new englanders. the stage version is making a phenomenal dramatic record. new chronicles of rebecca, by kate douglas wiggin. illustrated by f. c. yohn. additional episodes in the girlhood of this delightful heroine that carry rebecca through various stages to her eighteenth birthday. rebecca mary, by annie hamilton donnell. illustrated by elizabeth shippen green. this author possesses the rare gift of portraying all the grotesque little joys and sorrows and scruples of this very small girl with a pathos that is peculiarly genuine and appealing. emmy lou: her book and heart, by george madden martin, illustrated by charles louis hinton. emmy lou is irresistibly lovable, because she is so absolutely real. she is just a bewitchingly innocent, hugable little maid. the book is wonderfully human. _ask for complete free list of g. & d. popular copyrighted fiction_ grosset & dunlap, west th st., new york * * * * * the novels of clara louise burnham may be had wherever books are sold. ask for grosset and dunlap's list jewel: a chapter in her life. illustrated by maude and genevieve cowles. a story breathing the doctrine of love and patience as exemplified in the life of a child. jewel will never grow old because of the immortality of her love. jewel's story book. illustrated by albert schmitt a sequel to "jewel," in which the same characteristics of love and cheerfulness touch and uplift the reader. the inner flame. frontispiece in color. a young mining engineer, whose chief ambition is to become an artist, but who has no friends with whom to realize his hopes, has a way opened to him to try his powers, and, of course, he is successful. the right princess. at a fashionable long island resort, a stately english woman employs a forcible new england housekeeper to serve in her interesting home. many humorous situations results. a delightful love affair runs through it all. the opened shutters. illustrated with scenes from the photo play. a beautiful woman, at discord with life, is brought to realize, by her new friends, that she may open the shutters of her soul to the blessed sunlight of joy by casting aside self love. the right track. frontispiece in color by greene blumenschien. a story of a young girl who marries for money so that she can enjoy things intellectual. neglect of her husband and of her two step children makes an unhappy home till a friend brings a new philosophy of happiness into the household. clever betsy. illustrated by rose o'neill. the "clever betsy" was a boat--named for the unyielding spinster whom the captain hoped to marry. through the two betsy's a delightful group of people are introduced. _ask for complete free list of g. & d. popular copyrighted fiction_ grosset & dunlap, west th st., new york * * * * * sewell ford's stories may be had wherever books are sold. ask for grosset and dunlap's list shorty mccabe. illustrated by francis vaux wilson. a very humorous story. the hero, an independent and vigorous thinker, sees life, and tells about it in a very unconventional way. side-stepping with shorty. illustrated by francis vaux wilson. twenty skits, presenting people with their foibles, sympathy, with human nature and an abounding sense of humor are the requisites for "side-stepping with shorty." shorty mccabe on the job. illustrated by francis vaux wilson. shorty mccabe reappears with his figures of speech revamped right up to the minute. he aids in the right distribution of a "conscience fund," and gives joy to all concerned. shorty mccabe's odd numbers. illustrated by francis vaux wilson. these further chronicles of shorty mccabe tell of his studio for physical culture, and of his experiences both on the east side and at swell yachting parties. torchy. illus. by geo. biehm and jas. montgomery flagg. a red-headed office boy, overflowing with wit and wisdom peculiar to the youths reared on the sidewalks of new york, tells the story of his experiences. trying out torchy. illustrated by f. foster lincoln. torchy is just as deliriously funny in these stories as he was in the previous book. on with torchy. illustrated by f. foster lincoln. torchy falls desperately in love with "the only girl that ever was," but that young society woman's aunt tries to keep the young people apart, which brings about many hilariously funny situations. torchy, private sec. illustrated by f. foster lincoln. torchy rises from the position of office boy to that of secretary for the corrugated iron company. the story is full of humor and infectious american slang. wilt thou torchy. illus. by f. snapp and a. w. brown. torchy goes on a treasure search expedition to the florida west coast, in company with a group of friends of the corrugated trust and with his friend's aunt, on which trip torchy wins the aunt's permission to place an engagement ring on vee's finger. grosset & dunlap, publishers, new york * * * * * jack london's novels may be had wherever books are sold. ask for grosset & dunlap's list john barleycorn. illustrated by h. t. dunn. this remarkable book is a record of the author's own amazing experiences. this big, brawny world rover, who has been acquainted with alcohol from boyhood, comes out boldly against john barleycorn. it is a string of exciting adventures, yet it forcefully conveys an unforgetable idea and makes a typical jack london book. the valley of the moon. frontispiece by george harper. the story opens in the city slums where billy roberts, teamster and ex-prize fighter, and saxon brown, laundry worker, meet and love and marry. they tramp from one end of california to the other, and in the valley of the moon find the farm paradise that is to be their salvation. burning daylight. four illustrations. the story of an adventurer who went to alaska and laid the foundations of his fortune before the gold hunters arrived. bringing his fortunes to the states he is cheated out of it by a crowd of money kings, and recovers it only at the muzzle of his gun. he then starts out as a merciless exploiter on his own account. finally he takes to drinking and becomes a picture of degeneration. about this time he falls in love with his stenographer and wins her heart but not her hand and then--but read the story! a son of the sun. illustrated by a. o. fischer and c. w. ashley. david grief was once a light-haired, blue-eyed youth who came from england to the south seas in search of adventure. tanned like a native and as lithe as a tiger, he became a real son of the sun. the life appealed to him and he remained and became very wealthy. the call of the wild. illustrations by philip r. goodwin and charles livingston bull. decorations by charles e. hooper. a book of dog adventures as exciting as any man's exploits could be. here is excitement to stir the blood and here is picturesque color to transport the reader to primitive scenes. the sea wolf. illustrated by w. j. aylward. told by a man whom fate suddenly swings from his fastidious life into the power of the brutal captain of a sealing schooner. a novel of adventure warmed by a beautiful love episode that every reader will hail with delight. white fang. illustrated by charles livingston bull. "white fang" is part dog, part wolf and all brute, living in the frozen north; he gradually comes under the spell of man's companionship, and surrenders all at the last in a fight with a bull dog. thereafter he is man's loving slave. grosset & dunlap, publishers, new york * * * * * novels of frontier life by william macleod raine handsomely bound in cloth. illustrated. may be had wherever books are sold. ask for grosset and dunlap's list mavericks. a tale of the western frontier, where the "rustler," whose depredations are so keenly resented by the early settlers of the range, abounds. one of the sweetest love stories ever told. a texas ranger. how a member of the most dauntless border police force carried law into the mesquit, saved the life of an innocent man after a series of thrilling adventures, followed a fugitive to wyoming, and then passed through deadly peril to ultimate happiness. wyoming. in this vivid story of the outdoor west the author has captured the breezy charm of "cattleland," and brings out the turbid life of the frontier with all its engaging dash and vigor. ridgway of montana. the scene is laid in the mining centers of montana, where politics and mining industries are the religion of the country. the political contest, the love scene, and the fine character drawing give this story great strength and charm. bucky o'connor. every chapter teems with wholesome, stirring adventures, replete with the dashing spirit of the border, told with dramatic dash and absorbing fascination of style and plot. crooked trails and straight. a story of arizona; of swift-riding men and daring outlaws; of a bitter feud between cattle-men and sheep-herders. the heroine is a most unusual woman and her love story reaches a culmination that is fittingly characteristic of the great free west. brand blotters. a story of the cattle range. this story brings out the turbid life of the frontier, with all its engaging dash and vigor, with a charming love interest running through its pages. grosset & dunlap, publishers, new york [illustration: we makes four trips back and forth between wolfville and red dog, crackin' off our good old ' 's at irreg'lar intervals, faro nell on her calico pony as the goddess of liberty, bustin' away with the rest. frontispiece. p. .] faro nell and her friends wolfville stories by alfred henry lewis author of "wolfville," "wolfville days," "wolfville nights," "wolfville folks," "the boss," "the sunset trail," "the apaches of new york," "the story of paul jones," etc. illustrations by w. herbert dunton and j. n. marchand g. w. dillingham company publishers new york copyright, , by g. w. dillingham company faro nell and her friends this book is dedicated to william eugene lewis as marking my appreciation of what qualities place him high among the best editors best brothers and best men i've ever met a. h. l. contents chapter page i dead shot baker ii old man enright's uncle iii cynthiana, pet-named original sin iv old monte, official drunkard v how the mocking bird was won vi that wolfville-red dog fourth vii propriety pratt, hypnotist viii that turner person ix red mike x how tutt shot texas thompson xi the funeral of old holt xii spelling book ben illustrations page we makes four trips back and forth between wolfville and red dog, crackin' off our good old ' 's at irreg'lar intervals, faro nell on her calico pony as the goddess of liberty, bustin' away with the rest. . . . frontispiece we're all discussin' the doin's of this yere road-agent when dan gets back from red-dog, an' the result is he unloads his findin's on a dead kyard. dead shot stops short at this hitch in the discussion, by reason of a bullet from the lightin' bug's pistol which lodges in his lung. the second evening old stallins is with us, dan boggs an' texas thompson uplifts his aged sperits with the "love dance of the catamounts." "it's you, oscar, that i want," observes miss bark. "i concloodes, upon sober second thought, to accept your offer of marriage." a couple of enright's riders comes a packin' a live bobcat into town. turkey track, seein' he's afoot an' thirty miles from his home ranch pulls his gun an' sticks up the mockin' bird's buckboard. we sees the turner person aboard an' wishes him all kinds of luck. "what's the subject?" peets asks. "that, my friend, is the 'linden in october,'" returns mike, as though he's a showin' us a picture of heaven's front gate. "him an' annalinda shore do constitoote a picture. 'thar's a pa'r to draw to,' says nell to texas, her eyes like brown diamonds." thar's a bombardment which sounds like a battery of gatlings, the whole punctchooated by a whirlwind of "whoops!" "onless girls is barred," declares faro nell, from her perch on the chair "i've a notion to take a hand." faro nell and her friends i dead shot baker "which you never knows dead shot baker?" this, from the old cattleman, with a questioning glance my way. "no? well, you shore misses knowin' a man! still, it ain't none so strange neither; even wolfville's acquaintance with dead shot's only what you-all might call casyooal, him not personally lastin' more'n three months. "this yere dead shot has a wife. thar's women you don't want to see ontil you're tired, an' women you don't want to see ontil you're rested, an' women you don't want to see no how--don't want to see at all. this wife of dead shot's belongs with the latter bunch. "last evenin' i'm readin' whar one of them philosophic sports asserts that women, that a-way, is shore the sublimation of the oncertain. that's how he lays it down; an' he never hedges the bluff for so much as a single chip. he insists that you can't put a bet on women; that you can bet on hosses or kyards or 'lections, but not on women--women bein' too plumb oncertain. as i reads along, i can't he'p feelin' that somehow this philosophic party must have knowed dead shot's wife. "the first time we-all ever sees dead shot, he comes trackin' into the red light one evenin' jest after the stage rolls up. bein' it's encroachin' on second drink time, he sidles up to the bar; an' then, his manner some diffident an' apol'getic, he says: "'gents, do you-all feel like a little licker, that a-way?' "it bein' imp'lite to reefuse, we assembles within strikin' distance of the bottles black jack is slammin' the len'th of the counter, an' begins spillin' out our forty drops. at this he turns even more apol'getic. "'which i trusts,' he says, 'that no one'll mind much if i takes water?' "of course no one minds. wolfville don't make no speshulty of forcin' whiskey onto no gent who's disinclined. if they prefers water, we encourages 'em. "'an' for this yere reason,' expounds boggs, once when he ondertakes to explain the public attitoode towards water to some inquirin' tenderfoot--'an' for this partic'lar reason: arizona is a dry an' arid clime; an' water drinkers bein' a cur'ous rarity, we admires to keep a spec'men or two buck-jumpin' about, so's to study their habits.' "as we picks up our glasses, dead shot sets to introdoocin' himse'f. "'my name, gents,' he says, 'is baker, abner baker. the wells-fargo folks sends me down yere from santa fe to ride shotgun for 'em.' "the name's plenty s'fficient. it's him who goes to a showdown with them three road agents who lays for the stage over in a spur of the black range back of san marcial, an' hives the three. that battle saves the company $ , ; an', they're that pleased with dead shot's industry, they skins the company's bankroll for a bundle of money the size of a roll of blankets, an' gives it to him by way of reward. it's the talk of the two territories. "while we-all knows dead shot when he speaks his name, none of us lets on. it's ag'inst ettiquette in the southwest to know more of a gent than what he tells himse'f. "'so water's all you samples?' puts in texas thompson, as we stands an' drinks. "'it's like this,' explains dead shot, appealin' round with his eye. 'you see i can't drink nosepaint none, an' drink successful.' "'shore,' observes faro nell, who's takin' her diminyootive toddy right at dead shot's elbow; 'thar's gents so organized that to go givin' 'em licker is like tryin' to play a harp with a hammer.' "that's me,' exclaims dead shot; 'that's me, miss, every time. give me a spoonful, an' i deemands a bar'l. after which, thar ain't no se'f respectin' camp that'll stand for my game.' "'i savvys what you means,' says tutt; 'i reecalls in my own case how, on the hocks of mebby it's the ninth drink--which this is years an' years ago, though--i mistakes a dem'crat primary for a methodist praise meetin', an' comes ramblin' in an' offers to lead in pra'r. which i carries the scars to this day.' "'which is why, dave,' interjecks cherokee hall, in hopes of settin' tutt to pitchin' on his p'litical rope, him bein' by nacher a oncompromisin' reepublican that a-way--'which is why you always holds dem'crats so low.' "'but i don't hold 'em low,' protests tutt. 'thar's heaps to be said for dem'crats, leastwise for the sort that's pesterin' 'round in the country i hails from.' "'what be your dem'crats like, dave?' texas urges. 'which i wants to see if they're same as the kind i cuts the trail of down about laredo.' "'well,' returns tutt, 'simply hittin' the high places, them dem'crats by which i'm born surrounded chews tobacco, sw'ars profoosely, drinks mighty exhaustive, hates niggers, an' some of 'em can read.' "'that deescription goes for laredo, too,' texas allows. 'this yere jedge, who gives my wife her divorce that time, an' sets the sheriff to sellin' up my steers for costs an' al'mony, is a dem'crat. what you says, dave, is the merest picture of that joorist.' "'i expects my wife'll come rackin' along _poco tiempo,'_ dead shot remarks, after a pause. 'i'm yere as advance gyard to sling things into shape.' "it's as good as a toone of music to see how softly his face lights up. he's as big an' wide an' thick an' strong as boggs, an' yet it's plain as paint that this yere wife of his, whoever she is, can jest nacherally make curl-papers of him. "that mention of a wife as usual sets texas to growlin'. "'thar you be, dan!' i overhears him whisper, same as if he's been ill-treated; 'the instant this dead-shot says "water" i'm onto it that he's a married man. water an' matrimony goes hand in hand.' "'now i don't see why none?' retorts boggs. "'because water's weakenin'. feed a sport on water, an' it's a cinch he falls a prey to the first female who ropes at him.' "'thar's dave,' boggs argyoos, noddin' towards tutt. 'ain't he drinkin' that time he weds tucson jennie?' "'dave's the exception. also, you-all remembers them circumstances, dan. dave don't marry jennie; jennie simply ups an' has him.' "'all the same,' contends boggs, 'i don't regyard dead shot's sobriety as no drawback. thar's lots of folks who's cap'ble of bein' sober an' sociable at one an' the same time.' "these yere low-voiced wranglin's between texas an' boggs is off to one side. meanwhile, the gen'ral confab proceeds. "'you ain't been long hooked up?' says doc peets, addressin' dead shot. "'about a year. she's in the stage that time i has the trouble with them hold-ups in the black range, an' she allows she likes my style.' "'we-all hears about that black range battle,' remarks enright. "'it's a mighty lucky play for me,' says dead shot; 'i don't ree'lize it while i'm workin' my winchester, but i'm winnin' a angel all the time. that's on the level, gents! i never puts my arm 'round her yet, but what i go feelin' for wings.' "'don't this make you sick?' texas growls to boggs. "'no, it don't,' boggs replies. 'on the contrary, i'm teched.' "'gents,' goes on dead shot, an' i sees his mustache tremble that a-way; 'i don't mind confessin' she's that angelic i'm half afraid to marry her. i ain't fine enough! it's like weddin' gunny-sack to silk--me makin' her my wife. which i shore has to think an' argyoo with myse'f a whole lot, before i gets the courage. ain't you-all ever noticed'--yere he appeals 'round to peets--'that every time you meets up with a angel, thar's always some smoke-begrimed an' sin-encrusted son of satan workin' double-turn to support her?' "peets nods. "'shore! well, it's sech reflections which final gives me the reequired sand. an' so, one evenin' up in albuquerque, we prances over before a padre an' we're married. you bet, it's like a vision.' "'any papooses?' asks tutt, plumb pompous. "'none as yet,' confesses dead shot, lookin' abashed. "'which i've nacherally got one,' an' yere tutt swells. 'you can put your case _peso_ on it he's the real thing, too.' "'little enright peets is certainly a fine child,' remarks nell. 'dave, you're shore licensed to be proud of him.' "'that's whatever,' adds boggs. 'little enright peets is nothin' short of bein' the no'th star of all hoomanity!' "mebby a week passes, an' one mornin' dead shot goes squanderin' over to tucson to bring his wife. an' nacherally we're on what they calls in st. looey the 'quee vee' to see her. at that, we-all don't crowd 'round permiscus when the stage arrives, an' we avoids everything which borders on mob voylence. "dead shot hits the street, lookin' that happy it's like he's in a dream, an' then goes feelin' about, soft an' solic'tous, inside. at last he lifts her out, an' stands thar holdin' her in his arms. she's shore beautiful; only she ain't no bigger 'n a ten year old youngone. yellow-ha'red an' bloo-eyed, she makes you think of these yere china ornaments that's regyarded artistic by the dutch. "they're certainly a contrast--him big as a house, her as small an' pretty as a doll! an' you should see that enamored dead shot look at her!--long an' deep, like a man drinkin'! son, sometimes i fears women, that a-way, misses all knowledge of how much they're loved. "'she ain't sick,' says dead shot, speakin' gen'ral; 'only she twists her off ankle gettin' out at the last station.' "dead shot heads for the little 'dobe he's fitted up, packin' his bloo-eyed doll in his arms. what's our impressions? no gent who signs the books as sech'll say anything ag'in a lady; but between us, thar's a sooperior wrinklin' of the little tipped-up nose, an' a cold feel to them bloo eyes, which don't leave us plumb enthoosiastic. "'it's like this,' volunteers enright, who stacks in to explain things. 'every gent's got his ideal; an' this yere wife of his is dead shot's ideal.' "'whatever's an ideal, doc?' asks boggs, who's always romancin' about for information. "'which an ideal, dan,' peets replies, 'is the partic'lar gold brick you're tryin' to buy.' "at the time dead shot's standin' thar with his fam'ly in his arms, nell comes out on the red light steps to take a peek. also, missis rucker an' tucson jennie is hoverin' about all sim'lar. after dead shot an' his bride has faded into their 'dobe, them three experts holds a energetic consultation in the street. of course, none of us has the hardihood to go j'inin' in their deelib'rations, but from what's said later we gets a slant at their concloosions. "'dead shot's a mighty sight too good for her,' is how missis rucker gives jedgment. 'it's peltin' pigs with pearls for him to go lovin' her like he does.' "shore; bein' ladies that-a-way, missis rucker, tucson jennie an' faro nell all visits dead shot's wife. but the feelin' is that they finds her some stuck up an' haughty. this yere notion is upheld by nell callin' her a 'minx,' while tucson jennie alloodes to her as a 'cat' on two sep'rate occasions. "dead shot an' his doll-bride, in the beginnin', seems to be gettin' along all right. it's only when thar's money goin' over, that dead shot has to buckle on his guns an' ride out with the stage. this gives him lots of time to hang 'round, an' worship her. which i'm yere to reemark that if ever a white man sets up an idol, that a-way, an' says his pra'rs to it, that gent's dead shot. thar's nothin' to it; prick her finger, an' you pierce his heart. "'it'd be beautiful if it wasn't awful,' says faro nell. "it ain't a month when events lifts up their p'isin heads, which goes to jestify them comments of nell's. thar's been a white house shift back in washington, an' a new postmaster's sent out. he's a dapper party, with what peets calls a 'van dyke' beard, an' smells like a ha'r-dresser's shop. "now if affairs stops thar, we could have stood it; but they don't. i abhors to say so, but it ain't two weeks before dead shot's wife's makin' onmistak'ble eyes at that postmaster. them times when dead shot's dooties has took him to the other end of the trail, she's over to the post office constant. none of us says anything, not even to ourselves; but when it gets to whar she shoves you away from the letter place, an' begins talkin' milk and honey to him right under your nose, onless you're as blind as steeple bats, an' as deaf as the adder of scriptoore which stoppeth her y'ear, you're shore bound to do some thinkin'. [illustration: we're all discussin' the doin's of this yere road-agent when dan gets back from red-dog, an' the result is he unloads his findin's on a dead kyard. p. .] "'which if ever a gov'ment offishul,' exclaims texas, as he comes t'arin' into the red light one evenin', deemandin' drinks--'which if ever a gov'ment offishul goes organizin' his own fooneral that a-way, it's this yere deeboshed postmaster next door!' "thar's nothin' said, but we-all knows what's on texas's mind. that wife of dead shot's, for the fo'th time that day, has gone askin' for letters. "'she writes 'em to herse'f,' is the way missis rucker lays it down. 'also, it's doo to the crim'nal besottedness of that egreegious dead shot. the man's shorely love-blind!' "'you ain't goin' to t'ar into him for that, be you?' nell asks, her tones reproachful. 'him lovin' her like he does shore makes a hit with me. a limit goes in farobank; but my notion is to take the bridle off when the game's love.' "'but all the same he needn't get that lovin' it addles him,' says missis rucker. 'in a way, it's dead shot's sole fault, her actin' like she does. instead of keepin' them mexicans to do her work, dead shot ought to make her go surgin' round, an' care for her house herse'f. thar ain't nobody needs steady employment more'n a woman. you-all savvys where it says that satan finds some mischief still for idle hands to do? which you bet that bluff means women--an' postmasters--every time.' "missis rucker continues along sim'lar lines, mighty inflexible, for quite a spell. she concloodes by sayin': "'you keep a woman walsin' round a cook-stove, or wrastlin' a washtub, or jugglin' pots an' skillets, same as them sleight-of-hand folks at the bird cage op'ry house, an' she won't be so free to primp an' preen an' look at herse'f in the glass, an' go gaddin' after letters which she herse'f's done writ.' "we-all can't he'p hearin' this yere, seen' we're settin' round the o. k. dinin' table feedin' at the time; but we stubbornly refooses to be drawed into any views, enright settin' us the example. that sagacious old warchief merely reaches for the salt-hoss, an' never yeeps; wharupon we maintains ourselves stoodiously yeepless likewise. "things goes on swingin' an' rattlin', an' the open-air flirtations which dead shot's wife keeps up with that outcast of a postmaster's enough to give you a chill. we sets thar, powerless, expectin' a killin' every minute. an' all the time, like his eyes has took a layoff, dead shot wanders to an' fro, boastin' an' braggin' in the mushiest way about his wife. moreover--an' this trenches on eediotcy--he goes out of his path to make a pard of the postmaster, an' has that deebauchee over to his shack evenin's. "dead shot even begins publicly singin' the praises of this office holder. "'which it's this a-way,' he says; 'what with him bein' book-read an' a sport who's seen foreign lands, he's company for my wife. she herse'f's eddicated to a feather-edge; an', nacherally, that's what gives 'em so much in common.' "thar's all the same a note in dead shot's voice that's like the echo of a groan. it looks, too, as though it sets fire to texas, who jumps up as if he's stung by a trant'ler. "'come,' he says, grabbin' boggs by the shoulder. "texas has boggs drug half-way to the door, before enright can head 'em off. "'whar to?' demands enright; an' then adds, 'don't you-all boys go nigh that post office.' "'all right,' says texas final, but gulpin' a little; 'since it's you who says so, sam, we won't. me an' dan yere'll merely take a little _passear_ as far as the graveyard, by way of reecoverin' our sperits an' to get the air. i'll shore blow up if obleeged to listen to that dead shot any longer.' "'i sees it in his eye,' enright explains in a low tone to peets, as he resoomes his cha'r; 'texas is simply goin' to bend his gun over that letter man's head.' "'how often has i told you, dan,' asks texas, after they gets headed for boot hill, an' texas has regained his aplomb, 'that women is a brace game?' "'not all women,' boggs objects; 'thar's nell.' "'shore; nell!' texas consents. 'sech as her has all of the honor an' honesty of a colt's- . a gent can rely on the nellie brand, same as he can on his guns. but nellie's one in one thousand. them other nine hundred an' ninety-nine'll deal you the odd-kyard, dan, every time.' "when texas an' boggs arrives at boot hill, texas goes seelectin' about, same as if he's searchin' out a site for a grave. at last he finds a place whar thar's nothin' but mesquite, soapweed an' rocks, it's that ornery: "'yere's whar we plants him,' says texas; 'off yere, by himse'f, like as if he's so much carrion.' "'who you talkin' about?' asks boggs, some amazed. "'who?' repeats texas; 'whoever but that postmaster? dead shot's got to get him soon or late. an' followin' the obsequies, thar ain't goin' to be no night gyards neither. which if them coyotes wants to dig him up, they're welcome. it's their lookout, not mine; an' i ain't got no love for coyotes no how.' "'thar ain't no coyote in cochise county who's sunk that low he'll eat him,' says boggs. "like every other outfit, wolfville sees its hours of sunshine an' its hours of gloom, its lights an' its shadders. but i'm yere to state that it never suffers through no more nerve-rackin' eepock than that which it puts in about dead shot an' his wife. she don't bother us so much as him. it's dead shot himse'f, praisin' up the postmaster an' paintin' the sun-kissed virchoose of his wife, which keeps the sweat a-pourin' down the commoonal face. an' all that's left us is to stand pat, an' wait for the finish! "one day the wells-fargo people sends dead shot to santa fe to take a money box over to taos. two days later, dead shot's wife finds she's got to go visit tucson. likewise, the postmaster allows he's been ordered to wilcox, to straighten out some deepartmental kinks. which we certainly sets thar an' looks at each other!--the play's that rank. "the postmaster an' dead shot's wife goes rumblin' out on the same stage. monte starts to tell us what happens when he returns, but the old profligate don't get far. "'gents,' he says, 'that last trip, when dead shot's----' "'shet up,' roars enright, an' monte shore shets up. "it comes plenty close to killin' the mis'rable old dipsomaniac at that. he swells an' he swells, with that pent-up information inside of him, ontil he looks like a dissipated toad. but sech is his awe of enright, he never dar's opens his clamshell. "it's a week before dead shot's wife gets back, an' the postmaster don't show up till four days more. then dead shot himse'f comes trackin' in. "faro nell, who's eyes is plumb keen that a-way, lets on to cherokee private that dead shot looks sorrow-ridden. but i don't know! dead shot's nacherally grave, havin' no humor. a gent who constant goes messin' round with road agents, shootin' an' bein' shot at, ain't apt to effervesce. nell sticks to it, jest the same, that he's onder a cloud. "dead shot continyoos to play his old system, an' cavorts 'round plumb friendly with the postmaster, an' goes teeterin' yere an' thar tellin' what a boon from heaven on high his wife is, same as former. "faro nell shakes her head when cherokee mentions this last: "'that's his throw-off,' she says. "one evenin' dead shot comes trailin' into the red light, an' strolls over to whar cherokee's dealin' bank. "'what's the limit?' he asks. "at this, we-all looks up a whole lot. it's the first time ever dead shot talks of puttin' down a bet. "cherokee's face is like a mask, the face of the thorough-paced kyard sharp. he shows no more astonishment than if dead shot's been settin' in ag'inst his game every evenin' for a month. "'one hundred an' two hundred,' says cherokee. "_'bueno!'_ an' dead shot lays down two one-hundred dollar bills between the king and queen. "thar's two turns. the third the kyards falls 'ten-king,' an' nell, from her place on the lookout's stool, shoves over two hundred dollars in bloo checks. thar they are, with the two one-hundred dollar bills, between the king an' queen. "'does it go as it lays?' asks dead shot, it bein' double the limit. "'it goes,' says cherokee, never movin' a muscle. "one turn, an' the kyards falls 'trey-queen.' nell shoves four hundred across to match up with dead shot's four hundred. "'an' now?' dead shot asks. "'i'll turn for it,' cherokee responds. "it's yere that dead shot's luck goes back on him. the turn comes 'queen-jack,' an' nell rakes down the eight hundred. "dead shot's hand goes to the butt of his gun. "'i've been robbed,' he growls; 'thar's fifty-three kyards in that deck.' "cherokee's on his feet, his eyes like two steel p'ints, gun half drawed. but nell's as quick. her hand's on cherokee's, an' she keeps his gun whar it belongs. "'steady!' she says; 'can't you see he's only coaxin' you to bump him off?' then, with her face full on dead shot, she continyoos: 'it won't do, dead shot; it won't do none! you-all can't get it handed to you yere! you're in the wrong shop; you-all ought to try next door!' an' nell p'ints with her little thumb through the wall to the post office. "dead shot stands thar the color of seegyar ashes, while cherokee settles ca'mly back in his cha'r. cherokee's face is as bar' of expression as a blank piece of paper, as he runs his eye along the lay-out, makin' ready for the next turn. thar's mebby a dozen of us playin', but not a word is spoke. everyone is onto dead shot's little game, the moment nell begins to talk. "matters seems to hang on centers, ontil nell stretches across an' lays her baby hand on dead shot's: "'thar ain't a soul in sight,' she says, mighty soft an' good, 'but what's your friend, dead shot.' "dead shot, pale as a candle, wheels toward the door. "'pore dead shot!' murmurs nell, the tears in her eyes, to that extent she has to ask boggs to take her place as lookout. "four hours goes by, an' thar's the poundin' of a pony's hoofs, an' the creak of saddle-leathers, out in front. it's the red dog chief, who's come lookin' for enright. "they confabs a minute or two at a table to the r'ar, an' then enright calls peets over. "'dead shot's gone an' got himse'f downed,' he says. [illustration: dead shot stops short at this hitch in the discussion, by reason of a bullet from the lightin' bug's pistol which lodges in his lung. p. .] "'it's on the squar' gents,' explains the red dog chief; 'dead shot'll say so himself. he jest nacherally comes huntin' it.' "it looks like dead shot, after that failure with cherokee in the red light, p'ints across for red dog. he searches out a party who's called the lightnin' bug, on account of the spontaneous character of his six-shooter. dead shot finds the lightnin' bug talkin' with two fellow gents. he listens awhile, an' then takes charge of the conversation. "'bug,' he says, raisin' his voice like it's a challenge--'bug, only i'm afraid folks'll string you up a whole lot, i'd say it's you who stood up the stage last week in apache canyon. also'--an' yere dead shot takes to gropin' about in his jeans, same as if he's feelin' for a knife--'it's mighty customary with me, on occasions sech as this, to cut off the y'ears of----' "dead shot stops short, by reason of a bullet from the bug's pistol which lodges in his lungs. "when peets an' enright finds him, he's spread out on the red dog chief's blankets, coughin' blood, with the sorrow-stricken bug proppin' him up one moment to drink water, an' sheddin' tears over him the next, alternate. "the red dog chief leads out the weepin' bug, who's lamentin' mighty grievous, an' leaves enright an' peets with dead shot. "'it's all right, gents,' whispers dead shot; 'i comes lookin' for it, an' i gets it. likewise, she ain't to blame; it's me. i oughtn't to have married her that time--she only a girl, an' me a full-growed man who should 'av had sense for both.' "'that's no lie,' says peets, an' dead shot gives him a grateful look. "'no,' he goes on, 'she's too fine, too high--i wasn't her breed. an' i ought to have seen it.' yere he has a tussle to hang on. "peets pours him out some whiskey. "'it's licker, ain't it?' dead shot gasps, sniffin' the glass. 'i'm for water, doc, licker makin' me that ornery.' "'down with it,' urges peets. 'which, if i'm a jedge, you'll pack in long before you're due to start anything extra serious, even if you drinkt a gallon.' "'shore!' agrees dead shot, as though the idee brings him relief. 'for a moment it slips my mind about me bein' plugged. but as i'm sayin', gents, don't blame her. an' don't blame him. i has my chance, an' has it all framed up, too, when i crosses up with 'em recent over in tucson, to kill 'em both. but i can't do it, gents. the six-shooter at sech a time's played out. that's straight; it don't fill the bill; it ain't adequate, that a-way. so all i can do is feel sorry for 'em, an' never let 'em know i knows. for, after all, it ain't their fault, it's mine. you sports see that, don't you? she's never meant for me, bein' too fine; an', me a man, i ought to have knowed.' "dead shot ceases talkin', an' enright glances at peets. peets shakes his head plenty sorrowful. "'go on,' he says to dead shot; 'you-all wants us to do--what?' "'thar you be!' an' at the sound of peets' voice dead shot's mind comes creepin' back to camp. 'she'll be happy with him--they havin' so much in common--an' him an' her bein' eddicated that a-way--an' him havin' traveled a whole lot! an' this yere's what i wants, gents. i wants you-all, as a kindness to me an' in a friendly way--seein' i can't stay none to look-out the play myse'f--to promise to sort o' supervise round an' put them nuptials over right. i takes time by the forelock an' sends to tucson for a sky-pilot back two days ago. bar accidents, he'll be in camp by to-morry. he can work in at the funeral, too, an' make it a whipsaw.' "dead shot turns his eyes on enright. it's always so about our old chief; every party who's in trouble heads for him like a coyote for a camp fire. "'you'll shore see that he marries her?--promise!' "thar's a quaver in dead shot's voice, peets tells me, that's like a pra'r. "'thar's my hand, dead shot,' says enright, who's chokin' a little. 'so far as the letter man's concerned, it'll be the altar or the windmill, jack moore an' a lariat or that preacher party you refers to.' "dead shot's gettin' mighty weak. after enright promises he leans back like he's takin' a rest. he's so still they're beginnin' to figger he's done cashed in; but all at once he starts up like he's overlooked some bet, an' has turned back from eternity to tend to it. "'about cherokee an' his box,' he whispers; 'that's a lyin' bluff i makes. tell him i don't mean nothin'; i'm only out to draw his fire.' "after this dead shot only rouses once. his voice ain't more'n a sigh. "'i forgets to tell you,' he says, 'to give her my love. an' you say, too, that i'm bumped off like snuffin' out a candle--too plumb quick for her to get yere. an' don't blame her, gents; it's not her fault, it's mine.' "it's the week after the fooneral. the postmaster's still in town, partly by nacheral preference, partly because enright notifies jack moore to ride herd on him, an' fill him as full of lead as a bag of bullets in event he ondertakes to go stampedin' off. "in the red light the seventh evenin' enright rounds up peets. "'doc,' he says, 'a month would be more respect'ble, but this yere's beginnin' to tell on me.' "'besides,' peets chips in, by way of he'pin' enright out, 'that preacher sharp corraled over to missis rucker's is gettin' restless. onless we side-lines or puts hobbles on that divine we-all can't expect to go holdin' him much longer.' "enright leads the way to the r'ar wareroom of the noo york store, which bein' whar the stranglers holds their meetin's is wolfville's hall of jestice. after licker is brought enright sends jack moore for the postmaster, who comes in lookin' plenty white. missis rucker brings over the divine; an' next dead shot's widow--she's plumb lovely in black--appears on the arm of peets, who goes in person. "thar's a question in the widow's eye, like she don't onderstand. "'roll your game,' says enright to the preacher sharp. "it's yere an' now dead shot's widow fully b'ars out that philos'pher who announces so plumb cold, that a-way, that women's the sublimation of the onexpected. jack moore's jest beginnin' to manoover that recreant public servant into p'sition on the widow's left hand, so's he can be married to the best advantage, an' the preacher sharp's gettin' out an' openin' his book of rooles, when the widow draws back. "p'intin' at the bridegroom postmaster, same as if he's a stingin' lizard, she addresses enright. "'whatever's the meanin' of this?' "'merely the croode preelim'naries, ma'am,' enright explains, 'to what we-all trusts will prove a fa'rly deesir'ble weddin'.' "'me marry him?' an' the onmitigated scorn that relict exhibits, to say nothin' of her tone of voice, shore makes the postmaster bridegroom feel chagrined. "'you'll pardon us, ma'am,' returns enright, soft an' depreecatory, tryin' to get her feelin's bedded down, 'which you'll shore pardon us if in our dullness we misreads your sentiments. you see, the notion gets somehow proned into us that you wants this party. which if we makes a mistake, by way of repa'rin' that error, let me say that if thar's any one else in sight whom you preefers, an' who's s'fficiently single an' yoothful to render him el'gible for wedlock,'--yere enright takes in boggs an' texas with his gaze, wharat texas grows as green-eyed as a cornered bobcat--'he's yours, ma'am, on your p'intin' him out.' "'which i don't want to marry no one,' cries the widow, commencin' to sob. 'an' as for marryin' him speshul'--yere she glances at the bridegroom postmaster in sech a hot an' drastic way he's left shrivellin' in his own shame--'i'd sooner live an' die the widow of dead shot abner baker than be the wife of a cornfield full of sech.' "everybody stares, an' enright takes a modicum of old jordan. "'you don't deeserve this none,' he says at last, turnin' to the postmaster bridegroom. 'onder the circumstances, however, thar's nothin' left for me to do as cha'rman but deeclar' this yere weddin' a misdeal.' "texas is plumb disgusted. "'don't some folks have nigger luck, dan?' he says. "later, after thinkin' things up an' down in his mind, texas takes ombrage at enright's invitin' dead shot's widow to look him an' boggs over that a-way, an' take her pick. "'which sech plays don't stand ace-high with me, sam,' texas says--'you tryin' to auction me off like you does. even a stranger, with a half-way hooman heart, after hearin' my story would say that i already suffers enough. an' yet you, who calls yourse'f my friend, does all that lays in your callous power to thrust me back into torment.' "'texas,' replies enright, like he's bore about all he can, 'you shorely worries me with your conceit. if you-all won't take my word, then go take a good hard look at yourse'f in the glass. thar's never the slightest risk, as everybody but you yourse'f sees plainly, of that lady or any other lady takin' you.' "'you thinks not?' asks texas, plenty incensed. "'which i _knows_ not. no lady's lot ain't quite that desp'rate.' "'well,' returns texas, after a pause, his face expressin' his soreness, 'i'm yere to say, sam, i don't agree with you, none whatever. you forgets that i've already been took in wedlock bonds by one lady. an' while that laredo wife of mine is hard an' crooel, all texas knows she's plumb partic'lar. also, no one ever yet comes pirootin' up the trail who doubts her taste.' "it's the evenin' before the preacher sharp goes back to tucson, when enright edges him off into a corner of the o. k. dinin' room. "'parson,' says enright, lookin' like he's a heap bothered about somethin'--'parson, in addition to your little game as a preacher that a-way, you don't happen to be up none on table-tippin' or sperit rappin', same as them mediums, do you?' "'which i shore don't,' replies the preacher sharp, archin' his neck, indignant. 'likewise, i regyards them cer'monials you alloodes to as satantic in their or'gin.' "'doubtless, parson,' returns enright, some disapp'inted, 'doubtless. still, if you-all but counts the rings on my horns, as givin' some impression of the years i've lived an' what troubles i've probably gone through, you'll onderstand that i ain't takin' satan no more serious than a empty six-shooter. but the mere trooth is, parson, i'm pestered by them promises i makes deeceased. which i'd give a yellow stack to get put next to dead shot's sperit long enough to explain concernin' them nuptials, an' make cl'ar jest how me an' the doc falls down.'" ii old man enright's uncle "which you'll excoose me," and the old cattleman replaced his glass upon the table with a decisive click, "if i fails to j'ine you in them sent'ments. for myse'f, i approves onreserved of both lies an' liars. also, that reemark goes double when it comes to public liars tellin' public lies. which, however se'fish it may sound, i prefers this gov'ment to last my time; an' it's my idee that if them statesmen back at washington ever takes a hour off from their tax-eatin' an' tells the people the trooth, the whole trooth an' nothin' but the trooth of their affairs, said people'll be down on the sityooation instanter, like a weasel on a nest of field mice, an' wipe the face of nacher free an' cl'ar of these united states." the above was drawn forth by my condemnatory comments on the published speech of a senator, wherein the truth was as a grain of wheat in a bushel of mendacious chaff. "shore," continued the old gentleman, with the manner of one who delivers final judgment, "lies is not only to be applauded, but fostered. they're the angle-irons an' corner-braces that keeps plumb the social fabric, wantin' which the whole frame-work of soci'ty would go leanin' sideways, same as that eyetalian tower you shows me the picture of the other day. why, if everybody in the world was to go tellin' the trooth for the next hour ninety-nine folks in every hundred would be obleeged to put in the rest of their lives hidin' out. "do i myse'f ever lie? "frequent an' plumb cheerful. i bases life on the rooles laid down by that sharp who advises folks to do unto others as others does unto them, an' beat 'em to it. believin', tharfore, in handin' a gent his own system, i makes it my onbreakable practice to allers lie to liars. then, ag'in, whenever some impert'nent prairie dog takes to rummagin' 'round with queries to find out my deesigns, i onflaggingly fills him to the brim with all forms of misleadin' mendac'ty, an' casts every fictional obstruction in his path that's calc'lated to get between his heels an' trip him up. i shore do admire to stand all sech inquirin' mavericks on their heads, an' partic'ler if they're plottin' ag'in me. "an' why not? a party that a-way, as i some time ago instructs you, ain't got no more right to search my head than to search my warbags, an' a gent who may lock a door may lie. which, if you'll go off by yourse'f an' think this yere over, you'll see that it's so, an' so with a double cinch. "thar's statements, too, which, speakin' technical, might be regyarded as lyin' which don't in jestice class onder no sech head. for spec'men, when dick wooten, upon me askin' him how long he's been inhabitin' the raton pass, p'ints to the spanish peaks an' says, 'you see them em'nences? well, when i pitches camp in this yere gully them mountings was two holes in the ground,' i don't feel like he's lyin'. i merely remembers that he steals the bluff from old jim bridger, grins an' lets it go at that. "likewise, i'm sim'larly onaffected towards that amiable multitoode who simply lies to entertain. these yere latter sports in their preevar'cations is public ben'factors. you-all can spread yourse'f out in the ca'm shadow of their yarns, same as if it's the shade of a tree, an' find tharin reefreshment an' reepose. "while the most onimag'native of us, from peets to cherokee, ain't none puny as conversationists, the biggest liar, ondoubted, who ever comes romancin' into wolfville is enright's uncle, who visits him that time. back in tennessee a passel of scientists makes what this yere relative of enright's deescribes as a 'theological survey' of some waste land he has on gingham mountain, an' finds coal. an' after that he's rich. thus, in his old age, but chipper as a coopful of catbirds, he comes rackin' into town, allowin' he'll take a last look at his nephy, sam, before he cashes in. "his name is stallins, bein' he's kin to enright on his mother's side, an' since thar's nine ahead of him--enright's mother bein' among the first--an' he don't come along as a infant ontil the heel of the domestic hunt that a-way, he's only got it on enright by ten years in the matter of age. [illustration: the second evening old stallins is with us, dan boggs an' texas thompson uplifts his aged sperits with the "love dance of the catamounts." p. .] "no, i shore shouldn't hes'tate none to mention him as a top-sawyer among liars, the same bein' his constant boast an' brag. he accepts the term as embodyin' a compliment, an' the quick way to get his bristles up is to su'gest that his genius for mendac'ty is beginnin' to bog down. "for all that, enright imparts to me, private, that the old gent as a liar ain't a marker to his former se'f. "'you've heard tell,' enright says, 'of neighborhood liars, an' township liars, an' county liars; an' mebby even of liars whose fame as sech might fill the frontiers of a state. take my uncle, say forty years ago, an' give him the right allowance of baldface whiskey, an' the coast-to-coast expansiveness of them fictions he tosses off shore entitles him to the name of champion of the nation. compar'd to him, ananias is but a ambitious amatoor.' "it's the second evenin' old stallins is with us, an' enright takes him over to hamilton's dance hall, whar boggs an' texas--by partic'lar reequest--uplifts his aged sperits with that y'ear-splittin' an' toomultuous minyooet, the 'love dance of the catamounts.' which the exh'bition sets his mem'ry to millin', an' when we gets back to the red light he breaks out remin'scent. "'sammy,' he says to enright, 'you was old enough to rec'llect when i has that location over on the upper hawgthief? gents,' he goes on, turnin' to us, 'it's a six-forty, an'--side hill, swamp an' bottom--as good a section as any to be crossed up with between the painted post an' the 'possum trot. it's that "love dance of the catamounts" which brings it to my mind, since it's then an' thar, by virchoo of a catamount, i wins my sarah ann. "'she's shore the star-eyed venus of the cumberland, is my sarah ann. her ha'r, black as paint, is as thick as a pony's mane; her lips is the color of pokeberry juice; her cheeks--round an' soft--is as cl'ar an' bright an' glowin' as a sunset in jooly; her teeth is as milk-white as the inside of a persimmon seed. she's five-foot-eleven without her mocassins, stands as up an' down as a pine tree, got a arm on her like the tiller of a scow, an' can heft a full-sized side of beef an' hang it on the hook. that's fifty years ago. she's back home on the hawgthief waitin' for me now, my sarah ann is. you'd say she's as gray as a 'possum, an' as wrinkled as a burnt boot. mebby so; but not to me, you bet. she's allers an' ever to me the same endoorin' hooman sunburst i co'tes an' marries that long time ago.' "old stallins pauses to reefresh himse'f, an' texas, who's been fidgetin' an' frettin' since the first mention of sarah ann, goes whisperin' to boggs. "'can't some of you-all,' he says, plenty peevish, 'head this yere mushy old tarrapin off? this outfit knows what i suffers with that laredo wife of mine. an' yet it looks like i'm to be tortured constant with tales of married folks, an' not one hand stretched out to save me from them reecitals.' "'brace up,' returns boggs, tryin' to comfort him. 'thicken your hide ag'in sech childish feelin's, an' don't be so easy pierced. besides, i reckons the worst's over. he's comin' now to them catamounts.' "texas grinds his teeth, an' old stallins resoomes his adventures. "'my sarah ann's old pap has his location jest across the hawgthief from me. besides him an' sarah ann, thar ain't nobody but the old woman in the fam'ly, the balance of 'em havin' been swept away in a freshet. shore, old man bender--that's sarah ann's pap's name--has fourteen children once, sarah ann, who's oldest, bein' the first chicken on the domestic roost. but the other thirteen is carried off one evenin' when, what with the rains an' what with the snow meltin' back on gingham mountain, the hawgthief gets its back up. swish comes a big wave of water, an' you hear me them children goes coughin' an' kickin' an' splutterin' into the misty beyond. "'which i says thirteen only because that's whar old bender allers puts his loss. zeb stiles, who lives on the painted post, insists that it's fifteen who gets swept away that time. he allows he counts them infant benders two evenin's before, perched along on old bender's palin's like pigeons on a limb. thirteen or fifteen, however, it don't make no difference much, once they're submerged, that a-way. "'mebby i've been co'tin' my sarah ann for goin' on six months, givin' her b'ar robes an' mink pelts, with now an' then a pa'r of bald eagle wings to bresh the hearth. nothin' heart-movin', however, comes off between us, sarah ann keepin' me at arm's len'th an' comportin' herse'f plumb uppish, as a maiden should. she's right; a likely girl can't be too conserv'tive techin' what young an' boundin' bucks comes co'tin' at her house. "'old bender sort o' likes me in streaks. after he gets bereft of them thirteen or fifteen offspring he turns morose a whole lot, an' i used to go 'cross in my dugout an' cheer him up with my lies. "'could i lie? "'my nephy, sammy, thar'll nar'ate how i once lies a full-grown b'ar to death. the cunnin' varmint takes advantage of me bein' without my weepons, an' chases me up a tree. i ensconces myse'f in the crotch, an' when the b'ar starts to climb i hurls down ontrooth after ontrooth on top of him ontill, beneath a avalanche of falsehood, he's crushed dead at the base of the tree. could i lie, you asks? even folks who don't like me concedes that i'm the most irresist'ble liar south of the ohio river. "'while i'm upliftin' the feelin's of old bender mendacious that a-way, he likes me; it's only when we gets to kyard-playin' he waxes sour. he's a master-hand to gamble, old bender is, an' as shore as i shows up, followin' a lie or two, he's bound he'll play me seven-up for a crock of baldface whiskey. now thar ain't a sport from the knobs of old knox to the mississippi who could make seed corn off me at seven-up, an' nacherally i beats old bender out of the baldface. "'with that he'd rave an' t'ar, an' make like he's goin' to jump for his -squar' hawkins rifle, whar she's hangin' on a pa'r of antlers over the door; but he'd content himse'f final by orderin' me out of the shack, sayin' that no sech kyard-sharpin' galoot as me need come pesterin' 'round allowin' to marry no child of his'n. at sech eepocks, too, it looks like sarah ann sees things through the eyes of her old man, an' she's more'n common icy. "'one day old bender goes weavin' over to pineknot, an' starts to tradin' hosses with zeb stiles. they seesaws away for hours, an' old bender absorbs about two dollars' worth of licker, still-house rates. in the finish zeb does him brown an' does him black on the swap, so it don't astonish nobody to death when next day he quiles up in his blankets sick. marm bender tries rekiverin' him with yarbs, an' kumfrey tea, an' sweet gum sa'v. when them rem'dies proves footile she decides that perhaps a frolic'll fetch him. "'it's about second drink time in the afternoon when marm bender starts out fiddler abe, givin' notice of the treat. i hears the old nigger as, mule-back, he goes meanderin' along, singin': thar's a smoke house full of bacon, an' a barrel full of rum. for to eat an' drink an' shake a laig you've only got to come. "'as soon as fiddler abe starts singin' the girls an' boys begin comin' out of the woods like red ants out of a burnin' log, headin' hotfoot for old bender's. "'do i go? "'it ain't a hour after candle lightin' when, with mebby it's a pint of baldface onder the buckle of my belt, i'm jumpin' higher, shoutin' louder, an' doin' more to loosen the puncheons in the floor than any four males of my species who's present at that merry-makin'. it he'ps old bender, too, an' inspired by the company an' onder the inflooence of four or five stiff toddies, he resolves not to let that hoss trade carry him to a ontimely grave, an' is sittin' up in his blankets, yellin', "wake snakes; an' gin'ral jackson fit the injuns!" in happy accord with the sperit of his times. "'fiddler abe strikes into the exyooberant strains of "little black bull come down the mountains," an' i hauls ten-spot mollie out of the gin'ral ruck of calico for a reel. we calls her ten-spot mollie because she's got five freckles on each cheek. all the same, when it comes to dancin', she's shore a she-steamboat. every time we swings she hefts me plumb free of the floor, an' bats my heels ag'in the rafters ontil both ankles is sprained. "'sarah ann falls jealous, seem' me an' ten-spot mollie thus pleasantly engaged, an' to get even goes to simperin' an' talkin' giggle-talk to mart jenkins, who's rid in from rapid run. jenks is a offensive numbskull who's wormed his way into soci'ty by lickin' all the boys 'round his side of gingham mountain. at that, he's merely tol'rated. "'seein' sarah ann philanderin' with jenks, i lets go of ten-spot mollie, who goes raspin' an' rollin' into a corner some abrupt, an' sa'nters across to whar they're at. leanin' over sarah ann's off-shoulder, bein' the one furthest from that onmitigated jenks, i says, "sweetheart, how can you waste time talkin' to this yere hooman sahara, whose intellects is that sterile they wouldn't raise cow-pease?" "'this makes jenks oneasy, an' getting up, he reemarks, "dick stallins, i'll be the all-firedest obleeged to you if you'll attend on me to the foot of the hollow, an' bring your instrooments." "'at this i explains that i ain't got my instrooments with me, havin' left both rifle an' bowie in the dugout when i paddles over to the dance. "'jenks makes a insultin' gesture, an' reetorts, "don't crawl, dick stallins. borry old bender's nine-inch bootcher, an' come with me." "'to appease him i says i will, an' that i'll j'ine him at the before named slaughter-ground in the flicker of a lamb's tail. jenks stalks off plumb satisfied, while i searches out ben hazlett, an' whispers that jenks is askin' for him some urgent, an' has gone down the trace towards the foot of the hollow to look him up. nacherally, my diplom'cy in this yere behalf sends ben cavortin' after jenks; an' this relieves me a heap, knowin' that all jenks wants is a fight, an' ben'll do him jest as well as me. "'which them was shorely happy days!' he continyoos, settin' down the bottle wharwith he's been encouragin' his faculties. 'troo, every gent has to sleep with his head in a iron kettle for fear of injuns, an' a hundred dollars is bigger'n a cord of wood, but life is plenty blissful jest the same.' "'was you afraid of this yere jenks?' asks boggs. "'no more'n if he's a streak of lightnin'. only, i've got on a new huntin' shirt, made of green blanket cloth, an' i ain't none strenuous about havin' that gyarment all slashed up. "'to proceed: after i dispatches ben on the heels of jenks that a-way it occurs to me that mebby i'm sort o' tired with the labors of the evenin', an' i'll find my dugout, ferry myse'f over to my own proper wickyup, an' hit the hay for a snooze. i'm some hurried to the concloosion by the way in which eevents begins to accumyoolate in my immedyit vicin'ty. bill wheeler announces without a word of warnin' that he's a flyin' alligator, besides advancin' the theery that gene hemphill is about as deeserv'dly pop'lar as a abolitionist in south caroliny. i suspects that this attitoode of mind on bill's part is likely to provoke discussion, which suspicion is confirmed when gene knocks bill down, an' boots him into the dooryard. once in the open, after a clout or two, gene an' bill goes to a clinch an' the fightin' begins. "'it ain't no time when the circumf'rence of trouble spreads. bud ingalls makes a pass at me pers'nal, an' by way of reeprisal i smashes a stewpan on him. bud's head goes through the bottom, like the clown through them paper hoops in a cirkus, the stewpan fittin' down 'round his neck same as one of them elizbethan ruffs. the stewpan ockyoopies so much of bud's attention that i gets impatient, an' so, tellin' him i ain't got no time to wait, i leaves him strugglin' with that yootensil, an' strolls off down to the hawgthief whistlin' "sandy land." "'it's dark as the inside of a cow, an' somehow i misses the dugout; but bein' stubborn, an' plumb sot about gettin' home, i wades in an' begins to swim. the old hawgthief is bank full, but i'd have made t'other side all right if it ain't that, as i swims out from onder the overhangin' branch of a tree, somethin' drops into the water behind me, an' comes snarlin' an' splashin' an' spittin' along in pursoote. i don't pay much heed at the jump, but when it claws off my nigh moccasin, leavin' a inch-deep gash in my heel, i glances back an' perceives by the two green eyes that i've become an object of comsoomin' int'rest to a pa'nter, or what you-all out yere calls a mountain lion, an' we-uns back in tennessee a catamount.' "'but a panther won't swim,' reemonstrates tutt. "'arizona catamounts won't,' returns old stallins, 'thar bein' no rivers to speak of. but in tennessee, whar thar's rivers to waste, them cats takes to the water like so many muskrats. "'when i finds that thar's nothin' doggin' me but a catamount, i heads all casyooal for whar a tree's done been lodged midstream, merely flingin' the reemark over my shoulder to the catamount that, if he keeps on annoyin' me, he'll about pick up the makin's of a maulin'. as i crawls out on the bole of the lodged tree, i can hear the catamount sniggerin', same as if he's laughin' me to scorn, an' this yere insultin' contoomely half-way makes me mad. which i ain't in the habit of bein' took lightly by no catamount. "'drawin' myse'f out o' the water, i straddles the bole of my tree, an' organizes for the catamount, who's already crawlin' after me. t'arin' off a convenient bough the thickness of your laig, i arranges myse'f as a reeception committee for visitin' catamounts, an' by way of beginnin' confers on my partic'lar anamile sech a bat over the snout that he falls back into the drink, an' starts to swimmin' fancy an' goin' 'round in circles, same as if his funny-bone's been teched. "'every time he gets in reach i jabs him in the eye with the splinter end of the bough, an' at last he grows that disgusted at these formal'ties he swims off to the bank. thar he camps down on his ha'nches, an' glares green-eyed at me across the ragin' flood. "'shore, i could have raised the long yell for he'p, but am withheld by foolish pride. besides, i can hear ben an' jenks tusslin' an' gruntin' an' carryin' on over in the mouth of the hollow, as they kyarves into each other with their knives, an' don't want to distract their attention. "'as i sets camped thar on my lodged tree, an' the catamount is planted on the bank, i hears the lippin' splash of a paddle, an' then a voice which sounds like a chime of bells floats across to ask, "dick stallins, you ornery runnigate, wharever be you?" "'it's my sarah ann, whose love, gettin' the upper hand of maidenly reeserve, has sent her projectin' 'round in search of me. she's in my dugout. "'the catamount identifies her as soon as me; an' thinkin' she ought to be easy, he slides into the water ag'in an' starts for the boat. it's that dark i ain't shore of his deesigns ontil i sees him reach up, tip the dugout over, an' set sarah ann to wallowin' in the rushin' torrent. the dugout upsets on the catamount, an' this so confooses him that, by the time he's got his bearin's, sarah ann's been swept down to my tree, an' i've lifted her to a seat by my side. the catamount don't try to lay siege to our p'sition, recognizing it as impregnable, but paddles back to the shore an' goes into watchful camp as prior. "'for myse'f, i'm so elevated with love an' affection at havin' sarah ann with me, i dismisses the catamount as a dead issue, an' as sech beneath contempt, an' by way of mollifyin' sarah ann's feelin's, cuts loose an' kisses her a gross or two of times, an' each like the crack of a bull-whacker's whip. "'old bender hears them caresses plumb up to his house--as well he may, they're that onreeserved an' earnest--an' thinks it's some one shootin' a rifle. it has the effect of bringin' out the old spartan with his hawkins; an' the first word of it that reaches me an' sarah ann is him, marm bender an' the whole b'ilin' of folks is down thar on the bank, tryin' to make out in the gen'ral dimness whatever be we-all lovers doin' out thar in the middle of the hawgthief on a snag. "'they don't deetect my catamount none, which sagacious feline slinks off into the shadows covered with confoosion; all they sees is us. an' the spectacle certainly excites old bender. "gen'ral jackson fit the injuns!" he exclaims, as all of a sudden a thought strikes him; "that measly excoose for a union democrat out thar is seekin' to eelope with our sarah ann." "'the old murderer starts to get a bead on me with the hawkins. "father," yells marm bender, pullin' at his sleeve, "you shore must be mistook." "'old bender won't have it. "maw," he returns, strivin' to disengage himse'f, "i was never mistook about nothin' in my life but once, an' that's when i shifts from baldface whiskey to hard cider on a temp'rance argyooment. let me go, woman, till i drill the miscreant an' wash the stain from our fam'ly honor." "'before the old hom'cide can get to launderin' the fam'ly honor in my blood, however, sarah ann has interposed. "don't go to blazing away at my dickey, pop," she sings out, "or i'll shore burn every improvement you got, an' leave you an' maw an' me roofless in the midst of the wilderness." "'this goes a long way towards soberin' down old bender, because he knows my sarah ann's the cumberland hollyhock to put them menaces into execootion. he lowers the muzzle of his old -squar', an' allows if i promises to marry the girl i can swim ashore an' be forgiven. "'thus the matter ends mighty amic'ble. we'all goes trackin' up to the house, a preacher is rushed to the scene from pineknot, an' them nuptials between sarah ann an' me is sol'mnized. shore, jenks an' ben is thar. they're found by a committee of their friends scattered about at the foot of the hollow, an' is collected an' brought up to the weddin' in blankets. dave daniels, who surveys the scene next day, says you could plant corn whar they fit, it's that plowed up. "'followin' the cer'mony marm bender an' the old gent takes me into their hearts an' cabin like i'm their own an' only son. he's a great old daddy-in-law, old bender is, an' is ven'rated for forty miles about gingham mountain, as deevoted heart an' soul to baldface, seven-up an' sin in any shape. "'that match-makin' catamount? "'we hives him. me an' my new daddy-in-law tracks him to his reetreat, an' when we're through he's plumb used up. i confers the pelt on my sarah ann; an' she spreads it on the floor over by her side of the bed, so as to put her little number sevens on it when she boils out of a winter's mornin' to light the fire, an' rustle me my matoot'nal buckwheat cakes an' sa'sage.'" iii cynthiana, pet-named original sin "this yere speecific heroine is a heap onconventional, so much so as to be plumb puzzlin' to the common mind. jest the same, she finishes winner, an' makes herse'f a gen'ral source of pride. she don't notify us, none whatever, that she intends a wolfville deboo; jest nacherally descends upon us, that a-way, as onannounced as a mink on a settin' hen. all the same, we knows she's comin' while yet she's five mile out on the trail. not that we savvys who she is or what she aims at; we merely gets moved up next to the fact that she's a lady, an' likewise no slouch for looks. "we reads these yere trooths in the dust old monte kicks up, as he comes swingin' in with the stage. which it's the weakness of this inebriate, as i tells you former, that once let him get a lady aboard, it looks like it's a signal for him to go pourin' the leather into his team like he ain't got a minute to live. it's a p'lite attention he assoomes, in his besotted way, is doo the sex. "it's the more strange, too, since it's the only attention monte ever pays 'em. he never looks at 'em, never speaks to 'em; simply plants himse'f on the box, as up an' down as a cow's tail, an' t'ars into them harassed hosses. if the lady he's complimentin' that a-way was to get jolted overboard--which the same wouldn't be no mir'cal, considerin' how that dipsomaniac drives--it's even money he leaves her hunched up like a jack-rabbit alongside the trail, an' never thinks of stoppin' or turnin' back. he's merely a drunkard with that one fool idee of showin' off, an' nothin' the stage people's ever able to say can teach him different. from first to last you-all could measure monte's notion of the pulcritoode of a petticoat passenger by the extent to which he lams loose with his whip. given what he deems is a she-sunburst, he shorely does maltreat the company's live stock shameful. "'if,' observes peets, as a bunch of us stands gossipin' round in front of the red light that time, watchin' the dust cloud draw nearer an' nearer--'if it's poss'ble to imagine the old sot as havin' a cleopatra to freight over from tucson, it's a cow pony to a mexican sheep he'd kill one of the wheelers.' "thar ain't none of us knows who this yere cleopatra the doc refers to is, onless it's colonel sterett, who edits the _daily coyote_. still, the compar'son is plenty convincin'. accordin' to the doc himself, this cleopatra's a meteoric female party, as lively as she is lovely, who sets a passel of ancient sports to walkin' in a cirkle back some'ers in the mists of time. also, it's bloo chips to white, an' bet 'em higher than a cat's back, the doc knows. the doc is ondoubted the best eddicated gent that ever makes a moccasin track between yuma an' the raton pass, an' when he onbuckles techin' any historic feachures, you can call for a gooseha'r pillow, an' go to sleep on it he ain't barkin' at no knot. "thar's a feeble form of young tenderfoot pesterin' about the suburbs of the crowd. he's one of them hooman deficits, so plumb ornery as to be useless east, which their fam'lies, in gettin' rid of 'em, saws happ'ly off onto a onprotected west. this partic'lar racial disaster's been on our hands now mebbe it's six months, an' we-all is hopin' that in some p'intless sort o' way he'll brace up and do overt acts which entitles us to stampede him out of camp. but so far he don't. "this yere exile comes wanderin' into the talk by askin'--his voice as thin as a curlew's: "'who is this old monte you're alloodin' at?' "'whoever he is?' says boggs. 'which if you-all'd struck camp by way of tucson, instead of skulkin' upon us in the low-down fashion you does along of the lordsburg-red dog buckboard, you wouldn't have to ask none. he's the offishul drunkard of arizona, monte is. which the same should be notice, too, that it's futile for you to go ropin' at that p'sition. i says this, since from the quantity of old jordan you've been mowin' away, i more'n half infers that you nourishes designs upon the place.' "the feeble young shorthorn smiles a puny smile, and don't lunge forth into no more queries. "texas, who's been listenin' to what boggs says, squar's 'round an' half-way erects his crest for an argyooment. texas has had marital troubles, an' him ponderin' the same constant renders him some morbid an' morose. "'from your tone of voice, dan,' remarks texas, 'i takes it you holds monte's appetite for nose paint to be a deefect. that's whar i differs. that old marauder is a drunkard through sheer excess of guile. he finds in alcohol his ark of refooge. i only wish i'd took to whiskey in my 'teens.' "boggs is amazed. "'texas,' he says, plenty sorrowful, 'it wouldn't astonish me none if you finds your finish in a wickeyup deevoted to loonatics, playin' with a string of spools.' "'that's your onthinkin' way. do you reckon now, if i'd been a slave to drink when that laredo wife of mine first sees me, she'd have w'irled me to the altar an' made me the blighted longhorn you sees now? she wouldn't have let me get near enough to her to give her a bunch of grapes. it's my sobri'ty that's my ondoin', that an' bein' plumb moral. which i onerringly traces them divorce troubles, an' her sellin' up my stock at public vandoo for cost an' al'mony like she does, to me weakly holdin' aloof from whisky when i'm young.' "'which i shore,'--an' boggs shows he's mighty peevish an' put out--'never meets up with a more exasp'ratin' conversationist! it's because you're sech an' egreegious egotist! you-all can't talk ten minutes, texas, but what you're allers bringin' in them domestic affairs of yours. if you desires to discuss whiskey abstract, an' from what the doc thar calls a academic standp'int, i'm your gent. but i declines to be drug into personal'ties, in considerin' which i might be carried by the heat of deebate to whar i gets myse'f shot up.' "'i sees your attitood, dan; i sees your attitood, an' respects it. jest the same, thar's an anti-nuptial side to the liquor question, an' bein' a drunkard that a-way is not without its compensations.' "'but he's bound to be so blurred,' reemonstrates boggs, who by nacher is dispootatious, an' once started prone to swing an' rattle with a topic like a pup to a pig's y'ear: 'that drunkard is so plumb blurred.' "'blurred but free, dan,' retorts texas, mighty firm. 'don't overlook no sech bet as that drunkard bein' free. also, it's better to be free than sober.' "'goin' back to monte,' says boggs, returning to the orig'nal text; 'half the time, over to the o.k. restauraw when missis rucker slams him down his chuck, he ain't none shore he's eatin' flapjacks or rattlesnakes. the other day, when rucker drops a plate, he jumps three feet in the air, throws up his hands an' yells, "take the express box, gents, but spar' my life!" it's whiskey does it. the old cimmaron thinks it's road agents stickin' him up.' "dispoote is only ended by the stage thunderin' in--leathers creakin', chains jinglin', bosses a lather of sweat an' alkali dust, monte cocked up on the box as austere as a treeful of owls. he's for openin' the door, but peets is thar before him. let it get dealt down to showin' attentions to a lady, an' the briskest sport'll have to move some sudden, or the doc'll beat him to it. which he certainly is the p'litest drug sharp of which hist'ry makes mention! "the doc offers his hand to he'p her out, but she hits the ground onaided as light as any leaf. nacherally we looks her over. take her from foretop to fetlocks, she's as lovely as a diamond flush. she's got corn-colored ha'r, an' eyes as soft as the sky in joone. peets calls 'em azure--bein' romantic. as for the rest of us, we don't call 'em nothin'. thar's a sprightly look about 'em, which would shore jestify any semi-proodent gent in jumpin' sideways. likewise, she's packin' a colt's . , an' clutchin' a winchester in her little claw, the same contreebutin' a whole lot toward makin' her impressive as a pageant. "'how are you, sports?' she says, tossin' her disengaged hand a heap arch. 'i gets word about you-all up in vegas, an' allows i'll come trundlin' down yere an' size you up. my idee is you needs regen'ratin'.' "'is thar anything we-all can he'p you to, miss?' asks enright, who takes the play away from peets. 'if aught is wanted, an' thar's a lariat in the outfit long enough to reach, you-all can trust wolfville to rope, throw an' hawg-tie the same accordin' to your wishes.' "'yes,' adds peets, 'as sam says, if thar's any little way we-all can serve you, miss, jest say the word. likewise, if you don't feel like speakin', make signs; an' if you objects to makin' signs, shake a bush. all we reequires is the slightest hint.' "'be ca'm,' says the young lady, her manner as se'f-confident as if she's a queen. 'thar's nothin' demanded of you outlaws except to tamely listen. i'm a se'f-respectin', se'f-supportin' young female, who believes in woman suffrage, an' the equality of the sexes in pol'tics an' property rights. which my name is bark, baptized cynthiana, the same redooced by my old pap, while yet alive, into the pet name of original sin. it's my present purpose to become a citizen of this yere camp, an' take my ontrammeled place in its commercial life by openin' a grogshop. pendin' which, do you-all see this?'--an' she dallies gently with a fringe of b'ar-claws she's wearin' as a necklace, the same bein' in loo of beads. 'that grizzly's as big an' ugly as him.' yere she tosses a rose-leaf hand at boggs, who breaks into a profoose sweat. 'i downs him. also, i'll send the first horned-toad among you, who pays me any flagrant attentions, pirootin' after that b'ar. don't forget, gents: my name's bark, cynthiana bark, pet-named original sin, an' thar's a bite goes with the bark.' "havin' conclooded this yere salootatory, miss bark, givin' a coquettish flourish to her winchester, goes trapsein' over to the o. k. restauraw, leavin' us--as the story-writer puts it--glooed to the spot. you see it ain't been yoosual for us to cross up with ladies who, never waitin' for us to so much as bat an admirin' eye or wag an adorin' y'ear, opens neegotations by threatenin' to shoot us in two. "'thar's a young lady,' says peets, who's first to ketch his breath, 'that's got what i calls _verve_.' "'admittin' which,' observes enright, some doubtful, havin' been thrown back on his hocks a whole lot; 'some of you-all young bucks must none the less have looked at her in a improper way to start her ghost-dancin' like she does.' "enright's eye roves inquirin'ly from boggs to texas, an' even takes in tutt. "'not me!' declar's texas, plenty fervent; 'not me!--more'n if she's a she rattlesnake!' "'as the husband of tucson jennie,' observes tutt, his air some haughty--which he allers puts on no end of dog whenever he mentions his fam'ly--'as the husband of tucson jennie, an' the ondoubted father of that public ornament an' blessin', little enright peets tutt, i do not regyard it as up to me to cl'ar myse'f of no sech charges.' "'sam,' says boggs, his voice reproachful, 'you notes how she makes invidious compar'sons between me an' that b'ar, an' how she beefs the b'ar? after which gratooitous slur it's preeposterous to s'ppose i'd go admirin' her or to takin' any chances.' "'then it's you,' says enright, comin' round on the puny tenderfoot. 'jack,' he continyoos, appealin' to jack moore, who's kettle-tender to the stranglers, of which arm of jestice enright is chief--'jack, do you reemark any ontoward looks or leers on the part of this yere partic'lar prairie dog, calc'lated to alarm a maiden of fastidious feelin's?' "'sir,' breaks in the feeble young tenderfoot, an' all mighty tremyoolous, 'as shore as my name is oscar freelinghuysen i never even glances at that girl. i ain't so much as present while she's issuin' her deefiances. i lapses into the red light the moment i observes how she's equipped, an' black jack, the barkeep, will ver'fy my words.' "'all right,' warns enright, plumb severe, 'you be careful an' conduct yourself deecorous. wolfville is a moral camp. thar's things done every day an' approved of in noo york which'd get a gent downed in wolfville.' "'that miss bark mentions she's woman suffrage, sam?' observes boggs, in a questionin' way, as we stands sloppin' out a recooperative forty drops in the red light. "'shore!' replies enright. 'the doc yere can tell you all about 'em. as i onderstands, they're a warlike bevy of women who voylently resents not bein' born men. thar's one thing, however; i sincerely trusts that none of you young sports'll prove that forward an' onwary as to go callin' her by her pet name of original sin. which she might take advantage of it. them exponents of women's rights is plumb full of the onexpected, that a-way, an' it's my belief that all who ain't honin' to commit sooicide'll be careful an' address her as miss bark.' "'be they many of that woman suffrage brand?' persists boggs. "'herds of 'em,' chips in peets. 'the eastern ranges is alive with 'em. but they don't last. as a roole they gets married, an' that's gen'rally speakin' the end of their pernicious activ'ties. wedlock is a heap apt to knock their horns off.' "faro nell, tucson jennie an' missis rucker don't take to this miss bark's woman suffrage views. "'she's welcome,' says the latter esteemable cook an' matron, 'to her feelin's; but she mustn't come preachin' no doctrine to me, wharof the effects is to lower me to rucker's level. i've had trouble enough redoocin' that ground-hawg to where he belongs, an' i ain't goin' to sacrifice the work of years for no mere sentiments.' "'which i shore agrees with you, missis rucker,' says nell, lookin' up from some plum preeserves she's backin' off the noonday board to consider cherokee, who's settin' next; 'a woman has enough to do to boss one gent, without tryin' to roole broadcast over whole commoonities.' "at this exchange of views cherokee softly grins like a sharp who can see his way through. as for rucker, who's waitin' on the table an' packin' in viands from the kitchen, he takes it as sullen as a sorehead dog. personal, i ain't got no use for rucker; but between us, missis rucker, one way an' another, does certainly oppress him grievous. "before the week is out we knows a lot more about miss bark than we does when she first comes prancin' out upon us from monte's stage. not that thar's aught ag'inst the lady. it's doo to enright, who begins recollectin' things. "'which i knows her pop,' explains enright, 'now my mem'ry's assertin' itse'f, i knows him when he first comes bulgin' into the pecos valley, eighteen years ago. this original sin daughter an' her maw don't show up none till later. thar's no more innocent form of tenderfoot than bark ever comes weavin' into the southwest. he's that ignorantly innocent, wild geese is as wise as serpents to him. but he's full of a painstakin' energy, all the same, an' mighty assidyoous to learn.' "'whatever does he turn to?' asks texas. "'he hires out to a peach ranch. an' this'll show you how industrious, that a-way, this bark tarrapin is. the peach ranch party has a measly bunch of sheep. he keeps 'em nights in a box-tight board corral, so's the coyotes can't get to mingle with 'em none. days he throws 'em loose to feed. the first evenin' the peach ranch gent tells this yere bark to corral the sheep, an' then come in for supper. "an' be shore," says the peach ranch party, "you gets 'em all in." "'an hour goes by, an' the peach ranch party is about through his feed, when this yere bark drifts up to the table. his face is flushed, but he's w'arin' a look of triumph. "i hives 'em," says he, some exultant; "only one lamb does shore force me to extend myse'f a lot. i'll gamble i runs a hundred miles before i rounds him up." "'next mornin' the peach ranch party goes out to throw loose them sheep. as he cranes his neck over the corral fence to count the bunch he's amazed to see a jack-rabbit galumpin' about among 'em. "gin'ral jackson fit the english!" he exclaims; "however does that jack-rabbit get himse'f mixed in with them sheep?" an' he p'ints it out to bark. "'that ontootered person is all astonishment. "jack-rabbit!" says he. "why, i hopes next fall to vote the reepublican ticket an' die disgraced if i don't put it down for a lamb! that's the anamile which makes me run my laigs off roundin' of him up!"' "'which, as you says, sam,' reemarks tutt, signin' up to black jack to set out the bottles, 'in the face of sech a showin' that bark party must have been plenty ardent.' "'i should shore yell!' coincides boggs. "'but he learns in time, of course?' questions nell. "'learns, nellie?' repeats enright; 'it ain't three years before he identifies himse'f with the life about him to that degree he bumps off two kyard sharps who tries to cold-deck him in a poker game, an' finds besides his steady employment stealin' old john chisholm's calves, tharby assistin' in plantin' the toomultous seed of what comes subsequent to be called the lincoln county war.' "'what's the finish of this interestin' crim'nal?' asks cherokee. "'lynched,' returns enright. 'they puts him over the jump at seven rivers. you see this rattlesnake--they calls him rattlesnake bark in them later years--is bunked down in one of these yere jim-crow, barn-board hotels. thar's a resoundin' form of guest in the adjoinin' room, snorin' to beat four kings an' a ace. rattlesnake tries poundin' on the partition, an' sw'arin' at him, an' callin' him a hoss thief. it's no avail. the snores of that boarder sounds like sawin' planks, an' fa'rly rocks the shack--they're that stormy. final, when rattlesnake's burdens gets to be more'n flesh an' blood can b'ar, he reaches for his . , an' bombards that sleeper good an' plenty through the wall. it turns out it's the new jedge. in the mornin', when this joorist is discovered too dead to skin, the public is that mortified it takes rattlesnake out as soon as breakfast's over, an' strings him to a limb.' "'don't this pore rattlesnake get no hearin'?' asks nell. "'you see, nellie,' enright explains, 'what with maverickin' the chisholm calves, an' a stage or two hold-up which p'ints to him, the close season's been out as to this rattlesnake person for mighty like a year. not but what he might have made preperations. thar's a reeligious party present who asks rattlesnake if he wants to pray some. "which you'll cross the dark river all the easier," expounds the reeligious gent. but rattlesnake reefuses his ministrations. "i'm what i be," he says; "an' as for that dark river you refers to, i ain't lookin' for no shallow ford." "'this rattlesnake,' continyoos enright, 'is willin' to learn to the last. it's his way. spring a new game on him an' he's out instanter lookin' for information an' advice. that's why he comes on so fast. thar bein' nothin' to stand him on for the purpose of bein' lynched, the stranglers posed rattlesnake a-top of a stack of hay, which is heaped up onder the tree they're yootilizin'. when the lariat is round his neck, an' he's disposed of the reeligious party who attempts to turn the business into a pra'r meetin', rattlesnake looks at the chief of the committee an' says, "this yere bein' hanged from hay-cocks is plumb new to me entire, an' tharfore i'm obleeged to ask whether you-all expects me to jump off or slide?"' "'well,' comments jack moore, drawin' a deep breath, 'the old murderer's game--misguided, mebby, but game.' "'that may be as it may,' observes boggs, plenty thoughtful, 'but after all i regyards these yere details which sam onfurls as chiefly valyooable as sheddin' a ray on this miss bark. on the chance that she takes after her old man, from now on i'm goin' to walk 'round her like she's a swamp.' "it's ten days after miss bark hits camp that things begins to focus. an old mexican, the color of a blacksmith's apron, an' his wife, who's the same prosaic tint, comes creakin' along with a six-mule team--two wagons, lead an' trail--loaded to the gyards with stock an' fixtures. said par'fernalia havin' arrived, miss bark busts in the door of the old deserted lady gay, an' takes possession. armstrong, who runs the noo york store, is the owner of the lady gay, but onder the circumstances he allows it'd be the act of a barbarian to interfere. "besides, the attitoode of the young lady herse'f is plumb discouragin'. "'i'd shore admire,' she remarks, as, with the aid of her mexicans, she goes tossin' things into p'sition, 'to see some male felon try to run a bluff about him havin' title to this lady gay structure, an' becomin' my landlord. men have tyrannized a heap too long as it is over onprotected women, an' thar's one at least who's took in patient silence all she will.' "when miss bark's organized, she tacks up over the door a sign which the painter at the stage station preepar's. it reads: votes for women saloon "'only get it straight,' says miss bark when she has us close-herded at chuck time in the dinin' room of the o. k. restauraw; 'i ain't openin' this saloon none with a view to sordid gain. i got money enough right now to buy an' burn this yere deboshed town of wolfville, an' then prance over an' purchase an' apply the torch to that equally abandoned outfit, red dog. what i'm reachin' for is the p'litical uplift of this camp. recognizin' whiskey as a permanency an' that saloons has come to stay, i aims to show folks how them reesorts should be run. i hopes to see the day when every s'loon'll be in the hands of ladies. for i holds that once woman controls the nosepaint of the nation the ballot is bound to follow.' "once it's started we-all manages to patronize the votes for women s'loon for a average of three drinks a day. enright advises it as safer. "'otherwise she might resent it,' explains enright, 'an' armed to the teeth like she is, an' possessin' them perfervid idees, thar's no tellin' whar she'd end.' "none of us feels like hangin' out thar. the atmosphere is too plumb formal. besides, this yere miss bark has rooles. no kyards is permitted; an', moreover, you've got to go outdoors to sw'ar. as to drinks, the soberest among us can't get licker oftener than every other time, while monte can't get none at all. that votes for women s'loon, considered as a house of call, is, an' put it mildest, certainly depressin'. "when i speaks of us patronizin' miss bark for three daily drinks, that a-way, thar's exceptions. monte, as i states, is barred by the lady personal on the grounds of him bein' a slave to drink; while tutt is forbid by tucson jennie. tutt chafes some at them mandates of jennie's; but bein' keenly alive as to what's comin' to her, as well as what she's cap'ble of, in her triple rôle of woman, wife an' mother, he yields. "as for texas, while he subscribes to them three diurnal drinks, he allers insists that he has company. "'it's all right,' texas'd say; 'i ain't intimatin' that this miss bark goes cherishin' designs. but it's my onbreakable roole, since them divoice experiences, to never enter the presence of onmarried ladies onless attended by witnesses.' "owin' to which, some of us allers trails in along with texas when he visits the votes for women s'loon. even when thus protected he onflaggin'ly confines his observations to 'licker, miss, please!' an' stops thar as dumb as graven images. once the licker's before him he heaves it into himse'f same as if it's drugs, an' instantly pulls his freight a heap speedy, breathin' hard. an' all as scared as a jack-rabbit that's heard the howl of a wolf. "does miss bark go proselytin' 'round concernin' them rights of women? which she shore does! you may say she omits no opportoonity. it's before wolfville gets that effete it mixes drinks, an' any one who knows water from whiskey can 'tend bar. wharfore, miss bark stands watch an' watch with her old mexican, pancho. the times she herse'f is min'sterin' to our needs she's preachin' woman suffrage incessant. also, not bein' plumb locoed, we bows in concord tharunto. enright an' peets both concurs that it's the thing to do, an' we does it. "'whatever difference does it make?' says enright; 'the price of steers remains the same, three-of-a-kind continyoos to beat two pa'r, thar's still fifty-two kyards in a faro deck, an' every other law of nacher survives onteched. my notion is to agree with this miss bark, verbal, an' trust to wolfville's onbeatable luck to pull us through.' "this counsel sounds good to us, an' we follows it. when miss bark sets forth her woman's rights fulm'nations along with her nosepaint, we murmurs a hearty assent, an' drinks down both impartial. boggs, who's 'motional an' easy worked on, even gets to whar he gives it out he's actchooally a convert. "miss bark has been on the map for mebby it's a week, then thar occurs a eeposide which, while it makes no profound impression, deceased bein' a mexican, shows she ain't packin' her pap rattlesnake's old colt's . in a sperit of facetiousness. it's about third drink time one evenin' when thar's the dull roar of a gun from over in the votes for women s'loon. when we arrives we finds a dead greaser carelessly quiled up near the door, an' miss bark snappin' the empty shell out of her six-shooter. "'he was roode,' is the only explanation she vouchsafes; an' enright, after lookin' at peets a spell, who's lookin' at the ceilin', says it's s'fficient. "'only,' says enright, when we're all back safe in the red light, 'i sincerely trusts she won't get her hindsights notched up to whar she takes to bumpin' off _americanos_. i shore don't know whatever in sech case we could do, vig'lance committees, in the very essence of their construction, possessin' no joorisdiction over ladies.' "'that's right, sam,' says peets, plenty grave; 'if it ever gets to whar this miss bark turns her artillery loose on the camp permis'cus the only hope left would be to adjourn wolfville _sine die_.' "miss bark, however, never does grow homicidal toward any of us, an' the only effect of her puttin' that mexican over is that it inclines folks gen'ral to step high an' softly on what occasions they're found plantigradin' about in her s'ciety. "one week, two weeks, three weeks goes by, an' since a dead mexican more or less ain't calc'lated to leave no onefface'ble scars the incident is all but forgot, when a second uprisin' takes place in the votes for women s'loon. this time it's that sickly curlew-voiced oscar who's the shriekin' center of eevents. most of us is jest filin' out of the o. k. restauraw, pickin' our teeth after our matootinal reepast, when we beholds this yere oscar boilin' fo'th from the votes for women s'loon, all spraddled out. as he goes t'arin' down the street miss bark seelects a graceful p'sition in the door, an' ca'mly pumps three loads at him out of her winchester. when i says she pumps them bullets at oscar it's to be took conserv'tive; for none of 'em hits him, but only tosses up the dust about his flyin' feet. at the last shot oscar cripples down in a shiverin' heap; an' with that texas an' boggs, not knowin' the extent of his injuries, rolls him onto a blanket an' packs him to his room over at the o. k. house, so's peets can prospect his frame all scientific locatin' the lead. "thar bein' no lead, as reelated, peets reeports final to that effect. "'only,' says peets, 'he's scared up to sech extents that if our joan of arc had dusted his gaiters with so much as two more bullets he'd have been beyond medical skill.' "followin' the foosilade miss bark sends for enright. "'it's this way,' she goes on, when enright arrives. 'that shorthorn oscar comes lurchin' in, an' asks for nosepaint. as he stands thar, puttin' it onder his belt--me meanwhile swabbin' off the bar--he mentions that his paw's rich, an' his step-maw's jest died, leavin' him an' his paw alone. then he calls attention to the presence in camp of that strayed sky-pilot, who preaches an' passes the hat the other evenin' over in the wareroom of the noo york store. it's now, havin' got the bar tittivated to my taste, i has time to look this oscar person's way, an' i finds him gloatin' over me in form an' manner not to be mistook. "whatever be you leerin' at?" i deemands, bein' i'm in no mood for insults. tharupon, he cuts loose a mouthful of platitoodes concernin' wedlock, an' about me bein' the soul of his soul. havin' stood it a while, an' findin' my forbearance makes him worse, i grabs my winchester whar it's reposin' ready for eemergincies on the dripboard, an' you knows the rest.' "'with your free consent, miss,' says enright, 'i'd like to put one query. was you aimin' to down, or to simply skeer this oscar?' "'i was only skeerin' him up some,' replies miss bark coyly. 'w'y, if i was reely out for his skelp, i'd have shore got it a heap. you can pin a patch the size of a dollar on that disparin' lover's coat, an' i'll cut it nine times in ten, offhand, at a hundred yards.' "'tests is not reequired,' enright interposes, plenty hasty; 'it's part of the organic law of this yere camp that a lady's word, even about her age, is to be took onchallenged.' "'which i'm flattered,' says miss bark. 'now, is thar anything else?' "'only this,' returns enright. 'as long as he gives you cause, an' you can shoot like you says, why ever don't you down him?' "'which i confesses,' says miss bark, a blush mantlin' her brow, 'that sech is my orig'nal intentions when i reaches for my weepon. but jest as i sees that oscar through the sights it comes upon me that thar's nothin' in bein' preecip'tate, an' mebby i'd better give myse'f the needed time to think his offer over.' "enright shakes his wisdom-freighted head; when he relates his talk to peets, the doc shakes his head sim'lar in sapient yoonison. "'which i'll bet a hatful of yellow chips,' says boggs, who's stood listenin', 'ag'inst a handful of whites, that this yere miss bark makes herse'f an' that oscar shorthorn man an' wife.' "'now i wouldn't wonder none,' observes peets, replyin' to the look in enright's eye. 'that shootin' needn't count. a troo affection is freequent boisterous, that a-way.' "'an' in case,' says enright, 'the kyards do fall in favor of matrimony, it'll most likely be the end of that votes for women s'loon. i begins to see how this yere ongrateful outfit may yet get deep in debt to that egreegious oscar.' "none of us ever says so, but it's the common belief that texas connives at this yere threatened oscar's escape. in any case, the next mornin' oscar goes catfoot out of the o. k. house before folks is up, an' takes to hidin' out. the fact is he's layin' for monte an' the stage, about ten mile no'th of camp. leastwise, he's thar a heap when monte comes along, an' deemands that he be took up an' carried to tucson. "it ain't first drink time before this oscar's missed, an' by second drink time the news has drifted over to miss bark. it's peets who informs her, an' he tells us, when reelatin' the incident, that the way that deeserted lady knits her brow is a caution to philos'phers. "'so,' she says at last, 'that onmitigated seedoocer thinks to leave me in this heartless way. he'll find before he's through that it's no light matter to charm into fervent life a love like mine.' "'it's the theery, miss,' says peets, 'of the best minds in camp that this oscar's hit the tucson trail afoot, with a plan of headin' off the stage.' "ten minutes an' miss bark is in the saddle, a lead pony gallopin' by her side, in hot pursoote of the dir'lect. "'that lead pony looks om'nous, doc,' observes enright, as the two stands watchin' miss bark's departure. "'it's prov'dential,' remarks peets, as he heads the procession to the red light, 'that that sky-pilot's aboard the stage. which he ought to work in plumb handy.' "six hours later miss bark comes surgin' in with her oscar foogitive, his heels tied onder the belly of the lead hoss. any one can see by his benumbed expression that he's a married man. the two heads straight for the votes for women s'loon, an' after boltin' her new he'pmeet into the back room, miss bark takes a peek in the glass, pats down her ha'r, an' goes behind the bar as yoosual. "'yes,' she replies, an' all a heap modest an' artless, as peets an' enright--actin' on behalf of the camp--gyardedly inquires if they're to offer congratulations, 'i reckon you may. an' the best part is that my dear oscar's so plumb ready an' willin'. which i never knows a bridegroom, gents, who gets married with so little struggle.' [illustration: "it's you, oscar, that i want," observes miss bark. "i concloodes, upon sober second thought, to accept your offer of marriage." p. .] "'how soon, missis freelinghuysen,' says peets, 'do you-all reckon on lettin' this oscar husband out?' "'oh,' she returns, 'as soon as ever it's safe. jest now he's some onstrung; but in a day or two i figger he'll begin to get reeconciled to his bliss. an' at that, my main idee in lockin' him up is one of reeform rather than restraint. oscar's been over-drinkin' himse'f of late; an' i aims to get the whiskey out of him, so as i can form some reas'nable estimate of how much of a husband that a-way i've done roped up.' "'is thar any objections,' asks enright, 'to our visitin' this modern pris'ner of chillon? we binds ourselves to say nothin' that'll fret him, or set him to beatin' his life out ag'inst the bars.' "'w'y, shore,' she replies, 'you-all is quite welcome. i only hopes you'll teach him to look at things in their proper light.' "'it ain't so much,' says this oscar husband, when enright an' peets calls upon him in his captivity, 'that i've been hurried, onregyardful of my feelin's, into the married state. but, gents, my parent is doo, accordin' to his last letter, to come curvin' in yere any minute; an' whatever do you-all reckon now he's goin' to say?' "enright an' peets is so moved they promises the imprisoned oscar their support, an' this leaves him, if not hopeful, at least some cheered. "monte gives his version of them nuptials when he returns from tucson. "'which it's this a-way, pards,' says monte. 'i'm twenty miles no'th of yere, when somethin' flashes by with a lead hoss, like arrows. thinks i, "that's a hoss thief gettin' away with some stock"; an', allowin' jack moore'll be hard on his neefarious hocks, i'm lookin' back to see can i raise jack's dust. the next i knows, an' all as sudden as a pan of milk from a top shelf, i hears a silv'ry voice remarkin': "set your brake!" an' turnin' my head i finds a winchester p'intin' as squar' between my eyes as you-all could lay your finger. gents, thar's something mighty cogent about a winchester that a-way, an' i shore shoves on the brake with sech abandon i snaps the shank short off.' "'wharever is this oscar party?' asks enright. "'he's with me on the box; an' when this yere intrepid miss bark takes to dom'neerin' at us with that rifle he collapses. "it's you, oscar," observes this miss bark, shiftin' the muzzle to him. "upon second thought i concloods to accept your offer of marriage." "'which at that crisis,' remarks peets, 'this oscar of course breaks into loud an' joyful cries.' "'not exactly. in fact, his tones if anything is some low-sperited. "i takes it," he says, when he's able to command his feelin's, "that you declines them proffers with your winchester at the time when made." but the lady dismisses this as a quibble, an' merely sayin' that she won't be paltered with no farther, orders oscar an' the bible sharp who's ridin' inside to assemble by the edge of the trail. the bible sharp attempts to lay the foundations of fresh objections by askin' oscar does he do this of his own free will; but the muzzle of the winchester--which the bride all along reetains in her hands--begins movin' 'round in his direction, observin' which man'festation he pronounces 'em husband an' wife. "what heaven has j'ined together," says he, "let no man put asunder." after which he blesses 'em, an' reeports the last cinch fastened. "pay him, oscar," whispers the bride. wharupon oscar, his fingers tremblin', squars the bible sharp with the price of a brace of steers, an' the deed is done. now he's hers for better or worse, she ropes his heels together onder the belly of her lead hoss, an' the happy pa'r goes romancin' back for wolfville, while i kicks loose what's left of the brake an' p'ints out ag'in for tucson.' "on the third day, by givin' his parole an' promising to fondly reeport to his spouse once every hour, oscar is permitted to go reecreatin' about the camp. "'only,' says the lady, by way of warnin' to black jack, 'thar's to be no drinks.' "these yere strained conditions preevails for mebby it's five days, when, as the stage swings in to the post office one evenin', a stout florid old gent gets out. he comes puffin' up to peets a heap soopercilious. "'do you-all know a addle-pated an' semi-eediotic young party,' says he, 'who's named oscar freelinghuysen?' "'why, yes,' returns peets, 'i do. onless my mem'ry's pulled its picket pin an' gone plumb astray he's the eboolient sharp who conclooded a somewhat toomultuous courtship last week by gettin' married. he's in the shank of his honeymoon as we stands chattin' yere.' "the florid gent glares at peets, his feachures the color of liver, his eyes stickin' out like the eyes of a snail. "'married!' he gasps, an' falls in a apoplectic fit. "it takes a week an' all the drugs peets has got before that apoplectic's able to sit up an' call for nosepaint. an' whatever do you think? his daughter-in-law, but onbeknownsts to him as sech, nurses him from soda to hock. oscar joonior? by advice of enright that prodigal's took to cover over in red dog ontil we've made shore about the fatted calf. "the former miss bark puts up that nursin' game with peets, an' day an' night she hangs over her apoplectic father-in-law like a painter over a picture. she's certainly as cunnin' as a pet fox! she dresses as quiet as a quail an' makes her voice as softly sober as a suckin' dove's. in the end she's got that patient hypnotized. "after peets declar's him out of danger, an' all propped up in his blankets he's subscribed to mighty likely it's the fifth drink, the apoplectic begins to shed tears a heap profoose, an' relate to his nurse--the former miss bark--how his two wives has died, leavin' him a lonely man. she, the former miss bark, is his only friend--he says--an' he winds up his lamentations by recommendin' that she become his third. "'you're the only hooman heart who ever onderstands me,' he wails, gropin' for her hand, 'an' now my ongrateful boy has contracted a messalliance i shore wants you for my wife.' "she hangs her head like a flower at night, an' lets on she's a heap confoosed. "'speak,' he pleads; 'tell me that you'll be mine.' "'which i'd shore admire to, but i can't,' she murmurs; 'i'm wedded to your son.' "the old apoplectic asks for more licker in a dazed way, an' sends for peets. the doc an' him goes into execyootive session for most an hour; meanwhile the camp's on edge. "at the close the doc eemerges plumb radiant. "'everything's on velvet,' he says; 'thar's never a more joodicious convalescent. he freely admits, considerin' the sort of daughter-in-law he's acquired, that oscar has more sense than folks suspects.' "now that the skies is cl'ared, the bridegroom is fetched back from red dog, an' thar's a grand reeconciliation. "'we'll all go back east together,' sobs father-in-law freelinghuysen, holdin' both their hands. "two days later they starts, missis freelinghuysen joonier lookin' after father-in-law freelinghuysen same as if he's a charlotte roosse. "the votes for women s'loon? "it's kept a secret, at peet's su'gestion, him bein' apoplectic that a-way. the stock is bought by public subscription of the camp, an' when the freelinghuysen household is out of sight an' hearin' we invites red dog over in a body an' onbelts in a mod'rate orgy. the sign, 'votes for women s'loon,' is now preeserved in the custody of the wolfville historical society, which body is called into active bein' upon motion of peets, while red dog an' us is drinkin' up the stock." iv old monte, official drunkard "shore; monte's the offishul drunkard of arizona." the old cattleman was answering my question. "or, seein' that mebby wolfville's joorisdiction won't be held none to reach beyond, let's say the offishul drunkard of cochise county. that's monte's civic designation; offishul drunkard, an' meant to fix his social place. "does he resent it? "which he proudly w'ars that title like it's a kingly crown! it's as good as even money that to ondertake to sep'rate him from it, or deny the same, is the one single thing he bristles up at an' give you a battle over. "which this yere last should mean a heap, since monte's plumb pacific by nacher, an' abhors war to the mean confines of bein' timid. to be shore, he'll steam at the nose, an' paw the sod, an' act like he's out to spread rooin far an' wide--that he's doo to leave everything in front of him on both sides of the road. but in them perfervid man'festations he don't reely intend nothin' either high or heenious, or more'n jest to give his se'f-respect an outing that a-way. let the opp'sition call him down, an' the crafty old cimmaron'll go to the diskyard instanter. "which at that, monte ain't without his interestin' side. when onder the inflooence of nosepaint, which last is constant, he has three distinct moods. about the fo'th drink, let a stranger show up, an'--all aff'ble an' garyoolous--monte's right thar to do the honors. when the stranger, gettin' weary, kicks monte off him, the same bein' shore to happen final since no one formed in the image of his maker can put up with them verbal imbecil'ties of his beyond a given len'th of time, he'll arch his back an'--apparently--wax that f'rocious a wronged grizzly to him is as meek as milk. an' yet, as i tells you, it's simply a blazer; an' the moment the exasperated stranger begins betrayin' symptoms of goin' to a showdown, monte lapses into his third mood of haughty silence, an' struts off like it's beneath him to bandy words. "that's the savin' clause in monte's constitootion; he may get drunk, but he never gets injoodicious. thar's a sport from some'ers over 'round shakespear in the dance hall one evenin', whose patience has been plenty treespassed on by monte. by way of bringin' matters to a deecisive head, this yere shakespear party tells monte he's a liar. do you reckon monte hooks up with him? not a chance! he simply casts on that maligner from shakespear a look of disparagement, an' with nose held high, as markin' his contempt, moves away with the remark. "'that's something i refooses to discuss with you.' "which thar's no more real p'isin in monte than in a hired girl. "we has the chance once to try some experiments on monte, an' it's the mistake of our lives we don't. peets, whose regrets is scientific, feels speshully acoote. thar's a partic'lar bar'l of nosepaint gets trundled into camp, which is nothin' short of bein' the condensed essence of hostility. black jack, after years as barkeep, says himse'f he never sees nothin' like it. on the hocks of two drinks, folks gets that ornery enright has it freighted back to tucson in alarm, fearin' for the peace of the camp. at the time, none of us thinks of it; but later it's a subject of gen'ral regret that some of it ain't saved to try on monte. mebby that speshul brand of licker turns out to be the missin' ingreedient, an' keys him up to deeds of heroism. "jest to show you some of the milder workin's of that licker. boggs files away four inches of it onder his belt, an' next, when he's walkin' by the corral an' meets a mexican, he reaches out in a casyooal an' abstracted way, collars that greaser an' hefts him over a six-foot 'dobe fence, same as if he's a bag of bran; an' all apropos of nothin'. boggs says himse'f he don't know why none. he's thinkin' of something else at the time, he declar's, an' the eepisode don't leave no partic'lar traces on his mem'ry. the trooth is, it's that veehement an' onmuzzled nosepaint, incitin' him to voylence. "is the mexican hurt? "which, if i remembers rightly, peets does mention about a busted collarbone. but it don't create no interest--him bein' a mexican. you see, thar's a feelin', amountin' fa'rly to a onwritten law, that mexicans ain't got no rightful call to be seen in public no how; an' when one does go pirootin' round permiscus, in voylation of this yere tenet, nacherally he takes his chances. you-all can gamble, though, that boggs shore never would have reached for him, only he's actchooated by that whiskey. "as modest an' retirin' a sperit as cherokee, to whom any form of boastful bluff is plumb reepellant, subscribes to a mod'rate snifter of that licker; an' in less time than it takes to rope a pony, he's out in front of the red light, onbucklin' in a display of pistol shootin'. thar's a brace of towerists in camp, an' cherokee let's on he'll show 'em. which he shore shows 'em! he tosses two tomatter cans on high, an' with a gun in each hand keeps 'em dancin' an' jumpin' about in the atmosphere ontil thar's six bullets through each. it's a heap satisfyin' as a performance, as far as them pop-eyed towerists is concerned, an' both leaves town that evenin' by speshul buckboard. "onaffected by that licker, cherokee wouldn't have no more gone an' made sech a spectacle of himse'f, though urged tharunto by the yoonanimous voice of the outfit. when he so far recovers as to 'ppreeciate what faro nell has to say of them exploits--an', while tender, she's plenty explicit--he comes mighty clost to blushin' himse'f to death. "it's after we notes what it does to cherokee, an' hears of them exhibitions of broote force by boggs, that we gets timid about this yere whisky, an' enright orders the bar'l sent back. an' right he is! s'ppose them red dogs was to have come prancin' over for a social call, an' s'ppose in entertainin' 'em we all inadvertent has recourse to that partic'lar licker, whatever do you-all reckon 'd have been the finish? son, thar'd have been one of them things they calls a catyclism, an' nothin' short. "it's shore a fightin' form of licker. tutt reeserves out a tin cup of it, an' sets it down by a prairie dog's hole. accordin' to tutt, the dog comes out, laps it once, an' starts back same as if he's been shot with a ' . thar he squats, battin' his eyes, wrinklin' up his nose, an' cogitatin'. after thinkin' the thing over, the dog approaches, mighty gingerly, an' takes three or four more laps. then he r'ars back, an' considers for quite a spell. it looks final like he gets his mind made up, an' with that he capers over, an' he'ps himse'f to what for a prairie dog is shore a big drink. "two minutes later, ha'r bristlin', whiskers standin' out like wire, eyes full of determination, that dog crosses over to another dog who's livin' neighbor to him, an' says--accordin' to tutt: "'wharever can i locate that coyote who's been domineerin' round yere for mebby it's a month, harassin' folks into their holes? whar's that coyote at?' "peets allers allows tutt exaggerates, but havin' sampled that licker some myse'f, i'm a long ride from bein' so shore. "that lack of war instinct in monte ain't no speecific drawback. him drivin' stage that a-way, he ain't expected none to fight. the hold-ups onderstands it, the company onderstands it, everybody onderstands it. it's the law of the trail. that's why, when the stage is stopped, the driver's never downed. which if thar's money aboard, an' the express outfit wants it defended, they slams on some sport to ride shotgun that trip. it's for this shotgun speshulist to give the route agents an argyooment. which they're licensed to go bombardin' each other ontil the goin' down of the sun. as for the driver, however, the etikette simply calls for him to set his brake, an' all peaceful hold his hands above his head. it's inside his rights, too, accordin' to the rooles, for him to cuss out the hold-ups, an' call 'em all the hard names of which he's cap'ble; an' stage drivers, who loves their art, spends their time between drinks practisin' new cuss words, an' inventin' onheard of epithets, so as to be ready when dooty an' o'casion calls. havin' downed or driven off the shotgun sport, an' seen the bottom of the express box, the hold-ups tells the stage driver to pull his freight. wharupon he picks up the reins, kicks free the brake, lets fly a loorid an' final broadside of vitooperation--he havin' carefully reeserved the same, by way of peroration--an' goes his windin' way. "wolfville's been on the map for most a year, when monte first shows up. in the beginnin', an' ontil we-all gets adjusted to him, he's something of a bore. leastwise, he ain't what you'd go so far as to call a boon companion. when it dawns on us that he's plottin' to make himse'f a permanency, it certainly does look for a spell that, what with his consumption of nosepaint an' what with his turrific genius for snorin', he's goin' to be a trifle more'n we can stand. "does monte snore? "not to create ondoo excitement, the bar'foot onclothed trooth is that his snorin' falls nothin' short of bein' sinful. boggs has plenty of countenance when he brings them snores to the attention of enright. "'thar's shore a limit somewhar, sam,' boggs says, 'to this yere drunkard's right to snore. which he's simply keepin' everybody over to the o. k. house settin' up. onless something's done to check him, thar'll be a epidemic of st. vitus dance. you ask doc peets; he'll tell you that this yere monte with his snorin' is a scourge.' "it's not alone their volume, but their quality, which makes them snores of monte so ondesir'ble. some folks snores a heap deprecatory, an' like they're apol'gizin' for it as they goes along. others snores in a manner ca'mly confident, an' all as though the idee that any gent objects would astonish 'em to death. still others snores plumb deefiant, an' like they ain't snorin' so much for comfort, that a-way, as to show their contempt for mankind. it's to this yere latter hostile school that drunkard, monte, belongs. "after boggs lodges complaint, enright takes a corrective peek into the sityooation. thar's two rooms over the o. k. kitchen, sort o' off by themselves. upon enright's hint, missis rucker beds down monte in one, an' deef andy, who mends harness for the stage company an' can't hear nothin', in the other. "'it's for the safety of your excellent car'vansary, ma'am,' enright explains. 'which dan's mighty easy moved; an' some mornin', onless you adopts them improvements, that somnolent sot you're harborin' 'll go too far with dan. i takes it you-all don't want the shack all smoked up with dan's six-shooter? in which event you'll put that reverberant drunkard in the far-corner room, with andy next.' "peets once mentions a long-ago poet party, named johnson, who, speakin' of a fellow poet after he's dead an' down onder the grass-roots, lets on that he teches nothin' he don't adorn. you can go your ultimate simoleon that ain't monte's style. the only things he don't upset is bottles; the only flooid he never spills is licker. this yere last would be ag'inst his religion. wharever he goes, he's otherwise draggin' his rope, an' half the time he's steppin' on it. "it's him that coaxes that onhappy polish picture painter our way. this yere is long after he's drivin' stage, an' as wolfville's offishul drunkard becomes a tol'rated feachure of the camp. this polish artist person is as much out o' place in arizona as a faro lay-out at a sunday school picnic. monte crosses up with him over at tucson in the oriental s'loon, an' while thar's no ties between 'em, more'n what nacherally forms between two gents who sets drinkin' together all night long, before ever they're through with each other that inspired inebriate lands the locoed artist party on our hands. enright shore does go the limit in rebookin' monte. "'why, sam,' says monte, an' he's that depreecatory he whines, 'i allows you'll look on him as a acquisition.' "'all the same,' returns enright, an' i never knows him more forbiddin', 'yereafter please confine your annoyin' assidooities to drivin' stage, an' don't go tryin' to improve the outlook of this camp.' "monte, with this, gets that dismal he sheds tears. 'which it shore looks like i can't do nothin' right,' he sobs. "'then don't,' says enright. "from the start, monte graves himse'f upon the mem'ry of folk as the first sport, to onroll his blankets in cochise county, who consoomes normal over twenty drinks a day. upon festal occasions like noo year's, an' christmas, an' fo'th of jooly, an' thanksgivin', no gent who calls himse'f a gent thinks of keepin' tabs on a fellow gent, no matter how freequent he signs up to black jack. on gala o'casions, sech as them noted, the bridle is plumb off the hoss, an' even though you drinks to your capac'ty an' some beyond, no one's that vulgar as to go makin' remarks. but that ain't monte; he's different a heap. it looks like every day is fo'th of jooly with him, he's that inveterate in his reemorseless hankerin' for nosepaint. "also, regyarded as to his social side, monte, as i states former, is a nooisance. knowin' folks, too, is his fad. only so you give him licker enough, he'll go surgin' round accostin' every gent he sees. no matter how austere a stranger is, monte'll tackle him. an' at that he never says nothin' worth hearin', an' in its total absence of direction his conversation resembles nothin' so much as a dog chasin' its tail. "an' then thar's them footile bluffs he's allers tryin' to run. he's been pesterin' in an' out of the red light one evenin' ontil he's got black jack incensed. as he comes squanderin' along, for say the twentieth time, black jack groans, an' murmurs, "'yere's that booze-soaked old hoss-thief ag'in!' "monte gets the echo of it, same as folks allers does when it ain't wanted, but he's onable to say who. so he stands thar by the bar, glarin' 'round an' snortin'. final, he roars: "'who cuts loose that personal'ty?' "thar ain't no answer, an' monte ag'in takes to pitchin' on his rope. "'show me the galoot who insults me,' he roars; 'let him no longer dog it, but p'int himse'f out as the gent.' "'all right,' says black jack, whose indignation gets the best of his reespons'bilities as barkeep, 'which i'm the party who alloodes to you as a booze-soaked old hoss-thief.' "'an' so you're the gent,' says monte, castin' a witherin' glance at black jack; 'so you're the would-be sooicide who calls me a booze-soaked old hoss-thief?' "'which i'm the identical stingin' lizard. now what is it you're so plumb eager to say?' "'what am i eager to say? i merely wants to remark that you ain't done nothin' to swell up over. you-all needn't go thinkin' you're the first barkeep who calls me a booze-soaked old hoss-thief.' "havin' la'nched this yere, monte turns off as stiffly pompous as though he ain't left a grease-spot of black jack. "when folks won't listen to him no longer, monte goes bulgin' forth into the highways an' the byways, an' holds long an' important discussions with signs, an' dry-goods boxes, an' sim'lar inan'mate elements of the landscape. also, to mules an' burros. i remarks him myse'f, whisperin' in the onregyardful y'ear of a burro, an' said anamile as sound asleep as a tree. when that drunkard's through his confidences, he backs off, an' wavin' his paw plumb myster'ous at the burro says: "'remember, now; i'm givin' you this yere p'inter as a friend.' "that time black jack offends monte, after the latter hits the sidewalk followin' what he clar'ly considers is his crushin' come-back on black jack, he gets the feelin' that jack's ha'ntin' along on his trail. before he's gone fifty foot, he w'irls about, an' shouts: "'don't you-all follow me! which, if you crowds me, them places that has knowed you won't know you no more forever.' "when monte gets off this menace, it seems like the black jack specter becomes intim'dated, an' tries to squar' itse'f. "'what's that?' monte asks, after listenin' mighty dignified to the spook's excuses; 'you begs my pardon? not another word. if you-all keeps on talkin' now you'll sp'ile it. thar's my hand,' givin' the fingers of the phantom a mighty earnest squeeze. 'i'm your friend, an' that goes.' "havin' established a peace, monte insists that the black jack phantom b'ar him company to the o. k. restauraw. in spite of all missis rucker can say or do, he plants the spook at the table, feeds it on the best that's in the kitchen, an' all as confident as if it's shorely troo. also, he insists on payin' for two. "when missis rucker tries to show him he's down wrong, he refooses to have it that way. "'do you-all reckon, ma'am, that i can't trust my eyes none?' he demands. 'which you'll tell me next that them airtights i tops of with is figments.' "'but thar's only one of you-all,' missis rucker persists. "'ma'am,' returns monte, his manner plumb s'picious, 'i don't jest quite sense your little game. whatever it is, however, you-all can't play it on old monte. you write back to my fam'ly an' the neighbors, an' the least flatterin' among 'em'll tell you that i'm as cunnin' as a squinch owl. thar's two of us who feeds, an' for two of us i settles. bein' a woman, you're too feeble-witted for reason, too mendacious for trooth.' "'don't you go callin' me no woman,' says missis rucker, her eyes snappin', 'onless you're ready to cash in.' "'women!' repeats monte, sort o' addressin' the scenery, but still plenty cynical, 'what be they except a fleetin' show to man's deloosion given. also, thar's nothin' to 'em. you opens their front door, an' you're in their back yard.' "texas has been givin' y'ear to the talk. it's before his laredo wife starts ropin' for that divorce; but she's already makin' war medicine, an' the signs an' signal smokes which p'int to an uprisin' is vis'ble on every hill. texas is careful not to let missis rucker hear him none, but as he walks away, he mutters: "'that ghost-seein' sport's got the treemors, but all the same i strings with him on them estimates of ladies.' "texas is that fav'rably affected about monte, he talks things over with tutt, who himse'f ain't married to tucson jennie none as yet. them nuptials, an' that onbiased blessin', little enright peets tutt, who results tharfrom, comes along later. "'which thar's good in that monte maverick,' says texas; 'only so we could get the nosepaint out of him.' "'now, i wouldn't wonder none, neither,' says tutt. "'he drinkt up two quarts an' a half yesterday,' says texas. "'ain't thar no steps which can be took?' tutt asks. 'two quarts an' a half, though, shore sounds like he's somethin' of a prop'sition.' "these yere remarks is made in the red light, an' tutt an' texas appeals to cherokee, whar that courtier of fortune is settin' in behind his lay-out. cherokee waves 'em off, p'lite but firm. "'don't ask me none,' he says. 'you-all knows my doctrines. let every gent kill his own snakes.' "'that's my theology,' remarks boggs, who has just come ramblin' in from the noo york store, whar he's been changin' in a bundle of money for shirts; 'i recalls how, when i'm a prattlin' yearlin', hearin' parson ed'ards of the cambellite church quotin' whar cain gives it out cold that he's not his brother's keeper; an' even at that onthinkin' age i fully endorses cain's p'sition.' "the talk takes in black jack, who, by virchoo of him bein' a barkeep, nacherally savvys a heap about the licker question. jack reelates how a sot he knows back in arkansaw is shocked into never takin' a drink, by simply blowin' his hand off accidental while tanked up. "'whang! goes the old betsy,' says jack, 'an' that slave to licker's shy his left hand. "which it lets me out!" he exclaims; an' datin' from said catastrophy he'd no more tech nosepaint, that a-way, than he'd join the church.' "'but it's doubtful,' observes tutt, 'if enright stands to let us shoot this yere monte drunkard's hand off.' "'it's ten to one he won't,' says texas; 'still thar ought to be other schemes for shockin' a party into moral'ty, which stops short o' cripplin' him for life.' "'but is this yere inebriate worth the worry?' asks boggs. 'also, it shore strikes me as mighty gratooitous for us to go reorganizin' the morals of a plumb stranger, an' him not even asked.' "'which he's worth the worry all right,' texas replies. 'thar's no efforts too great, when thar's a chance to save a party who has the same thorough onderstandin' of ladies which this gent has.' "up over the red light bar is a stuffed bobcat, the same bein' held as decorative. only the day before texas and tutt stands talkin', a couple of enright's riders comes packin' a live bobcat into town, which between 'em they ropes up over in the foothills of the tres hermanas, an' jams labor'ously into a pa'r of laiggin's. the same idee seizes on texas an' tutt yoonanimous. they sees that it only calls for the intelligent use of that bar- bobcat, which them cow-punchers of enright's ties down, to reegen'rate monte, an' make him white as snow. [illustration: a couple of enright's riders comes a packin' a live bobcat into town. p. .] "monte's ain't present none, bein' over to the o. k. house. by bein' plumb painstakin', tutt an' texas gets a collar onto the captive bar- bobcat, an' chains him up over the red light bar, in place of the stuffed bobcat, deeposed. the bar- bobcat jumps off once or twict before he learns, an' comes mighty clost to lynchin' himse'f. but black jack is patient, an' each time pokes him back with a cha'r. after mebby the third jump, it gets proned into the bobcat that thar's nothin' in it for him to go hurlin' himse'f into space that a-way, an' bein' saved from death by hangin' only through the cha'r-laig meditations of black jack. acceptin' this yere view, he stands pat on his shelf. likewise, he shore looks mighty vivid up thar, an' has got that former stuffed predecessor of his beat four ways from the jack. "we're hankerin' around, now the bar- bobcat's organized, waitin' for monte to come amblin' up, an' be reformed. "'an' you can gamble,' tutt says, 'that the shock it'll throw into him'll have a ben'ficial effect. shootin' off a hand or so ain't in it with the way that drunkard's goin' to feel.' "'that's the way i figgers,' texas remarks. 'one glance at that bobcat, him on the verge of the treemors, an' thar'll a thrill go through his rum-soaked frame like the grace of heaven through a camp meetin'. for one, i antic'pate most excellent effects. whatever do you think, doc?' "'whatever do i think?' peets repeats. 'which i thinks that, as the orig'nators of this yere cure for the licker habit, it'll be up to you an' dave to convey the patient to his room at the o. k. house, as soon as ever you can control his struggles.' "monte at last heaves in sight, an' comes shiverin' up to the bar, every nerve as tight as a fiddle string. black jack shoves him the bottle. "'what stuffed anamile sharp,' says tutt, craftily directin' himself at black jack, 'mounts that bobcat up thar?' "monte nacherally raises his eyes. thar's that bar- feline, half-crouched, glarin' down on him with green eyes, big as moons. "that settles it. "monte gives a yell which they hears in red dog. wharupon the bobcat, takin' it for a threatenin' deemonstration, onfolds in an answerin' yell, an' makes a scramblin' jump at monte's head. shore, he don't land none, bein' brought up short, like a roped pony. thar he swings, cussin' an' spittin' an' clawin', as mad as a drunken squaw, an' begins all over to hang himse'f afresh. "monte? "that victim of appetite falls to the floor as dead an' flat as a wet december leaf. "actin' on them instructions, tutt an' texas picks monte up an' packs him across to peets, who, after fussin' over him for mebby an hour, brings him round s'fficient so he goes from one convulsion into another, in what you-all might deescribe as an endless chain of fits. thar's nothin' to it; peets is indoobitable the best equipped drug sharp that ever breaks loose in arizona. at that, while monte lives, he don't but jest. he's shore close enough at one time to kingdom come to hear the singin'. "for two weeks monte's boilin' an' boundin' round in his blankets, texas an' tutt, feelin' a heap reemorseful, standin' watch and watch. it's decided that no more attempts to reform him will be made, him bein'--accordin' to peets--too far gone that a-way. "'he's plumb onreform'ble,' explains peets; 'whiskey's got to be so much a second nacher with him, that the only way you-all could cure him now is kill him.' "by way of partial rep'ration for what he suffers, as soon as monte can ag'in move about, enright calls a meetin' of the camp, an' dooly commissions him 'offishul drunkard,' with a absoloote an' non-reevok'ble license to go as far as he likes. "'this yere post of offishul drunkard,' enright explains to the meetin', 'carries with it no money, no power, an' means only that he's free to drink from dark to daylight an' to dark ag'in, oncriticized, onreproved, an' onsaved. colonel sterett imparts to us in the last _daily coyote_ how them hindoos has their sacred cobras. cobras not bein' feas'ble none in arizona, wolfville in loo of sech accepts old monte. yereafter, w'arin' the title of offishul drunkard, he takes his place in the public regyard as wolfville's sacred cobra.' "when monte learns of his elevation, his eyes fills up with gratified pride, an' as soon as ever he's able to stand the w'ar an' t'ar, he goes on a protracted public drunk, by way of cel'bration, while we looks tol'rantly on. "'gents,' he says, 'i thanks you. yereafter the gnawin' tooth of conscience will be dulled, havin' your distinguished endorsement so to do. virchoo is all right in its place. but so is vice. the world can't all be good an' safe at one an' the same time. which if we all done right, an' went to the right, we'd tip the world over. half has got to do wrong an' go to the left, to hold things steady. that's me; i was foaled to do wrong an' go to the left. it's the only way in which a jealous but inscroot'ble providence permits me to serve my hour. offishul drunkard! ag'in i thanks you. which this yere's the way i long have sought, an' mourned because i found it not, long meter.' "boggs is the only gent who takes a gloomy view. "'that's fine for this yere egreegious monte,' says boggs, talkin' to enright; 'as wolfville's pet drunkard an' offishul cobra, he's mighty pleasantly provided for. but how about the camp? whar does wolfville come in? we're a strong people; but does any gent pretend that we possesses the fortitoode reequired to b'ar up through all the comin' rum-soaked years?--an' all onder the weight of this yere onmatched inebriate, whom by our own act an' as offishul drunkard, we onmuzzles in our shrinkin' midst? gents, this thing can't last.' "'not necessar'ly, dan,' retorts enright, his manner trenchin' on the cold; 'not necessar'ly. let me expound the sityooation. i need not remind you-all that sand creek riley, who drives the tucson stage, gets bumped off the other evenin', while preeposterously insistin' that aces-up beats three-of-a-kind. realizin' the trooth of half what you has said, dan, i this evenin' enters into strategic reelations with the stage company's agent; an' as a reesult, an' datin' from now on, old monte will be hired to fill the place of sand creek riley, whom we all regrets. it's hardly reequired that i p'int out the benefits of this yere arrangement. as stage driver, old monte for every other night will get sawed off on tucson. an' i misjedges the vitality of this camp if, with the pressure on it thus relieved, an' tucson carryin' half the load, it's onable to live through. in my opinion, dan, by the light of this explanation, you at least oughter hope for the best.' "'that's whatever!' says boggs, who's plumb convinced; 'if i'd waited ontil you was heard, sam, i'd never voiced them apprehensions. but the fact is, this yere monte cobra of ours, with his bibbin's an' his guzzlin's, has redooced me to a condition of nervous prostration. it's all right now. which i will say, however, that i can't reeflect none without a shudder on what them tucson folks'll say an' think, so soon as ever they wakes up to what's been played on 'em.'" v how the mocking bird was won "myst'ries? "we lives surrounded by 'em. look whar you will, nacher has a ace buried. take dogs, now: why is it when one of 'em, daylight or dark, cuts the trail of a anamile, he never makes the fool mistake of back-trackin' it, but is shore to run his game the way it's movin'? there must be some kind of head-an'-tail to the scent, that a-way, to give the dog the hunch. myst'ry!--all myst'ry! the more a gent goes messin' 'round for s'lootions, the more he's taught hoomility an' that he ain't knee-high to toads. "an' yet when it comes to things myster'ous everything else is bound to go to the diskyard compared to a lady's heart. of course, i speaks only in a sperit of philos'phy, an' not as one who's suffered. i never myse'f am able pers'nal to approach closter to a lady's heart than across the street. peets once reemarks that all trails leads to rome. in that business of trails a lady's heart has got rome left standin' sideways. not only does every trail lead tharunto, but thar's sech a thing as goin' cross-lots. take gettin' in love; thar's as many ways as cookin' eggs. while you'll see gents who goes skallyhootin' into that dulcet condition as straight as a arrer, thar's others who sidles in, an' still others who backs in. i even knows a boy who shoots his way in. "which the lady in this case is the mockin' bird. that mockin' bird maiden has wooers by onbounded scores, but holds herse'f as shy an' as much aloof as if she's a mountain sheep. not one can get near enough to her to give her a ripe peach. along comes the eboolient turkey track, bulges headlong into her dest'nies, takes to menacin' at her with a gun an', final, to bombardin' her outright, an'--love an' heart an' hand--she comes a-runnin'. "wolfville's without that last evidence of advancement, a callaboose. it bein' inconvenient to shoot up or lynch everybody who infringes our rooles, jack moore invents a convincin' but innocuous punishment for minor offenders. endorsed by enright, he established a water trough--it's big enough to swim a dog--over by the windmill; an' when some perfervid cow-puncher, sufferin' from a overdose of nosepaint, takes to aggravatin' 'round moore swashes him about in the trough some profoose, ontil he gives his word to live a happier an' a better life. "it's like magic the way that water trough works. no matter how gala some pronghorn of a cowboy may feel, it shore lets the whey out of him. given the most voylent, it's only a matter of minutes before he's soaked into quietood. enright himse'f says moore's entitled to a monyooment for the idee. "turkey track's name is ford, tom ford, but workin' that a-way for the turkey track outfit he nacherally gets renamed for the brand. turkey track an' two boon companions has been goin' to an' fro from the red light to the dance hall, ontil by virchoo of a over-accumyoolation of licker they're beginnin' to step some high. also, they takes to upliftin' their tired souls with yells, an' blazin' away at froote cans with their six-shooters. "it gets so that enright tells moore to give 'em a call-down. "'what them boys does,' says enright, 'is done harmless an' light-hearted to be shore, an' nothin' radic'lly wrong is either aimed at or meant; but all the same, jack, it's no more'n proodence to go knock their horns off. it ain't what them yooths is doin', but what they may be led to do, which makes the danger. it's like old deacon sopris at the cumberland methodist class meetin' says of kyard-playin'. "it ain't," explains the deacon, "that thar's any harm in the children playin' seven-up around the kitchen table of a winter's evenin' for grains of corn, but seven-up persisted in is shore to lead to dancin'." an' so with these young merry-makers. they'll keep on slamin' away at empty bottles an' former tomatter cans that a-way, ontil the more seedate element objects, an' somebody gets downed. don't you agree with me, doc?' "'nothin' shorer!' says peets. "moore corrals turkey track an' his fellow revellers, an' tosses off a few fiats. "'quit that whoopin' an' shootin', boys,' says moore. 'likewise, keep your hardware in your belts, as more deecorous. so shore as i finds a gun in any of your hands ag'in, i'll shoot it out.' "turkey track an' his _compadres_ don't say nothin' back. they savvys about the water trough, an' ain't hungerin' none to have their ardor dampened in no sech fashion. so they blinks an' winks like a passel of squinch owls, but never onbuckles in no argyooment. all the same, it irks 'em a whole lot, an' after moore reetires they begins mod'rate to arch their necks an' expand 'round a little. "they allows--talkin' among themselves in a quer'lous way--that they ain't hurtin' no one, an' for moore to come shovin' 'round an' lecturin' on etiquette is a conceited exhibition of authority as offensive as it is onjest. thar's doubts, too, about it's bein' constitootional. "'whatever does that jim-crow sp'ile-sport of a marshal mean?' says turkey track. 'it looks like he's not only deefyin' the organic law of this country, but puttin' on a heap of dog. does he reckon this yere camp's a church?' "'i moves we treats them mandates,' says one of the boys, who's a rider for the g-bar ranch, 'with merited contempt.' "'as how?' asks the third, who belongs with the four-j brand. 'you ain't so locoed as to s'ggest we-all t'ars person'ly into this jack moore marshal none i hopes?' "'which you fills me with disgust!' says the other, nettled at the idee of pawin' the onprofit'ble grass 'round moore; 'but whatever's the matter with goin' up to the far end of the street, an' w'irl an' come squanderin' back jest a shootin'?' "'great!' says turkey track, applaudin' the scheme. 'which we-all nacherally shoots up their old prairie dog town, same as if it's a mexican plaza, an' then jogs on to our ranches, all triumphant an' comfortable.' "the three rides up to the head of the street, an' then turns an'--givin' their ponies the steel--comes whizzin' down through the center of eevents, yelpin' like apaches an' lookin' like fireworks. they've got a gun in each hand, an' they shakes the flame an' smoke out of 'em same as three volcanoes on hossback. "moore's standin' in front of the noo york store, talkin' to tutt. as you-all might imagine, it frets him to the quick to see how little them effervescent sperits cares for his injunctions. by way of rebooke--not wantin' to down 'em outright for what, take it the worst way, ain't nothin' more heen'ous than a impropriety--moore gets his artillery to b'ar, an' as they flashes by like comets, opens on the ponies. it's hard on the ponies; but it won't do to let them young roysterers get away with their play. the example'll spread; an', onless checked at the jump, inside of a month thar'd be nothin' but a whoopin' procession of cow-punchers chargin' up an' down the causeways. tenderfeet might acquire misgivin's techin' us bein' a peaceful camp, an' the thing op'rate as a blow to trade. it's become a case of either get the boys or get the ponies, an' onder the circumstances the ponies has the call. "thar's no more artistic gun-player than moore in town, onless it's cherokee, an' mebby doc peets, who's a heap soon with a derringer. as the ponies flash by, moore's six-shooter barks three times. two ponies goes rollin'; the third--it's turkey track's--continyoos cavortin' down the street an' out of town. turkey track never pulls up nor looks back. the last we sees of him is when he's two miles away, an' a swell rises up behind him an' hides him from view. "the g-bar boy, an' him from the four-j outfit, hits the grass twenty feet ahead of their ponies, like a roll of blankets chucked out of a wagon, an' after bumpin' an' tumblin' along for a rod or so, an' all mighty condoosive to fractures an' dislocations, they flattens out reespective same as a couple of cancelled postage stamps. shore, the fall jolts the savvy plumb out of 'em. "bein' they're stretched out an' passive, moore collects 'em an' sops 'em up an' down in the water trough for mebby it's fifteen minutes. which they're reesus'tated an' reeproved at one an' the same time. when them yooths comes to, they're a model to angels. to be shore, their intellects don't shine out at first none like the sun at noon, but continyoos blurred for hours. even as late as the weddin' of turkey track with the mockin' bird--an' that ain't for all of eight weeks--the g-bar boy informs boggs confidenshul, as they're takin' a little licker all sociable, that speakin' mental he's as yet a heap in eeclipse. "the maiden name of the mockin' bird is loocinda gildersleeve, but pop'lar pref'rence allers sticks to her stage title. she's a fav'rite at the bird cage op'ry house, at which nursery of the drammy she's been singin' off an' on for somethin' like three years. she's a shore-enough singer, too, the mockin' bird is. none of your yeepin's an' peepin's, none of your mice squeaks an' tea-kettle tones an' cub coyote yelps. which she's got a round, meelod'yous bellow like a hound in full cry, an' while she's singin' thar ain't a wolf'll open his mouth within a mile of town. which them anamiles is plumb abashed, the mockin' bird outholdin' 'em to that degree. "you-all don't hear no sech singin' in the east. thar ain't room; an' moreover the east's too timid. for myse'f, an' i ain't got no y'ear for music, them top notes of the mockin' bird, like the death yell of a mountain lion, is cap'ble of givin' me the fantods; while the way she hands out 'home, sweet home' an' 'suwannee river,' an' her voice sort o' diggin' down into the soul, sets eemotional sports like boggs an' black jack to sobbin' as though their hearts is broke. she's certainly a jo-darter of a vocalist--the mockin' bird is, an' once when she renders 'loosiana loo' an' boggs's more'n common affected, he offers to bet yellow chips as high as the ceilin' she can sing the sights off a colt's . . "'which i enjoys one of the most mis'rable evenin's of my c'reer,' says boggs to faro nell, when she expresses sympathy at him feelin' so cast down. 'i wouldn't have missed it for a small clay farm.' "'_yo tambien_' says black jack, who's keepin' boggs melancholly company while he weeps. 'only i reckons the odd kyard in my own case is that, before i'm a man an' in some other existence, i used to be one of these yere ornery little fice dogs, which howls every time it hears a pianny. it's some left-over vestiges of that life when i'm a dog which sets me to bawlin', that a-way, whenever the mockin' bird girl sings. i experiences pensive sensations, sim'lar to what comes troopin' over a gent, who's libatin' alone, on the heels of the third drink.' "the mockin' bird looks as sweet as she sings. i mentions long ago about the phil'sophic old stoodent who says, 'they do say love is blind, but i'll be ding-danged if some gents can't see more in their girls than i can.' this yere wisdom don't apply none to the mockin' bird. them wooers of hers, to say nothin' of turkey track, possesses jestification for becomin' so plumb maudlin'. lovely? she's as pretty as a cactus flower, or a sunrise on the staked plains. "folks likes her, too. take that evenin' when a barbarian from over to'ards the cow springs cuts loose to disturb the exercises at the bird cage op'ry house with a measly fling or two. the public well nigh beefs him. they'd have shore put him over the jump, only enright interferes. "it's doorin' the openin' scene, when the actors is camped 'round in a half-circle, facin' the fiddlers. huggins, who manages the bird cage, an' who's the only hooman who ever consoomes licker, drink for drink, with monte, an' lives to tell the tale, is in the middle. bowin' to the mockin' bird, an' as notice that she's goin' to carol some, he announces: "'the world-reenowned cantatrice, mam'selle loocinda gildersleeve, cel'brated in two hemispheres as the mockin' bird of arizona, will now sing the ballad wharwith she ravished the y'ears of every crowned head of europe, the same bein' that pop'lar air from the op'ry of _loocretia borgia_, "down in the valley."' "at this that oncooth crim'nal from the cow springs gets up: "'the mockin' bird of arizona which you-all is bluffin' about,' he shouts, 'can't sing more'n a burro, an' used to sling hash in a section house over by colton.' "'never the less, notwithstandin',' replies huggins, who's too drunk to feel ruffled, 'mam'selle loocinda gildersleeve, known to all the world as the mockin' bird of arizona, will now sing "down in the valley."' "huggins would have let things go at that, but not so the wolfville pop'lace. in the cockin' of a winchester they swoops down on that cow springs outcast like forty hen-hawks on a single quail, an' as i yeretofore observes, if it ain't for enright they'd have made him shortly hard to find. you can gamble, the cow springs savage never does go out on that limb ag'in. "while turkey track escapes the water trough, an' makes his getaway that time all right, the pore pony ain't got by moore onscathed. the bullet hits him jest to the r'ar of the saddle-flap, an' out about a brace of miles he stumbles over dead. "it's yere eevents begins to fall together like a shock of oats. the mockin' bird's been over entrancin' tucson, an' the reg'lar stage with monte not preecisely dove-tailin' with her needs, she charters a speshul buckboard to get back. thar's a feeble form of hooman ground owl drivin' her, one of these yere parties who's all alkali an' hard luck, an' as deevoid of manly sperit as jack-rabbits onweaned. "this yere ground owl party, drivin' for the mockin' bird, comes clatterin' along with the buckboard jest as turkey track strips the saddle an' bridle from his deefunct pony. turkey track is not without execyootive ability, an' seein' he's afoot an' thirty miles from his home ranch, he pulls his gun an' sticks up the buckboard plenty prompt. at the mere sight of a weepon the hands of that young owl-person goes searchin' for stars, an' he's beggin' turkey track not to rub him out--him thinkin' it's a reg'lar hold-up. that's all the opp'sition thar is, onless you counts the reemarks of the mockin' bird, who becomes both bitter an' bitin' in equal parts, but has no more effect on turkey track--an' him afoot that a-way--than pourin' water on a drowned rat. shore, a cow-puncher'd fight all day, an' even face a enraged female, before he'd walk a hour. [illustration: turkey track, seein' he's afoot an' thirty miles from his home ranch pulls his gun an' sticks up the mockin' bird's buckboard. p. .] "turkey track piles his saddle an' bridle onto the r'ar of the buckboard, an' settin' in behind on his plunder, commands the ground owl driver to head west till further orders. likewise, he so far onbends as to say that them orders won't be deecem'nated, none whatever, ontil he's landed at the turkey track home ranch. since he backs this yere programme with his artillery, the ground owl ain't got nothin' to say, an' it's no time when the outfit's weavin' along a side trail in the sole int'rests of turkey track. "what's worse, to dispell the ennui of sech a trip, an' drive away dull care, turkey track takes to despotizin' over the mockin' bird with his six-shooter, an' compels her to sing constant throughout them thirty miles. he makes her carrol everythin' from 'old hundred' to 'turkey in the straw,' an' then brings her back to 'old hundred' an' starts her over. the pore harassed mockin' bird, what with the dust, an' what with turkey track tyrannizin' at her with his gun, sounds final like an ongreased wheelbarrow which has seen better days. she don't get her voice ag'in for mighty clost to a month, an' even then, as she says herse'f, thar's places where the rivets reequires tightenin'. "it's pressin' onto eight weeks before ever turkey track is heard of 'round town ag'in. also, it's in the bird cage op'ry house he hits the surface of his times. the mockin' bird has jest done drove the vocal picket-pin of 'old kentucky home,' when, bang! some loonatic shoots at her. which the bullet bores a hole in the scenery not a foot above her head. "every one sees by the smoke whar that p'lite attention em'nates from, an' before you could count two, moore, boggs, an' texas thompson has convened themselves on top of that ident'cal spot. thar sets turkey track, cryin' like a child. "'it's no use, gents,' he sobs, the tears coursin' down his cheeks, 'she's so plumb bewitchin', an' i adores her so, i simply has to blaze away or bust.' "while he don't harm the mockin' bird none, the sent'ment of the stranglers, when enright raps 'em to order inform'ly at the red light an' black jack has organized the inspiration, favors hangin' turkey track. even texas, who loathes ladies by reason of what's been sawed off onto him in the way of divorce an' alimony, that a-way, by his laredo wife, is yoonan'mous for swingin' him off. "'that i don't believe in marryin' 'em,' says texas, expoundin' his p'sition concernin' ladies in answer to boggs who claims he's inconsistent, 'don't mean i wants 'em killed. but you never was no logician, dan.' "cherokee's the only gent who's inclined to softer attitoodes, an' that leeniency is born primar'ly of the inflooence of nell. nell is plumb romantic, an' when she hears how the turkey track's been enfiladin' at the mockin' bird only because he loves her, while she don't reely know what she does want done with that impossible cow-puncher, she shore don't want him hanged. "'it's sech a interestin' story!' says nell, an' then capers across to missis rucker an' tucson jennie to c'llect their feelin's. "moore brings in turkey track. "'be you-all tryin' to blink out this yere young lady?' asks enright, 'or is that gun play in the way of applause?' "'it's love,' protests turkey track, his voice chokin'; 'it's simply a cry from the soul. i learns to love her that day on the buckboard while i'm lookin' at her red ha'r, red bein' my winnin' color. gents, you-all won't credit it none, but jest the same them auburn tresses gets wropped about my heart.' "'whatever do you make of it, doc?' whispers enright. "'this boy,' returns peets, 'has got himse'f too much on his own mind. he's sufferin' from what the books calls exaggerated ego.' "'that's one way of bein' locoed, ain't it?' "'shore. but him bein' twisted mental ain't no reason for not adornin' the windmill with his remains. the only public good a hangin' does is to scare folks up a lot, an' you can scare a loonatic quite as quick an' quite as hard as a gent whose intellects is plumb.' "'thar she stands,' turkey track breaks in ag'in, not waitin' for no questions, 'an' me as far below her as stingin' lizards is from stars! then, ag'in, when folks down in front is a'plaudin' her, she wavin' at 'em meanwhile the gracious smile, it makes me jealous. gents, i don't plan nothin', but the first i knows i lugs out the old . an' onhooks it.' "the mockin' bird has come over from the o. k. house with nell, missis rucker an' tucson jennie. as she hears turkey track's confession two drops shows in her eyes like diamonds. clutchin' hold of nell, an' with missis rucker an' tucson jennie flockin' along in the r'ar, she rushes out the front door. "this manoover leaves us some upset, ontil nell returns to explain. "'she's overcome by them disclosures,' says nell, 'an' goes outside to blush.' "'the ontoward breaks of that songstress,' observes enright oneasily, 'has a tendency to confoose the issue, an' put this committee in the hole.' "'thar's nothin' confoosin' about it, sam enright.' it's missis rucker who breaks out high an' threatenin', she havin' come back with nell. 'this yere mockin' bird girl's in love with that gun-playin' cowboy, an' it's only now she finds it out. do you-all murderers still insist on hangin' this yere boy, or be you willin' to see 'em wed an' live happy ever after?' "'let's rope up a divine some'ers,' exclaims boggs, 'an' have 'em married. if that mockin' bird girl wants turkey track she shall shore have him. i'd give her his empty head on a charger, if she asks it, same as that party in holy writ, she singin' "suwannee river" like she does.' "cherokee, who's more or less rooled by nell, thinks a weddin' the proper step, an' tutt, who sees somethin' in tucson jennie's eye, declar's himse'f some hasty. "even texas backs the play. "'but make no mistake,' says texas; 'i insists on wedlock over lynchin' only because it's worse.' "'which it's as well, sam enright,' observes missis rucker, blowin' through her nose mighty warlike, 'that you an' your marauders has sense enough to see your way through to that deecision. which if you'd failed, i'd have took this turkey track boy away from you-all with my own hands. this vig'lance committee needn't think it's goin' to do as it pleases 'round yere--hangin' folks for bein' in love, an' closin' its y'ears to the moans of a bleedin' heart.' "'my dear ma'am,' says enright, his manner mollifyin'; 'i sees nothin' to discuss. the committee surrenders this culprit into the hands of you-all ladies, an' what more is thar to say?' "'thar's this more to say,' an' missis rucker's that earnest her mouth snaps like a trap. 'you an' your gang, settin' round like a passel of badgers, don't want to get it into your heads that you're goin' to run rough-shod over me. when i gets ready to have my way in this outfit, the prairie dog that stands in my path'll shore wish he'd never been born.' "enright don't say nothin' back, an' the balance of us maintainin' a dignified silence, missis rucker, after a look all 'round, withdraws, takin' with her tucson jennie an' nell, turkey track in their midst. "'gents,' observes enright, when they're shore departed, an' speakin' up deecisive, 'ways must be deevised to 'liminate the feminine element from these yere meetin's. i says this before, but the idee don't seem to take no root. thar's nothin' lovelier than woman, but by virchoo of her symp'thies she's oncap'ble of exact jestice. her feelin's lead her, an' her heart's above her head. for which reasons, while i wouldn't favor nothin' so ondignified as hidin' out, i s'ggests that we be yereafter more circumspect, not to say surreptitious, in our deelib'rations.' "shore, they're married. the cer'mony comes off in the o. k. house, an' folks flocks in from as far away as deming. "'if you was a chemist, sam,' says peets, tryin' to eloocidate what happens when the mockin' bird learns she's heart-hungry that a-way for turkey track, 'you'd onderstand. it's as though her love's held in s'lootion, an' the jar of turkey track's gun preecip'tates it.' "'mebby so,' returns enright; 'but as a play, this thing's got me facin' back'ards. thar's many schemes to win a lady, but this yere's the earliest instance when a gent shoots his way into her arms.' "'well,' returns peets, 'you know the old adage--to which of course thar's exceptions.' yere he glances over at missis rucker. 'it runs: "a woman, a spaniel an' a walnut tree, the more you beat 'em the better they be." "boggs has been congratchoolatin' turkey track, an' kissin' the bride. texas, as somber as a spade flush, draws boggs into a corner. "'that turkey track,' says texas, 'considers this a whipsaw. he misses hangin', an' he gets the lady. he feels like he wins both ways. wait! dan, it won't be two years when he'll discover that, compar'd to marriage, hangin' that a-way ain't nothin' more'n a technical'ty.'" vi that wolfville-red dog fourth "by nacher i'm a patriot, cradle born and cradle bred; my americanism, second to none except that of wolves an' rattlesnakes an' injuns an' sim'lar cattle, comes in the front door an' down the middle aisle; an' yet, son, i'm free to reemark that thar's one day in the year, an' sometimes two, when i shore reegrets our independence, an' wishes thar had been no yorktown an' never no bunker hill." the old cattleman tasted his glass with an air weary to the borders of dejection; after which he took a pathetic puff at his pipe. i knew what had gone wrong. this was the fifth of july. we had just survived a fourth of unusual explosiveness, and the row and racket thereof had worn threadbare the old gentleman's nerves. "yes, sir," he continued, shoving a 'possum-colored lock back from his brow, "as i suffers through one of them calamities miscalled cel'brations, endoorin' the slang-whangin' of the orators an' bracin' myse'f ag'inst the slam-bangin' of the guns, to say nothin' of the firecrackers an' kindred chinese contraptions, i a'preeciates the feelin's of that horace walpole person colonel sterett quotes in his _daily coyote_ as sayin', 'i could love my country, if it ain't for my countrymen.' "still, comin' down to the turn, i reckon it merely means, when all is in, that i'm gettin' too plumb old for comfort. it's five years now since i dare look in the glass, for fear i'd be tempted to count the annyooal wrinkles on my horns. "it's mighty queer about folks. speakin' of cel'brations, for thousands of years the only way folks has of expressin' any feelin' of commoonal joy, that a-way, is to cut loose in limitless an' onmeanin' uproar. also, their only notion of a public fest'val is for one half of the outfit to prance down the middle of the street, while the other half banks itse'f ag'inst the ediotic curb an' looks at 'em. "people in the herd ain't got no intelligence. we speaks of the lower anamiles as though we just has it on 'em completely in the matter of intelligence, but for myse'f i ain't so shore. the biggest fool of a mule-eared deer savvys enough to go feedin' up the wind, makin' so to speak a skirmish line of its nose to feel out ambushes. any old bull elk possesses s'fficient wisdom to walk in a half-mile circle, as a concloodin' act before reetirin' for the night, so that with him asleep in the center, even if the wind does shift, his nose'll still get ample notice of whatever man or wolf may take to followin' his trail. "that's what them 'lower anamiles' does. an' now i asks, what man, goin' about his numbskull dest'nies, lookin' as plumb wise as a too-whoo owl at noon, ever shows gumption equal to keepin' the constant wind in his face, or has the sense to go walkin' round himse'f as he rolls into his blankets, same as that proodent elk? after all, i takes it that these yere fo'th of jooly upheavals is only one among the ten thousand fashions in which hoomanity eternally onbuckles in expressin' its imbecil'ty. "which i certainly do get a heap disgusted at times with the wild beast called man. with all his bluffs about bein' so mighty sagacious, i can sit yere an' see that, speakin' mental, he ain't better than an even break with turkey gobblers. even what he calls his science turns finally out with him to be but the accepted ignorance of to-day; an' he puts in every to-morrow of his existence provin' what a onbounded jackass rabbit he's been the day before. it's otherwise with them lower anamiles; what they knows they knows." plainly, something had to be done to fortify my old friend. i fell back, quite as a matter of course, upon that first aid to the injured, another drink, and motioned the black waiter to the rescue. it did my old friend good, that drink, the first fruits of which easier if not better condition being certain fresh accusations against himself. "the trooth is, i'm a whole lot onused to these yere fo'th of jooly outbursts; an' so i ondoubted suffers from 'em more keenly, that a-way, than the av'rage gent. you see we never has none of 'em in wolfville; leastwise we never does but once. on that single festive occasion we shore stubs our toe some plentiful, stubs it to that degree, in fact, that we never feels moved to buck the game ag'in. once is enough for wolfville. "which it's the single failure that stains the fame of the camp. at that, the flat-out reely belongs to red dog; or at least to pete bland, for which misguided party the red dogs freely acknowledges reespons'bility as belongin' to their outfit. "this yere bland's dead now an' deep onder the doomsday sods. also, he died drinkin' like he'd lived. "'what's the malady?' enright asks peets, when the doc comes trackin' back, after seein' the finish of bland. "'no malady at all, sam,' says peets, plumb cheerful an' frisky, same as them case-hardened drug folks allers is when some other sport passes in his checks--'no malady whatsoever. his jag simply stops on centers, as a railroad gent'd say, an' i'm onable to start it ag'in.' "was peets any good as a med'cine man? son, i'm shocked! peets is packin' 'round in his professional warbags the dipplomies of twenty colleges, an' is onchallenged besides as the best eddicated sharp personal on the sunset side of the mississippi. you bet, he onderstands the difference at least between bread pills an' buckshot, which is a heap sight further than some of these yere drug folks ever studies. "colonel sterett, who's fa'rly careful about what he says, reefers to peets in his _daily coyote_ as a 'intellectchooal giant,' an' thar ain't no record of any scoffer comin' squanderin' along to contradict. mebby you'll say that the omission to do so is doo to the f'rocious attitoode of the _daily coyote_ itse'f, techin' contradictions, an' p'int to how that imprint keeps standin' at the head of its editorial columns as a motto, the cynicism: "'contradict the _coyote_ and avoid old age!' "thar'd be nothin' in it if you do. that motto's only one of colonel sterett's bluffs, one of his witticisms that a-way. you don't reckon that, in a sparsely settled country, whar the pop'lation is few an' far between, the colonel's goin' to go bumpin' off a subscriber over mebby a mere difference of opinion? the colonel ain't quite that locoed." "but about your wolfville-red dog fourth of july celebration?" i urged. "which i'm in no temper to tell a story--me settin' yere with every nerve as tight as a banjo catgut jest before it snaps. to reelate yarns your mood ought to be the mood of the racontoor--a mood as rich an' rank an' upstandin' as a field of wheat, ready to billow an' bend before every gale of fancy. the way yesterday leaves me, whatever tale i ondertakes to reecount would about come out of my mouth as stiff an' short an' brittle as chopped hay. also, as tasteless. better let it go till some other an' more mellow evenin'." no; i was ready to accept the chances, and said as much. a chopped-hay style, for a change, might be found acceptable. supplementing the declaration with renewed old jordan, i was so far victorious that my aged man of cattle yielded. "well, then," he began reluctantly, "i'm onable to partic'larly say which gent does make the orig'nal s'ggestion, but my belief is it's peets. i'm shore, however, that the cornwallis idee comes from bland; an', since it's not only at that cornwallis angle we-all falls publicly down, but the same is primar'ly doo to the besotted obstinacy of this yere bland himse'f, wolfville, while ever proudly willin' to b'ar whatever blame's sawed off on to her shoulders proper, is always convinced that red dog an' not us is to be held accountable. however, bland's gone an' paid what the sky scouts speaks of as the debt to nacher, an' i'm willin' to confess for one that when he's sober he ain't so bad. not that them fits of sobriety is either so freequent or so protracted they takes on any color of monotony. "bland's baptismal name is pete, an' in his way he's a leadin' inflooence in red dog. he's owner of the -bar-d outfit, y'earmark a swallow-fork in both y'ears--which brands seventeen hundred calves each spring round-up; an' is moreover proprietor of the abe lincoln hotel, the same bein' red dog's principal beanery. bland don't have to keep this yere tavern none, but it arranges so he sees his friends an' gets their _dinero_ at one an' the same time, which as combinin' business an' pleasure in equal degrees appeals to him a heap. "which it's the gen'ral voice that the best thing about bland is his wife. she's shore loyal to bland, you bet! when they're livin' in prescott, an' a committee of three from one of them 'purification of the home' societies comes trapesin' in, to tell her about bland bein' ondooly interested in a exyooberant young soobrette who's singin' at the theayter, an' spendin' his money on her mighty permiscus, missis bland listens plenty ca'm ontil they're plumb through. then she hands them purifiers this: "'well, ladies, i'd a heap sooner have a husband who can take keer of two women than a husband who can't take keer of one.' "after which she comes down on that purification bunch like a fallin' star, an' brooms 'em out of the house. accordin' to eye witnesses, who speaks without prejewdyce, she certainly does dust their bunnets strenuous. "when bland hears he pats missis bland on the shoulder, an' exclaims, 'thar's my troo-bloo old betsy jane! she knows i wouldn't trade a look from them faded old gray eyes of hers for all the soobretts whoever pulls a frock on over their heads!' "followin' which encomium bland sends to san francisco an' changes in the money from five hundred steers for an outfit of diamonds, to go 'round her neck, an' preesents 'em to missis bland. "'thar,' he says, danglin' them gewgaws in the sun, 'you don't notice no actresses flittin' about the scene arrayed like that, do you? if so, p'int out them over-bedecked females, an' i'll see all they've got on an' go 'em five thousand better, if it calls for every -bar-d steer on the range.' "'pete,' says missis bland, clampin' on to the jooelry with one hand, an' slidin' the other about his neck, 'you certainly are the kindest soul who ever makes a moccasin track in arizona, besides bein' a good provider.' "shore, this yere bland ain't so plumb bad. "an' after a fashion, too, he's able to give excooses. talkin' to peets, he lays his rather light an' frisky habits to him bein' a preacher's son. "'which you never, doc,' he says, 'meets up with the son an' heir of a pulpiteer that a-way, who ain't pullin' on the moral bit, an' tryin' for a runaway.' "'at any rate, pete,' the doc replies, all cautious an' conservative, 'i will say that if you're lookin' for some party who'll every day be steady an' law abidin', not to say seedate, you'll be a heap more likely to find him by searchin' about among the progeny of some party who's been lynched.' "recurrin' again to that miserabul fo'th of jooly play we cuts loose in, it's that evenin' when we invites red dog over in a body to he'p consoome the left-over stock of lickers in the former votes for women s'loon, an' nacherally thar's some drinkin'. as is not infrequent whar thar's drinkin', views is expressed an' prop'sitions made. it's then we takes up the business of havin' that cel'bration. "peets makes a speech, i recalls, an' after dilatin' 'round to the effect that fo'th of jooly ain't but two weeks ahead, allows that it'd be in patriotic line for us to do somethin'. "'conj'intly,' says peets, 'red dog an' wolfville, movin' together with one proud purpose of patriotism, ought to put over quite a show. as commoonities we're no longer in the swaddlin' clothes of infancy. it's time, too, that we goes on record as a whole public in some manner an' form best calk'lated to make a somnolent east set up an' notice us.' "peets continyoos in a sim'lar vein, an' speaks of the settlement of the southwest, wharin we b'ars our part, as a 'exodus without a prophet, a croosade without a cross,' which sent'ment he confesses he takes from a lit'rary sport, but no less troo for that. he closes by sayin' that if everybody feels like he does wolfville an' red dog'll j'ine in layin' out a program, that a-way, which'll shore spread the glorious trooth from coast to coast that we-all is on the map to stay. "it's a credit to both outfits, how yoonanimously the s'ggestion is took up. which i never does see a public go all one way so plumb quick, an' with so little struggle, since b'ar creek stanton is lynched; which act of jestice even has the absoloote endorsement of b'ar creek himse'f. "peets is no sooner done talkin' than tutt stacks in. "'thar's our six-shooters,' says he, 'for the foosilade; an', as for moosic, sech as "columbia the gem" an' the "star spangled banner," we can round up them dutchmen, who's the orchestra over at the bird cage op'ry house.' "the talk rambles on, one word borryin' another, ontil we outlines quite a game. thar's to be a procession between wolfville an' red dog, an' back ag'in, faro nell leadin' the same on a _pinto_ pony as the goddess of liberty. "'an' that reeminds me,' submits cherokee, when we reaches nell; 'thar's missis rucker. it's goin' to hurt her feelin's to be left out. as the preesidin' genius of the o. k. restauraw she's in shape to give us a racket we'll despise in eevent she gets her back up.' "'how about lettin' her in on the play,' says boggs, 'an' typ'fyin' jestice, that a-way?' "'thar's a idee, dan,' says texas thompson, 'which plugs the center, a reecommendation which does you proud! down in that laredo co't house whar my wife wins out her divorce that time, thar's a figger of jestice painted on the wall. shore, it don't mean nothin'; but all the same it's thar, dressed in white, that a-way, with eyes bandaged, an' packin' a sword in one hand an' holdin' aloft some balances in t'other. come to think of it, too, that picture shore looks a lot like missis rucker in the face, bein' plumb haughty an' commandin'.' "'missis rucker not bein' yere none,' says enright softly, an' peerin' about some cautious, 'i submits that while no more esteemable lady ever tosses a flapjack or fries salt-hoss in a pan, her figger is mebby jest a trifle too abundant. as jestice, she'll nacherally be arrayed--as texas says--in white, same as nell as the goddess. i don't want to seem technicle, but white augments the size of folks an' will make the lady in question look bigger'n a load of hay.' "'even so,' reemarks the red dog chief indulgently, 'would that of itse'f, i asks, be reckoned any setback? the lady will person'fy jestice; an' as sech i submits she can't look none too big.' "in compliment to the red dog chief enright, with a p'lite flourish, allows that he yields his objection with pleasure, an' missis rucker is put down for jestice. it's agreed likewise to borry a coach from the stage company for her to ride on top. "'her bein' preeclooded,' explains peets, 'from ridin' a hoss that a-way, as entirely ondignified if not onsafe. we can rig her up a throne with one of the big splint-bottom cha'rs from the red light, an' wrop the same in the american flag so's to make it look offishul.' "tucson jennie, with little enright peets as the hope of the republic, is to ride inside the coach. "havin' got this far, pete bland submits that a tellin' number would be a sham battle, red dog ag'in wolfville. "thar's opp'sition developed to this. both enright an' the red dog chief, as leaders of pop'lar feelin', is afraid that some sport'll forget that it ain't on the level, an' take to over-actin' his part. "as the red dog chief expresses it: "'some gent might be so far carried away by enthoosiasm as to go to shootin' low, an' some other gent get creased.' "'the same bein' my notion exact,' enright chips in. 'of course, the gent who thus shoots low would ondenyably do so onintentional; but what good would that do the party who's been winged, an' who mightn't live long enough to receive apol'gies?' "'that's whatever!' says jack moore. 'a sham battle's too plumb apt to prove a snare. the more, since everybody's so onused to 'em 'round yere. a gent, by keepin' his mind firm fixed, might manage to miss once or twice; but soon or late he'd become preoccupied, an' bust some of the opp'sition before he could ketch himse'f.' "bland, seein' opinion's ag'inst a sham battle, withdraws the motion, an' does it plenty graceful for a gent who's onable to stand. "'enough said,' he remarks, wavin' a acquiescent paw. 'ante, an' pass the buck.' "the lightnin' bug, speakin' from the red dog side, insists that in the reg'lar course of things thar's bound to be oratory. in that connection he mentions a sharp who lives in phoenix. "'which i'm shore,' says the bug, 'he'd be gladly willin' to assist; an' you hear me he's got a tongue of fire! some of you-all sports must have crossed up with him--jedge beebe of phoenix?' "'jedge beebe?' interjecks monte, who's given a hostler his proxy to take out the stage because of thar bein' onlimited licker; 'me an' the jedge stands drinkin' together for hours the last time he's in tucson. but you're plumb wrong, bug, about him bein' eloquent.' "'wrong?' the bug repeats, mighty indignant. "'of course,' says monte, rememberin' how easy heated the bug is, an' that he looks on six-shooters as argyooments, 'i don't mean he can't talk none; only he ain't what the doc yere calls no demosthenes.' "'did you ever hear the jedge talk?' demands the bug. "'which i shore does,' insists monte; 'i listens to him for two hours that time in tucson. it's when they opens the broadway dance hall.' "'whatever is his subject?' asks the bug, layin' for to ketch monte; 'what's the jedge talkin' about?' "'i don't know,' says monte, wropped in his usual mantle of whiskey-soaked innocence; 'he didn't say.' "the bug's eyes comes together in a angry focus; he thinks he's bein' made game of. "tharupon enright cuts in. "'bug,' he says, all sociable an' suave, 'you mustn't mind monte. he's so misconstructed that followin' the twenty-fifth drink he goes about takin' his ignorance for information. no one doubts but you're a heap better jedge than him of eloquence, an' everything else except nosepaint. s'ppose you consider yourse'f a committee to act for the con'jint camps, an' invite this yere joorist to be present as orator of the day.' "the bug's brow cl'ars at this, an' he asshores enright that he'll be proud to act as sech. "'an', gents,' he adds, 'if you says he ain't got patrick henry beat to a standstill, may i never hold as good as aces-up ag'in.' "the red dog chief announces that all hands must attend a free-for-all banquet which, inflooenced by the tenth drink, he then an' thar decides to give at bland's abe lincoln house. "'said banquet,' he explains, 'bein' in the nacher of a lunch to be held at high noon. if the dinin' room of the abe lincoln house ain't spacious enough, an i'll say right yere it ain't, we'll teetotaciously set them tables in the street. that's my style! i wants everybody, bar mexicans, to be present. when i gives a blow-out, i goes fo'th into the highways an' byways, an' asks the halt an' the lame an' the blind, like the good book says. also, no gent need go prowlin' 'round for no weddin' garments wharin to come. which he's welcome to show up in goat-skin laiggin's, or appear wropped in the drippin' an' offensive pelt of a wet dog.' "the red dog chief, lest some of us is sens'tive, goes on to add that no gent is to regyard them cracks about the halt an' the lame an' the blind as aimed at wolfville. he allows he ain't that invidious, an' in what he says is merely out to be both euphonious an' explicit, that a-way, at one an' the same time. "to which enright reesponds that no offence is took, an' asshores the red dog chief that wolfville will attend the banquet all spraddled out. "more licker, followed by gen'ral congratulations. "bland ag'in comes surgin' to the fore. this time he thinks that as a main feachure it would be a highly effective racket to reënact the surrender of cornwallis to washington. "tutt goes weavin' across to shake his hand. "'some folks allows, pete,' says tutt, 'that you're as whiskey-soaked an old fool as monte. but not me, pete, not your old pard, dave tutt! an' you hear me, pete, that idee about cornwallis givin' up his sword to washington dem'nstrates it.' "'you bet your life it does!' says bland. "'but is this yere surrender feasible?' asks texas. 'which, at first blink, it seems some cumbrous to me.' "'it's as easy as turnin' jack,' declar's tutt, takin' the play away from bland. 'i've seen it done.' "'as when an' whar?' puts in cherokee. "'thar's a time,' says tutt--'it's way back--when i sets into a little poker game over in el paso, table stakes she is, an' cleans up for about $ , . for mebby a week i goes 'round thinkin' that $ , is a million; an' after that i simply _knows_ it is. these yere onnacheral riches onhinges me to a p'int whar i deecides i'll visit chicago an' noo york, as calk'lated to broaden me.' "'noo york!--chicago!' interrupts the bug. 'i once deescends upon them hamlets, an' i encounters this yere strikin' difference. in chicago they wouldn't let me spend a dollar, while in noo york they wouldn't let anybody else spend one.' "'it's otherwise with me,' goes on tutt, 'because for a wind-up i don't see neither. i'm young then, d' you see, an' affected by yooth an' wealth i takes to licker, with the result that i goes pervadin' up an' down the train, insistin' on becomin' person'ly known to the passengers.' "'an' nacherally you gets put off,' says boggs. "'not exactly, neither. only the conductor, assisted by a bevy of brakemen, lays the thing before me in sech a convincin' shape that i gets off of my own accord. it seems that to be agree'ble, i proposes wedlock to a middle-aged schoolmarm, who allows that she sees no objection except i'm a perfect stranger. she says it ain't been customary with her much to go weddin' strangers that a-way, but if i'll get myse'f reg'larly introdooced, an' then give her a day or so to become used to my looks, she'll go me. it's then the conductor draws me aside, an' says, "i've a son about your age, my eboolient young sport, which is why i takes your part. my theery is that if you sticks aboard this train ontil we reaches rock island, you'll never leave that village a single man." "'this sobers me,' tutt continyoos, 'an' i hides in the baggage kyar ontil we reaches a camp called sedalia, whar i quietly makes my escape. i'm that reelieved i gives the cabman $ to let me drive, an' then starts in to wake things up. which i shore wakes 'em! i comes down the main street like the breath of destiny; an', say, you ought to see them missourians climb trees, an' gen'rally break for cover! it costs me $ ; an' the jedge gives me his word that, only it's the fo'th of jooly, he'd have handed me two weeks in the calaboose. i clinks down the fifty _pesos_ some grateful, an' goes bulgin' forth to witness the cer'monies. she's a jo-darter, that sedalia cel'bration is! as pete yere recommends, they pulls off the surrender of cornwallis on the fair grounds. also, it's plumb easy. all you needs is mebby a couple of hundred folks on hosses, an' after that the rest's like rollin' off a log.' "more is said as the drink goes round, an' cornwallis surrenderin' to washington takes hold of our imaginations. we throws dice, an' settles it that red dog'll be the english, with bland as cornwallis, while wolfville acts as the americans, boggs to perform as washington--boggs bein' six foot an' some inches, besides as wide as a door. by the time we gets the stock of the votes for women s'loon fully drinked up everything's arranged. "onless you sees no objections, son, i'll gallop through the balance of this yere painful eepisode. the day comes round, bright an' cl'ar, an' the copper queen people gen'rously starts the ball a-rollin' by explodin' thirteen cans of powder, one for each of the orig'nal states. then the procession forms, nell in front as the goddess. thar's full two hundred of us, wolfville an' red dog, on ponies. as to missis rucker, she's on top of the coach as jestice, tucson jennie--with little enright peets lookin' like a young he cherub--inside, an' monte pullin' the reins over the six hosses. we makes four trips between wolfville an' red dog, crackin' off our good old ' s at irreg'lar intervals, nell on her calico pony as the goddess bustin' away with the rest. "little enright peets wants in on the pistol shootin', an' howls jes' like a coyote--as children will--ontil boggs, who foresees it an' comes provided, gives him a baby pistol, a box of blank cartridges, an' exhorts him to cut loose. which little enright peets shore cuts loose, all right; an', except that he sets fire to the coach a few times, an' makes missis rucker oneasy up on top--her fearin' that mebby some of them blanks has bullets in 'em by mistake--he has a perfectly splendid time. "the procession over, we eats up the red dog chief's banquet, wharat every brand of airtights is introdooced. that done, we listens to jedge beebe, who soars an' sails an' sails an' soars, rhetorical, for mebby it's a hour, an' is that eloquent an' elevated he never hits nothin' but the highest places. "the red dog chief makes a speech, an' proposes 'wolfville'; to which peets--by enright's request--reesponds, an' offers 'red dog.' it's bottoms up to both sentiments; for thar's no negligence about the drinks, black jack havin' capered fraternally over to he'p out his overworked barkeep brother of the red dog tub of blood. "when no one wants to further drink or eat or talk, we reepa'rs to a level place between the two camps to go through the cornwallis' surrender. the rival forces is arrayed opp'site, cornwallis bland in a red coat, an' washington boggs in bloo an' buff, accordin' to the teachin's of hist'ry. both of 'em has sabers donated from the fort. "when all's ready washington boggs an' cornwallis bland rides out in front ontil they're in easy speakin' distance. cornwallis bland's been over-drinkin' some, an' is w'arin' a mighty deefiant look. "after a spell, nothin' bein' spoke on either side, washington boggs calls out: "'is this yere gen'ral cornwallis?' "'who you talkin' to?' demands cornwallis bland, a heap contemptuous an' insolent. "peets has done writ out words for 'em to say, but neither uses 'em. observin' how cornwallis bland conducts himse'f, washington boggs waves his sword plenty vehement, which makes his pony cavort an' buckjump, an' roars: "'don't you try to play nothin' on me, gen'ral cornwallis. do you or do you not surrender your mis'rable blade?' "'surrender nothin'!' cornwallis bland sneers back, meanwhile reelin' in his saddle. 'thar's never the horned-toad clanks a spur in cochise county can make me surrender. likewise, don't you-all go wavin' that fool weepon at me none. i don't valyoo it more'n if it's a puddin' stick. which i've got one of 'em myse'f'--yere he'd have lopped off one of his pony's y'ears, only it's so dull--'an' i wouldn't give it to a yellow pup to play with.' "'for the last time, cornwallis,' says washington boggs, face aflame with rage, 'i commands you to surrender.' "'don't let him bluff you, pete,' yells a bumptious young cow-puncher who belongs on the red dog-english side. 'which we can wipe up the plains with that wolfville outfit.' "the red dog chief bats the young trouble-makin' cow-puncher over the head with his gun, an' quietly motions to the lightnin' bug an' a fellow red dog to pack what reemains of him to the r'ar. this done, he turns to reemonstrate with cornwallis bland for his obstinancy. he's too late. washington boggs, who's stood all he will, drives the spurs into his pony, an' next with a bound an' a rush, he hits cornwallis bland an' his charger full chisle. "the pony of cornwallis bland fa'rly swaps ends with itse'f, an' cornwallis would have swapped ends with it, too, only washington boggs collars an' hefts him out of his saddle. "'now, you onwashed drunkard, will you surrender?' roars washington boggs, shakin' cornwallis bland like a dog does a rat, ontil that british leader drops all of his hardware, incloosive of his pistol--'now will you surrender, or must i break your back across your own pony, as showin' you the error of your ways?' "it looks like thar's goin' to be a hostile comminglin' of all hands, when--her ha'r streamin' behind her same as if she's a comet--missis bland comes chargin' up. "'yere, you drunken villyun!' she screams to boggs, 'give me my husband this instant, onless you wants me to t'ar your eyes out!' "'it's him who's to blame, ma'am,' says enright mildly, comin' to boggs' rescoo; 'which he won't surrender.' "'oh, he won't, won't he?' says missis bland, as she hooks onto cornwallis bland. 'you bet he'll surrender to me all right, or i'll know why.' "as the red dog chief is apol'gizin' to enright, who's tellin' him not to mind, cornwallis bland is bein' half shoved an' half drug, not to mention wholly yanked, towards the abe lincoln house by missis bland. "that's the end. this yere ontoward finale to our cel'bration gets wide-flung notice in print, an' instead of bein' a boost, as we-all hopes, wolfville an' red dog becomes a jest an' jeer. also, while it don't sour the friendly relations of the two camps, the simple mention of fo'th of jooly leaves a bitter taste in the wolfville-red dog mouth ever since." vii propriety pratt, hypnotist "do i ever see any folks get hypnotized? which i witnesses a few sech instances. but it's usually done with a gun. if you're yearnin' to behold a party go into a trance plumb successful an' abrupt, get the drop on him. thar ain't one sport in a hundred who can look into the muzzle of a colt's . , held by a competent hand, without lapsin' into what peets calls a 'cataleptic state.' "shore, son, i savvys what you means." the last was because i had begun to exhibit signs of impatience at what i regarded as a too flippant spirit on the part of my old cattleman. in the polite kindliness of his nature he made haste to smooth down my fur. "to be shore i onderstands you. as to the real thing in hypnotism, however, thar arises as i recalls eevents but few examples in arizona. the southwest that a-way ain't the troo field for them hypnotists, the weak-minded among the pop'lation bein' redooced to minimum. now an' then of course some hypnotic maverick, who's strayed from the eastern range, takes to trackin' 'round among us sort o' blind an' permiscus. but he never stays long, an' is generally tickled to death when some vig'lance committee so far reelents as to let him escape back. "over in bernilillo once, i'm present when a mob gets its rope onto one of these yere wizards, an' it's nothin' but the mercy of hell an' the mean pars'mony of what outcasts has him in charge, which saves him from bein' swung up. mind you, it ain't no vig'lance committee, but a mob, that's got him. "whatever is the difference? "said difference, son, is as a spanless gulf. a vig'lance committee is the coolest kind of comin' together of the integrity an' the brains of a commoonity. a mob, on the other hand, is a chance-blown convention of deestructionists, as savagely brainless as a pack of timber wolves. a vig'lance committee seeks jestice; a mob is merely out for blood." "about this bernilillo business?" the old gentleman, as though the recital might take some time, signalled the black attendant to bring refreshments. the bottle comfortably at his elbow, he proceeded. "i was thar, as i says, but i takes no part for either 'yes' or 'no,' bein' no more'n simply a 'looker on in vienna,' as the actor party observes over in the bird cage op'ry house. thar's one of them hypnotizin' sharps who's come bulgin' into bernilillo to give a show. nacherally the local folks raps for a showdown; they insists he entrance some one they knows, an' refooses to be put off by him hypnotizin' what herd of hirelin's he's brought with him, on the argyooment that them humbugs is in all likelihood but cappers for his game. "thus stood up, the professor, as he calls himself, begins rummagin' 'round for a subject. thar's a little frenchman who's been pervadin' about bernilillo, claimin' to be a artist. which he's shore a painter all right. i sees him myse'f take a bresh an' a batch of colors, an' paint a runnin' iron so it looks so much like wood it floats. shore; emil--which this yere genius' name is emil--as a artist that a-way is as good as jacks-up before the draw. "the hypnotic professor runs his eye over the audjence. in a moment he's onto emil, an' begins to w'irl his hypnotic rope. it's emil bein' thin an' weakly an' bloodless, i reckon, that attracts him. this yere emil ain't got bodily stren'th to hold his own ag'in a high wind, an' the professor is on at a glance that, considered from standp'ints of hypnotism, he ought to be a pushover. "emil don't hone to be no subject, but them bernilillo hold-ups snatches onto him in spite of his protests, an' passes him up onto the stage to the professor. they're plenty headlong, not to say boorish, them bernilillo ruffians be; speshully if they've sot their hearts on anythin', an' pore emil stands about the same show among 'em as a cottontail rabbit among a passel of owls. "for myse'f, i allers adheres to a theery that what follows is to be laid primar'ly to the door of the bernilillo pop'lace. which it's themselves, not the professor, they'd oughter've strung up. you see this emil artist person blinks out onder the spells of the professor, an' never does come to no more. the professor hypnotizes emil, but he can't onhypnotize him. thar he sets as dead as davy crockett. "this yere emil bein' shore dead, bernilillo sent'ment begins to churn an' wax active. thar ain't a well-conditioned vig'lance committee between the pecos an' the colorado which, onder the circumstances, would have dreamed of stretchin' that professor. what he does, them bernilillo dolts forces him to do. as for deceased, his ontimely evaporation that a-way is but the frootes of happenstance. "what cares the bernilillo pop'lace, wolf hungry for blood? in the droppin' of a sombrero they've cinched onto the professor, an' the only question left open is whether they'll string him up to the town windmill or the sign in front of the first national bank. "while them bernilillo wolves is howlin' an' mobbin' an' millin' 'round the professor--who himse'f is scared plumb speechless an' is as white as a lump of chalk--relief pushes to the front in most onexpected shape. it's a kyard sharp by the name of singleton, otherwise called the planter, who puts himse'f in nom'nation to extricate the professor. "climbin' onto the top step in front of the bank, the planter lifts up his voice for a hearin'. "'folks!' he shouts, 'i'm in favor of this yere lynchin' like a landslide. but, all the same, thar's a bet we overlooks. it's up to us not only to be jest, but to be gen'rous. this yere murderer, who's done blotted out the only real artist i ever meets except myse'f, has a wife down to the hotel. as incident to these festiv'ties she's goin' to be a widow. is it for the manhood an' civic virchoo of bernilillo to leave a widow of its own construction broke an' without a dollar? i hears the incensed echoes from the black range roarin' back in scornful accents "no!" sech bein' the sityooation, as preelim'nary to this yere hangin' i moves we takes up a collection for that widow. yere's a fifty to 'nitiate the play'--at this p'int the planter throws a fifty-dollar bill into his hat--'an' as i passes among you i wants every sport to come across, lib'ral an' free, an' prove to the world lookin' on that bernilillo is the band of onbelted philanthropists which mankind's allers believed. "hat in hand, same as if it's a contreebution box an' he's passin' the platter in church, the planter begins goin' in an' out through the multitood like a meadowlark through standin' grass. that is, he starts to go in an' out; but, at the first motion, that entire lynchin' party exhales like mist on the mornin' mountains. it's the same as flappin' a blanket at a bunch of cattle. every profligate of 'em, at the su'gestion he contreebute to the widow, gets stampeded, an' thar's nobody left but the planter, the professor, an' me. "'which i shore knows how to tech them ground-hawgs on the raw,' says the planter, as he onlooses the professor. 'if i was to have p'inted a gun at 'em now, they'd've give me a battle. but bein' to the last man jack a bunch of onmitigated misers, a threat leveled at their bankrolls sets 'em to hidin' out like quail!' "the professor? "the instant he's laig-free, an' without so much as pausin' to congrachoolate his preeserver on the power of his eloquence, he vanishes into the night. he's headin' towards vegas as he's lost to sight, an' i learns later from russ kishler he makes that meetropolis more or less used up. no; he don't have no wife. that flight of fancy is flung off by the planter simply as furnishin' 'atmosphere.' "wolfville never gets honored but once by the notice of a hypnotist. this yere party don't proclaim himse'f as sech, but bills his little game as that of a 'magnetic healer,' an' allows in words a foot high that he's out to 'make the deef hear, the blind see, the lame to walk an' the halt to skip an' gambol as doth the hillside lamb.' also, on them notices, the same bein' the bigness of a hoss-blanket an' hung up lib'ral in the red light, the post office, the dance hall, an' the noo york store, is a picture of old satan himse'f, teachin' professor propriety pratt--that bein' the name this yere neecromancer gives himse'f--his trade. "these proclamations is tacked up a full week before professor pratt is doo, an' prodooces a profound effect on boggs, him bein' by nacher sooperstitious to the brink of the egreegious. the evenin' before the professor is to onlimber on us, he shows in red dog, an' boggs is that roused by what's been promised in the line of mir'cles, he rides across to be present. "'it ain't that i'm convinced none,' boggs reports, when quaffin' his old jordan in the red light, an' settin' fo'th what he sees, 'but i must confess to bein' more or less onhossed by what this yere pratt professor does. he don't magnetize none of them red dog drunkards in person, for which he's to be exon'rated, since no self-respectin' magnetizer would let himse'f get tangled up with sech. he confines his exploits to a brace of dreamy lookin' ground owls he totes 'round with him, an' which he calls his "hosses." what he makes these vagrants do, though, assoomin' it's on the squar', is a caution to bull-snakes. after he's got 'em onder the "inflooence," they eats raw potatoes like they're roast apples, sticks needles into themselves same as though they're pincushions, an' at his slightest behest performs other feats both blood-curdlin' an' myster'ous.' "we-all listens to boggs, of course, as he recounts what marvels he's gone ag'inst in red dog, but we don't yield him as much attention as we otherwise might, bein' preeockepied as a public with word of a hold-up that's come off over near the whetstone springs. some bandit--all alone--sticks up the lordsburg coach, an' quits winner sixty thousand dollars. nacherally our cur'osity is a heap stirred up, for with sech encouragement thar's no tellin' when he'll make a play at monte an' the wolfville stage, an' take to layin' waste the fortunes of all us gents. what is done to lordsburg we can stand, but a blow at our own warbags, even in antic'pation, is calc'lated to cause us to perk up. we're all discussin' the doin's of this yere route agent an' wonderin' if it's curly bill, when boggs gets back from red dog, with the result, as i says, that he onloads his findin's, that a-way, on a dead kyard. not that this yere public inattention preys on boggs. he keeps on drinkin' an' talkin', same as though, all y'ears like a field of wheat, we ain't doin' a thing but listen. "'also,' he observes, as he tells black jack to rebusy himse'f, meanwhile p'intin' up to the poster which shows how the devil is holdin' professor pratt in his lap an' laborin' for that hypnotist's instruction; 'i shall think out a few tests which oughter get the measure of that mountebank. he won't find this outfit so easy as them red dog boneheads.' "professor pratt has a one-day wait in wolfville, not bein' able that evenin' to get the bird cage op'ry house, the same bein' engaged by a company of histrions called the red stocking blonds. havin' nothin' else to do, the professor wanders yere an' thar, now in the red light, now at the noo york store, but showin' up at the o. k. restauraw at chuck time both rav'nous an' reg'lar. missis rucker allows she never does feed a gent who puts himse'f outside of so much grub for the money, an' hazards the belief it's because of a loss of nervous force through them hypnotizin's he pulls off. not that she's findin' fault, for the professor, havin' staked her to a free ticket, has her on his staff in the shakin' of a dice-box. "the professor don't come bulgin' among us, garroolous an' friendly, but holds himse'f aloof a heap, clingin' to the feelin' mebby that to preeserve a distance is likely to swell reesults at the bird cage door. boggs, however, ain't to be stood off by no coldness, carin' no more for a gent's bein' haughty that a-way than a cow does for a cobweb. which you bet it'll take somethin' more'n mere airs to hold boggs in check. "it's in the o. k. restauraw, followin' our evenin' _frijoles_, that boggs breaks the ice an' declar's for some exper'ments. "'which you claims,' says he, appealin' to the professor, 'to make the deef hear and the blind see. onforchoonately we're out of deef folks at this writin', an' thar's nothin' approachin' blindness in this neck of woods which don't arise from licker. but aside from cures thus rendered impossible for want of el'gible invalids, thar's still this yere hypnotic bluff you puts up. what wolfville hankers for is tests, tests about the legit'macy of which thar's no openin' for dispoote. wharfore i yereby makes offer of myse'f to become your onmurmurin' dupe. i'll gamble you a stack of bloos you don't make me drink no water, thinkin' it's nosepaint, same as you pretends to do with them wretched confed'rates of yours.' "the professor is a big b'ar-built sport, an' looks equal to holdin' his own onder common conditions. but boggs don't come onder the latter head. so the professor, turnin' diplomatic an' compliment'ry, explains that sech powerful nachers as boggs' is out of reach of his rope--boggs bein' reepellent, besides havin' too strong a will. "'as to you, mister boggs, with that will of yours,' says the professor, 'i might as well talk of hypnotizin' cook's peak.' "one after another, boggs makes parade of everybody in camp. it's no go; the professor waves 'em aside as plumb onfit. missis rucker's got too much on her mind; in rucker the tides of manhood is at so low a ebb he might die onder the pressure; monte's too full of nosepaint, alcohol, that a-way, bein' a nonconductor. "when the professor dismisses monte, the ground he puts it on excites that inebriate to whar it reequires the united energies of cherokee an' tutt to kick him off the professor. it's only the direct commands of enright which in the end indooces him to keep the peace. "'let me at him!' he howls; 'let me get at him! does any one figger i'll allow some fly-by-night charl'tan to go reeflectin' on me? stand back, cherokee, get out o' the way, dave, till i plaster the wall with his reemains!' "'ca'm yourse'f, monte,' says enright, who's come in in time to onderstand the trouble. 'which if this hypnotizer was reely meanin' to outrage your feelin's, it'd be different a whole lot, an' this sod-pawin' an' horn-tossin' might plead some jestification. but what he says is in the way of scientific exposition, an' nothin' said scientific's to be took insultin'. ain't that your view, doc?' "'shore,' replies peets. the doc's been havin' no part in the discussion, him holdin' that the professor, with his rannikaboo bluff about healin', is a empirik, an' beneath his professional contempt. 'shore. also, i'm free to inform monte that if he thinks he's goin' to lap up red licker to the degree he does, an' obleege folks in gen'ral to treat sech consumption as a secret, he's got his stack down wrong.' "'enough said,' ejacyoolates monte, but still warm; 'whether or no, doc, i'm the sot this outfit's so fond of picturin', i at least ain't so lost to reason as to go buckin' ag'inst you an' enright. jest the same, though, i'm yere to give the news to any magnetizing horned-toad who sows the seeds of dispoote in this camp that, if he goes about malignin' me, he'll shore find i'm preecisely the orange-hued chimpanzee to wrop my prehensile tail around him an' yank him from his limb.' "'aside from aidin' the deef an' the blind,' says the professor, ignorin' monte utter an' addressin' himse'f to boggs an' the public gen'ral, 'my ministrations has been found eff'cacious wharever the course of troo love has not run smooth. i binds up wounds of sent'ment, an' cures every sickness of the soul. which, if thar's any heart lyin' 'round loose yereabouts an' failin' to beat as one, or a sperit that's been disyoonited from its mate an' can't remake the hook-up, trust me to get thar with bells on in remedyin' sech evils.' "the professor beams as he gets this off, mighty benignant. texas, feelin' like the common eye is on him, commences to grow restless. "'be you-all alloodin' to me?' he asks the professor, his manner approaching the petyoolant. 'let me give you warnin', an' all on the principle that a wink is as good as a nod to a blind mule. so shore as you go to makin' any plays to reyoonite me an' that divorced laredo wife of mine i'll c'llect enough of your hypnotizin' hide to make a saddle-cover.' "'permit me,' says the professor, turnin' to texas some aghast, 'to give you my word i nourishes no sech deesigns. which i'm driven to say, however, that your attitoode is as hard to fathom as a fifth ace in a poker deck. i in no wise onderstands your drift.' "'you onderstands at least,' returns texas, still morbid an' f'rocious, 'that you or any other fortune teller might better have been born a digger injun to live on lizards, sage bresh an' grasshoppers than come messin' 'round in my mar'tal affairs with a view to reebuildin' 'em up. my hopes in that behalf is rooined; an' whoever ondertakes their rehabil'tation'll do it in the smoke. what i'm out after now is the ca'm onbroken misery of a single life, an' i'll shore have it or have war.' "'my heated friend, i harbors no notion,' the professor protests, 'of tryin' to make it otherwise. your romancin' 'round single, that a-way, ain't no skin off my nose. an' while i never before hears of your former bride, i'm onable to dodge the feelin' that she herse'f most likely might reesent to the utmost any attempt on my part to ag'in bring you an' her together.' "texas formyoolates no express reply, but growls. the professor, still with that propitiatin' front, appeals to the rest of us. "'gents,' he says, 'this yere's the most reesentful outfit i'm ever inveigled into tryin' to give a show to. i certainly has no thought of rubbin' wrong-ways the pop'lar bristles. all i aims at is to give a exhibition of anamile magnetism, cure what halt an' blind--if any--is cripplin' an' moonin' about, c'llect my _dinero_ an' peacefully hit the trail. an' yet it looks like a prejewdice exists ag'inst me yere.' "'put a leetle pressure on the curb, thar,' interrupts peets. 'you're up ag'inst no prejewdice. on that bill, wharwith you've done defaced the wolfville walls, you makes sundry claims. an' now you r'ars back on your ha'nches, preetendin' to feel plumb illyoosed, because some one seeks to put the acid on 'em.' "'that's whatever!' adds boggs; 'the doc states my p'sition equilaterally exact. i sees your red dog show. i'll be present a whole lot at your show to-morry night. also, i feels the need of gyardin' ag'inst my own credoolity. what i sees you do in red dog, while not convincin', throws me miles into the oncertain air; an' i don't figger on lettin' you _vamoos_, leavin' me in no sech a onsettled frame. wharfore, i deemands tests.' "'yere,' breaks in nell, who's been listenin', 'what's the matter of this occult party hypnotizin' me.' "'the odd kyard in that deck,' says cherokee, his manner trenchin' on the baleful--'the odd kyard in that deck is that onless this yere occultist is cap'ble of mesmerizin' a bowie to whar it looses both p'int an' edge, for him to go weavin' his wiles an' guiles 'round you, nellie, would mark the evenin' of his c'reer.' "nell beams an' brightens at these yere proofs of cherokee's int'rest, while the pore professor looks as deeply disheveled mental as he does when texas goes soarin' aloft. "little enright peets waddles up to tell his paw that tucson jennie wants him. as he comes teeterin' along on his short cub-b'ar laigs, fat an' 'round as forty pigs, the professor--thinkin' it'll mebby relieve the sityooation--stoops down to be pleasant to little enright peets. "'yere's my little friend!' he says, at the same time holdin' out his hands. "later we-all feels some ashamed of the excitement we displays. but the trooth is, the professor offerin' to caress little enright peets that a-way sends us plumb off our feet. i never before witnesses any sech display of force. every gent starts for'ard, an' some has pulled their guns. "'paws off!' roars enright to the pore dazed professor, who comes mighty clost to rottin' down right thar; 'in view of them announcements'--yere enright p'ints to the bill, whar satan an' the professor is deepicted as teacher an' poopil--'do you-all reckon we lets sech a devil's baby as you go manhandlin' that child?' "the professor throws up his hands like he's growing desp'rate. "'folks,' he says, 'i asks, in all hoomility, is thar anythin' i can say or do in this yere camp without throwing away my life?' "'shore,' returns boggs; 'all you got to do is give a deemonstration.' "'however be i goin' to give a hypnotic deemonstration,' returns the professor, apparently on the verge of nervous breakdown, 'when every possible subject is either too preeokyoopied, or too obstinate, or too weak, or too yoothful, or too beautiful, or too drunk? if it's healin' you're after, bring fo'th the sickest you've got. if he's blind an' his eye ain't gouged plumb out, i'll make him see; if he's lame an' his laig ain't cut plumb off, i'll make him walk. an' now, gents, i'm through. if these yere proffers don't suit, proceed with my bootchery. i care less, since one day with you-all exactin' tarrapins has rendered life so distasteful to me that i wouldn't turn hand or head to live.' "havin' got this off his mind, the harassed professor sets down an' buries his face in his hands. "'why not introdooce him,' breaks in rucker, who's nosin' about, 'to that aflickted shorthorn who comes groanin' in on the stage last night? he's been quiled up in his blankets with the rhoomatism ever since he hits camp. which if this yere imposter can make him walk, it'll shore be kings-up with missis rucker, 'cause she wants to make the bed.' "'whar's this sufferer at?' demands boggs, takin' the professor by the sleeve an' with the same motion pullin' his six-shooter. 'this yere discussion's done reached the mark whar it's goin' to be a case of kill or cure for some sport.' "rucker leads the way up sta'rs, boggs an' the professor next, the rest trailin'. all hands crowds into the little dark bedroom. thar on the bed, clewed up into a knot, lies the rhoomatic party. as we-all files in, he draws himse'f onder the blankets ontil nothin' but his nose sticks out. "'professor,' says boggs, an' his six-shooter goes 'kluck! kluck!' mighty menacin', 'onfurl your game! i shore trusts that you ain't started nothin' you can't stop.' "the pore professor don't nurse no doubts. he thinks he's in the bubblin' midst of blood an' sudden death; wharfore, you bet, he throws plenty of sperit into his racket. makin' some hostile moves with his hands--boggs elevatin' his gun, not bein' quite content about them motions--the professor yells: "'get up!' "talk of mir'cals! which you should have seen that rhoomatic! with one turrific squawk he lands on his knees at the feet of boggs, beggin' for mercy. "'don't kill me,' he cries; 'i'll show you whar i plants the money.' "whoever is that rhoomatic? which he's the stoodent who stands up the stage over by whetstone springs. his rhoomatism's merely that malefactor's way of goin' onder cover. "the professor later offers to divide with boggs on the two thousand-dollar reward the wells-fargo folks pays, but boggs shakes his head. "'you take the entire wad, professor,' says he, wavin' aside that gen'rous necromancer. 'it's the trophy of your own hypnotic bow an' spear. what share is borne by my . is incidental. which i'll say, too, that if i was playin' your hand i'd spread that cure on my posters as the star mir'cle of my c'reer.'" viii that turner person "talk of your hooman storm-centers an' nacheral born hubs of grief," observed the old cattleman, reminiscently; "i'm yere to back that turner person ag'inst all competitors. not but what once we're onto his angles, he sort o' oozes into our regyards. his baptismal name is 'lafe,' but he never does deerive no ben'fit tharfrom among us, him behavin' that eegregious from the jump, he's allers referred to as 'that turner person.' "as evincin' how swift flows the turbid currents of his destinies, he succeeds in focusin' the gen'ral gaze upon him before he's been in camp a day. likewise, it's jest as well missis rucker herse'f ain't present none in person at the time, or mighty likely he'd have focused all the crockery on the table upon him, which you can bet your last _peso_ wouldn't have proved no desid'ratum. for while missis rucker ain't what i calls onusual peevish, for a lady to set thar quiet an' be p'inted to by some onlicensed boarder as a borgia, that away, would be more'n female flesh an' blood can b'ar. "it's like this. the turner person comes pushin' his way into the o. k. restauraw along with the balance of the common herd, an' pulls a cha'r up ag'inst the viands with all the confidence of a oldest inhab'tant. after grinnin' up an' down the table as affable as a wet dog, he ropes onto a can of airtights, the same bein' peaches. he he'ps himse'f plenty copious an' starts to mowin' 'em away. "none of us is noticin' partic'lar, bein' engaged on our own hook reachin' for things, when of a sudden he cuts loose a screech which would have knocked a bobcat speechless. "'i'm p'isened!' he yells; 'i'm as good as dead right now!' "followin' this yere fulm'nation, he takes to dancin' stiff-laiged, meanwhile clutchin' hold of the buckle on his belt. "thar should be no dissentin' voice when i states that, at a crisis when some locoed maverick stampedes a entire dinin' room by allowin' he's been p'isened, prompt action should be took. wharfore it excites no s'rprise when jack moore, to whom as kettle-tender for the stranglers all cases of voylance is _ex officio_ put up, capchers the ghost-dancin' turner person by the collar. "'whatever's the meanin' of this midprandial excitement?' demands jack. 'which if these is your manners in a dinin' room, i'd shore admire to see you once in church.' "'i'm p'isened!' howls the turner person, p'intin' at the airtights. 'it's ptomaines! i'm a gone fawnskin! ptomaines is a center shot!' "none of us holds rucker overhigh, an' yet we jestifies that husband's action. rucker's headin' in from the kitchen, bearin' aloft a platter of ham an' cabbage. he arrives in time to gather in the turner person's bluff about 'ptomaines,' an' onderstands he's claimin' to be p'isened. shore, rucker don't know what ptomaines is, but what then? no more does the rest of us, onless it's peets, an' he's over to tucson. as i freequently remarks, the doc is the best eddicated sharp in arizona, an' even 'ptomaines' ain't got nothin' on him. "rucker plants the platter of ham an' cabbage on the table, an' appeals 'round to us. "'gents,' he says, 'am i to stand mootely by an' see this tavern, the best j'int ondoubted in arizona, insulted?' an' with that he's down on the turner person like a fallin' tree, whar that crazy-hoss individyooal stands jumpin' an' dancin' in the hands of moore. "'what's these yere slanders,' shouts rucker, 'you-all is levelin' at my wife's hotel? yere we be, feedin' you on the fat of the land; an' the form your gratitoode takes is to go givin' it out broadcast you're p'isened! you pull your freight,' he concloodes, as he wrastles the dancin' turner person to the door, 'an' if you-all ever shows your villifyin' nose inside this hostelry ag'in i'll fill you full of buckshot.' "to be shore, that crack about buckshot ain't nothin' more'n vain hyperbole, rucker not possessin' the spunk of bull-snakes. the turner person, however, lets him get away with it, an' submits tamely to be buffaloed, which of itse'f shows he ain't got the heart of a horned toad. the eepisode does rucker a heap of good, though, an' he puffs up immoderate. given any party he can buffalo, an' the way that weak-minded married man expands his chest, an' takes to struttin', is a caution to cock partridges. an' all the time, a jack-rabbit, of ordinary resolootion an' force of character, would make rucker take to a tree or go into a hole. "is the turner person p'isened? "no more'n i be. which it's simple that alarmist's heated imagination, aggravated by what deloosions is born of the nosepaint he gets in red dog before ever he makes his wolfville deboo at all. two hookers of old jordan from black jack renders him so plumb well he's reedic'lous. "most likely you-all'd go thinkin' now that, havin' let sech a hooman failure as rucker put it all over him, this turner person'd lie dormant a spell, an' give his se'f-respect a chance to ketch its breath. not him. it's no longer away than second drink time the same evenin' when he locks gratooitous horns with black jack. to this last embroglio thar is--an' could be--no deefense, jack bein' so amiable that havin' trouble with him is like goin' to the floor with your own image in the glass. which he's shorely a long sufferin' barkeep, jack is. mebby it's his genius for forbearance, that a-way, which loores this turner person into attemptin' them outrages on his sens'bilities. "the turner person stands at the bar, sloppin' out the legit'mate forty drops. with nothin' said or done to stir him up, he cocks his eye at jack--for all the world like a crow peerin into a bottle--an' says, "'which your feachers is displeasin' to me, an' i don't like your looks.' "jack keeps on swabbin' off the bar for a spell, an' all as mild as the month of may. "'is that remark to be took sarkastic?' he asks at last, 'or shall we call it nothin' more'n a brainless effort to be funny?' "'none whatever!' retorts the turner person; 'that observation's made in a serious mood. your countenance is ondoubted the facial failure of the age, an' i requests that you turn it the other way while i drinks.' "not bein' otherwise engaged at the moment, an' havin' time at his command, jack repairs from behind the bar, an' seizes the turner person by the y'ear. "'an' this is the boasted hospital'ty of the west!' howls the turner person, strugglin' to free himself from jack, who's slowly but voloominously bootin' him towards the street. "it's nell who tries to save him. "'yere, you jack!' she sings out, 'don't you-all go hurtin' that pore tenderfoot none.' "nell's a shade too late, however; jack's already booted him out. "shore, jack apologizes. "'beg parding, nellie,' he says; 'your least command beats four of a kind with me; but as to that ejected shorthorn, i has him all thrown out before ever you gets your stack down.' "the turner person picks himse'f out of the dust, an', while he feels his frame for dislocations with one hand, feebly menaces at black jack with t'other. "'some day, you rum-sellin' miscreent,' he says, 'you'll go too far with me.' "as showin' how little these vicisitoodes preys on this turner person, it ain't ten minutes till he's hit the middle of wolfville's principal causeway, roarin' at the top of his lungs, "'cl'ar the path! i'm the grey wolf of the mountings, an' gen'ral desolation follows whar i leads!' "yere he gives a prolonged howl. "the hardest citizen that ever belted on a gun couldn't kick up no sech row as that in wolfville, an' last as long as a drink of whiskey. in half the swish of a coyote's tail, jack moore's got the turner person corralled. "'this camp has put up with a heap from you,' says moore, 'an' now we tries what rest an' reeflection will do.' "'i'm a wolf--!' "'we savvys all about you bein' a wolf. also, i'm goin' to tie you to the windmill, as likely to exert a tamin' inflooence.' "moore conveys the turner person to the windmill, an' ropes his two hands to one of its laigs. "'thar, wolf,' he says, makin' shore the turner person is fastened secoore, 'i shall leave you ontil, with every element of wildness abated, you-all begins to feel more like a domestic anamile.' "from whar we-all are standin' in front of the post office, we can see the turner person roped to the windmill laig. "'what do you reckon's wrong with that party?' asks enright, sort o' gen'ral like; 'i don't take it he's actchooally locoed none.' "thar's half a dozen opinions on the p'int involved. tutt su'gests that the turner person's wits, not bein' cinched on any too tight by nacher in the beginnin', mebby slips their girths same as happens with a saddle. cherokee inclines to a notion that whatever mental deeflections he betrays is born primar'ly of him stoppin' that week in red dog. cherokee insists that sech a space in red dog shore ought to be s'fficient to give any sport, however firmly founded, a decisive slant. "as ag'inst both the others, boggs holds to the view that the onusual fitfulness observ'ble in the turner person arises from a change of licker, an' urges that the sudden shift from the beverages of red dog, which last is indoobitably no more an' no less than liquid loonacy, to the red lights old jordan, is bound to confer a twist upon the straightest intellectyooals. "'which i knows a party,' says boggs, 'who once immerses a ten-penny nail in a quart of red dog licker, an' at the end of the week he takes it out a corkscrew.' "'go an' get him, jack,' says enright, p'intin' to the turner person; 'him bein' tied thar that a-way is an inhooman spectacle, an' if little enright peets should come teeterin' along an' see him, it'd have a tendency to harden the innocent child. fetch him yere, an' let me question him.' "'front up,' says moore to the turner person, when he's been conveyed before enright; 'front up now, frank an' cheerful, an' answer questions. also, omit all ref'rences to bein' a wolf. which you've worn that topic thread-bar'; an' besides it ain't calc'lated to do you credit.' "'whatever's the matter with you?' asks enright, speakin' to the turner person friendly like. 'which i begins to think thar's somethin' wrong with your system. the way you go knockin' about offendin' folks, it won't be no time before every social circle in the southwest'll be closed ag'inst you. whatever's wrong?' "'them's the first kind words,' ejacyoolates the turner person, beginnin' to weep, 'which has been spoke to me in months. which if you-all will ask me into yon s'loon, an' protect me from that murderer of a barkeep while i buys the drinks, i'll show you that i've been illyoosed to a degree whar i'm no longer reespons'ble for my deeds. it's a love affair,' he adds, gulpin' down a sob, 'an' i've been crooelly misonderstood.' "'a love affair,' repeats enright plenty soft, for the mention of love never fails to hit our old warchief whar thar't a palin' off his fence. 'i ain't been what you-all'd call in love none since the purple blossom of gingham mountain marries polly hawkes over on the painted post. polly was a beauty, with a arm like a canthook, an' at sech dulcet exercises as huggin' she's got b'ars left standin' sideways. however, that's back in tennessee, an' many years ago.' "enright, breshin' the drops from his eyes, herds the turner person into the red light an' signals to black jack. "'onfold,' he says; 'tell me as to that love affair wharin you gets cold-decked.' "nell abandons her p'sition on the lookout stool, an' shows up interested an' intent at enright's shoulder. "ain't i in this?' she asks. "'be thar any feachures,' says enright to the turner person, 'calc'lated to offend the y'ears of innocence?' "'none whatever,' says the turner person. 'which i'm oncapable of shockin' the most fastid'yous.' "'is thar time,' asks nell of enright, 'for me to round up missis rucker an' tucson jennie? listenin' to love tales, that a-way, is duck soup to both of 'em.' "'you-all can tell 'em later, nellie,' returns enright. then, to the turner person, 'roll your game, _amigo_, an' if you needs refreshment, yere it is.' "'it ain't no mighty reecital,' says the turner person loogubriously, 'an' yet it ought to go some distance, among fa'r-minded gents, in explainin' them vain elements of the weird an' ranikaboo which more or less enters into my recent conduct. i'm from missouri; an' for a livelihood, an' to give the wolf a stand-off, i follows the profession of a fooneral director. my one weakness is my love for peggy parks, who lives with her folks out in the sni-a-bar hills. "'the nuptual day is set, an' i goes hibernatin' off to kansas city to fetch the license.' "'how old be you?' breaks in enright. "'me? i'm twenty-six the last joone rise of the old missouri. as i was sayin', i hitches my hoss in market squar', an' takes to reeconoiterin' along battle row, wonderin' wharever them licenses is for sale, anyway. final, i discovers a se'f satisfied lookin' party, who's pattin' a dog. i goes to talkin' about the dog, an' allowin' i'm some on dogs myse'f, all by way of commencin' a conversation; an' winds up by askin' whar i go for to get a license. "over thar," says the dog party p'intin' across to a edifice he asshores me is a city hall. "first floor, first door, an' the damage is a dollar." "'thus steered, i goes streakin' it across, an' follows directions. i boards my dollar, an' demands action. the outcast who's dealin' the license game writes in my name, an' shoves the paper across. in a blur of bliss i files it away in my jeans, mounts my hoss, an' goes gambodin' back to peggy, waitin' at ancestral sni-a-bar.' "'is your peggy sweetheart pretty?' asks nell. "'she's a lamp of loveliness! sweet? beetrees is gall an' wormwood to her. "'as to the weddin', it's settled peggy an' me is to come flutterin' from our respective perches the next day. doubtless we'd have done so, only them orange blossom rites strikes the onexpected an' goes glancin' off. "'it's the campbellite preacher, who's been brought in to marry us, that starts it. the play's to be made at peggy's paw's house, after which, for a weddin' trip, she an' me's to go wanderin' out torwards the shawnee mission, whar i've got some kin. the parson, when he has the entire outfit close-herded into the parlor, asks--bein' a car'ful old practitioner--to see the license. i turns it over, an' he takes it to the window to read. he gives that docyooment one look, an' then glowers at me personal mighty baleful. "miserable wretch," says he, "do you-all want to get yourse'f tarred an' feathered?" "'in my confoosion i thinks this outbreak is part of the cer'mony, an' starts to say "i do!" before i can edge in a word, however, he calls over peggy's old man. "read that!" he cries, holdin' the license onder old pap parks' nose. old parks reads, an' the next news i gets he's maulin' me with his hickory walkin' stick like he's beatin' a kyarpet. "'without waitin' to kiss the bride or recover my license, i simply t'ars out the front of the house an' breaks for the woods. the next day, old parks takes to huntin' me with hounds. nacherally, at this proof of man's inhoomanity to man, i sneaks across into kansas, an' makes for the settin' sun.' "'an' can't you give no guess,' says enright, 'at why old parks digs up the waraxe so plumb sudden?' "'no more'n rattlesnakes onborn, onless his inordinate glee at gettin' me for a son-in-law has done drove him off his head.' "'which it couldn't be that,' says enright, takin' a hard, thoughtful look at the turner person. then, followin' a pause, he adds, 'thar's some myst'ry yere!' "'ain't you-all made no try,' asks nell, 'sech as writin' letters, or some game sim'lar, to cl'ar things up?' "'you-all don't know pap parks, miss, in all his curves. why, it's lucky he ain't wearin' his old bowie at that weddin', or he'd a-split me into half apples. if i goes to writin' missives that a-way, he'll locate me; an' you can take my word that invet'rate old homicide 'd travel to the y'earth's eends to c'llect my skelp. that ain't goin' to do me; for, much as i love peggy, i'd a heap sooner be single than dead.' "'that party ain't locoed,' says texas, noddin' towards the turner person, whar he sets sobbin' in a cha'r when enright gets through examinin' him. 'he's simply a howlin' eediot. yere he escapes wedlock by a mir'cle; an'--chains an' slavery!--now he can't think of no better way to employ his liberty than in cryin' his heart out because he's free. if i'm bitter, gents, it's because i speaks from hard experience. considerin' how she later corrals that laredo divorce an' sells up my cattle at public vandoo for costs an' al'mony, if when i troops to the altar with that lady whom i makes missis thompson, my gyardian angel had gone at me with a axe, that faithful sperit would have been doin' no more than its simple dooty in the premises.' "enright takes it onto himself to squar' the turner person at the red light an' the o. k. restauraw; an', since his ensooin' conduct is much within decent bounds, except that rucker steps some high an' mighty when he heaves in sight an' black jack gives him hard an' narrow looks, nothin' su'gestive of trouble occurs. in less'n a week he shakes down into his proper place, an' all as placid as a duck-pond. he's even a sort o' fav'rite with nell, missis rucker an' tucson jennie, they claimin' that he's sufferin' from soul blight because of a lost love. certainly, thar's nothin' in this yere fem'nine bluff, but of course none of us don't say so at the time. "boggs holds that the turner person's only a pecooliarly gifted liar, an' refooses to believe in him. 'because it's prepost'rous,' says boggs, 'that folks would go in to frame up a weddin', an' then, led by the preacher, take to mobbin' the bridegroom on the very threshold of them nuptials.' "'it ain't by no means shore, dan,' says texas, to whom boggs imparts his convictions, 'but what you've drove the nail. which if that parks household reely has it in for this turner person, they'd have let him go the route. could even the revenge of a fiend ask more than simply seein' him a married man?' "in about a fortnight, that turner person's got fully cooled out, an' the worst effects of what red dog licker he imbibes has disappeared. as he feels himse'f approachin' normal, as peets puts it, he mentions to enright casyooal like that, if the town sees nothin' ag'in it, he reckons he'll open an ondertakin' shop. "'not,' he says, 'that i'm the man to go hintin' that what former foonerals has been pulled off in these yere parts ain't been all they should; but still, to get a meetropolitan effect, you oughter have a hearse an' ploomes. let it be mine to provide them marks of a advanced civilization. it'll make villages like red dog an' colton sing low, an' be a distinct advantage to a camp which is strugglin' for consid'ration. yes, sir,' goes on the turner person, warmin' with the theme, 'what's the public use of obsequies if you-all don't exhaust 'em of every ounce of good? an' how can any outfit expect to do this, an' said outfit shy that greatest evidence of modern reefinement, a hearse? given a rosewood coffin, an' a black hearse with ploomes--me on the box--an' the procession linin' solemnly out for boot hill, if we-all ain't the instant envy of the territory, you can peg me out by the nearest ant hill ontil i pleads guilty to bein' wrong.' "'thar's no need for all this yere eloquence,' replies enright, blandly. 'what you proposes has been a dream of mine for years. you open your game as fooneral director, an' if we can't find material for you local, we'll go rummagin' 'round as far as lordsburg an' silver city to supply the deficiency.' "feelin' enright is behind him, the turner person goes to work with sech exyooberant enthoosiasm, that it ain't a month before he brings over his hearse from tucson, said vehicle havin' been sent on from the east. she's shore no slouch for a catafalque neither, an' we p'rades up an' down the street with it, gettin' the effect. "boggs voices the common feelin'. "'thar's a conveyance,' says he, 'that comes mighty close to robbin' death of half its sting. any sport is bound to cash in more content, when he savvys that his last appearance is bound to be a vict'ry an' he'll be freighted to the sepulcher in a swell wagon like that.' "'it is shore calc'lated to confer class on the deeparted,' assents tutt. "these praises certainly exalts the sperits of the turner person a whole lot. he buys the old lady gay dance hall, which, since the goin' out of the votes for women s'loon, has again become the ondispooted property of armstrong, makes a double-door to back in the hearse, an' reopens that deefunct temple of drink an' merriment as a ondertakin' establishment. over the front he hangs up his sign. coffin emporium. l. turner, funeral director. corpses solicited. "that sign so much uplifts the sperit of the town it mor'n doubles the day's receipts at the red light. also, two or three shady characters vamooses for fear of what a nacheral public eagerness to see that hearse in action may do. "it's the day next on the hocks of the installation of the turner person in business, an' the fooneral director is lookin' out of the front window of his coffin emporium wishin' some gent'd start somethin' with his gun an' mebby bump him off a load for his new hearse, when enright eemerges from the post office with a iron look on his face. peets is with him, an' the pa'r is holdin' a pow-wow. "the rest of us might have taken more notice, only our sombreros is fittin' some tight on account of the interest we evinces the day prior in he'pin' la'nch the turner person that a-way. as it is, we bats a lackluster eye, an' wonders in a feeble way what's done corr'gated enright's brow. "it don't go no further than wonder, however, ontil after a few moments talk with nell, enright sends across for the turner person. as showin' how keenly sens'tive are the female faculties that a-way, missis rucker an' tucson jennie is canvassin' some infantile mal'dy of little enright peets in the front room of the o. k. house, an' same as if they smells the onyoosual in the air, they comes troopin' over to the red light to note what happens next. "'young man,' says enright, when the turner person has been brought in, 'by way of starter, let me inquire, be you preepared to surrender your destinies, of which you're plumb onfitted to have charge, into disgusted albeit kindly hands?' "the turner person, some oneasy at seein' moore, who's carelessly toyin' with a lariat, edgin' 'round his way, allows in tremblin' tones he is. "'thar be those,' goes on enright, 'who with the best intentions in the world, has been explorin' the ins an' outs of your sni-a-bar troubles, an' while the clouds is measur'ble lifted the fresh light shed on your concerns leaves you in a most imbecile sityooation. which if i thought that little enright peets, not yet in techin' distance of his teens, hadn't got no more sense than you, much as i dotes upon that baby i'd shore vote for his deemise. however, proceedin' with the deal, thar's this to say: nellie thar, writes to your peggy sweetheart, while i opens negotiations with old man parks. i plans to read you them replies, but after advisin' with the doc, an' collectin' the views of nell, it's deemed s'fficient to tell you what you're goin' to do, an' then head you fo'th to its accomplishment. our conj'int findin's, the same bein' consented to by old parks in writin', an' tearfully deesired by your peggy sweetheart in what she commoonicates to nellie, is that you proceed at once to sni-a-bar, an' get them interrupted nuptials over. after which you'll be free to return yere with your bride, an' take up the hon'rable an' useful c'reer you've marked out. as the preesidin' officer of the stranglers, my word is that you be ready to start by next stage; which, onless monte gets so deep in licker that he tips that conveyance over a bluff, should permit you to clasp your peggy to your bosom an' kiss the tears from her cheeks by the middle of next week.' "'but,' interjects the turner person, his voice soundin' like the terrified bleatin' of a sheep, 'can't you-all give me no glimmer of what's wrong that time? i don't hanker overmuch to go back in darkened ignorance, like a lamb to the slaughter. what guarantee have i got that old parks won't lay for me with that bootcher knife of his'n? it ain't fair to leave me to go knockin' about, in the midst of perils sech as these, like a blind dog in a meat shop.' "'your peggy,' returns enright, 'encloses a letter to you by the hand of nellie yere, which may or may not set fo'th what insults you perp'trates upon her fam'ly. also, said missive furnishes the only chance at this end of the trail of you findin' out the len'th an' breadth of your ignorant iniquities. for myse'f, the thought of what you-all does that time is so infooriatin' i must refuse to go over it in words. only, if in his first reesentments old parks had burned you at the stake, i would not have condemned him. as to your safety pers'nal, you can regyard it as asshored. your peggy will protect you, an' your footure parent-in-law himse'f acquits you of everything except bein' an eediot. it's, however, got down to whether he preefers to have a fool in his fam'ly or see his darter wretched for life, an' he's done nerved himse'f to take the fool.' "'thar's your sweetheart's letter,' an' nell puts an envelope which smells of voylets into the turner person's hands. "that ondertaker reads it; an' after bein' confoosed by shame for a moment, he begins to cheer up. "'folks,' he says, kissin' his peggy's letter an' stowin' it away in his coat, 'i trusts a gen'rous public will permit me, after thankin' them whose kindness has smoothed out the kinks in my affairs, to close the incident with onlimited drinks for the camp.' that's all he says; an' neither can we dig anything further out of enright or nell. "we sees the turner person aboard the stage, an' wishes him all kinds of luck. as monte straightens out the reins over his six hosses an' cleans the lash of his whip through his fingers, peets vouchsafes a partin' word. "'neither i nor sam,' says peets, 'wants you to go away thinkin' that you an' your bride ain't goin' to be as welcome as roses when you an' she comes ramblin' in as one on your return.' "'that's whatever,' coincides nell. "'also,' breaks in enright, 'should old parks go to stampin' the sod or shakin' his horns, you-all are to put up with them deemonstrations an' not make no aggrevatin' reemarks. no one knows better than you by now, how much cause you gives that proud old gent to feel harrowed.' [illustration: we sees the turner person aboard an' wishes him all kinds of luck. p. .] "of course all of us is preyed on by anxiety to know whatever awful thing it is the turner person does. in the end it's missis rucker who smokes enright out. "'sam enright,' says this yere intrepid lady, her manner plenty darklin', 'you mustn't forget that whenever the impulse moves me i can shet down utter on your grub. likewise, as a lady, i not only knows my p'sition, but keenly feels my rights. which i don't aim to coerce you, but onless you comes through with the trooth about this yere turner person's felonies, some drastic steps is on their way.' "'you will see, missis rucker,' says enright, who's to be excoosed for turnin' a bit white, 'that no present reason exists for threatenin' me when i asshores you that as far back as last evenin' i fully decides to lay bar' everything. i do this, onderstand, not through fear; but lest some folks go surmisin' round to the inj'ry of the innocent. as i recollects back, too, i can see how the turner person slumps into that mistake, him first talkin' dog to that canine party in battle row, an' then askin' whar does he go for the weddin' license.' "'sam enright,' interrupts missis rucker, whose flashin' eyes shows she's growin' hysterical, 'don't harass me with no p'intless speeches. you say flat what it is he does, or take the consequences.' "'why, my dear missis rucker,' an' enright makes haste with his reply, 'the thing is easily grasped. the paper he gives the preacher sharp is a dog license. which that turner person is seekin' to wed the belle of sni-a-bar on a permit to keep a dog! the canine party he meets in battle row misonderstands a sityooation.' "'all the same,' observes texas to boggs, as the two meets that evenin' in the noo york store, 'thar's one feachure to a dog license, not perceivable in a marriage license, which is worth gold an' precious stones. said docyooment runs out in a year.'" ix red mike "mebby you-all recalls about that polish artist person?" suggested the old cattleman, tentatively; "him i speaks of former?" my gray old _campañero_ was measuring out what he called his "forty drops," and, since this ceremony necessitated keeping one eye on his glass, while he endeavored to keep the other eye on me, the contradictory effort resulted in a wavering and uncertain expression, not at all in harmony with his usual positive air. by way of helping conversation, i confessed to a clear remembrance of the "polish artist person," and wound up by urging him to give the particulars concerning that interesting exile. "well," he cautiously returned, "thar ain't nothin' so mighty thrillin' in his wolfville c'reer. you see he ain't, for the most, no pop'lar figure--him bein' a furriner, that a-way, an' a artist, an' sufferin' besides from conceit in so acoote a form as to make it no exaggeration to say he's locoed. on account of these yere divers an' sundry handicaps, he don't achieve no social success, an' while he's with us, you'd hardly call him of us. "not that i objects to this deescendant of warsaw's last champion, personal. which i'm a heap like enright in sech reespects, an' shore tol'rant. i finds out long ago that the reason we-all goes fault-findin' about people, mostly is because we don't onderstand concernin' them folk's surroundin's. half the things we arches our necks over, an' for which mebby we feels like killin' 'em a whole lot, they can't he'p none. if we only savvys what they're reely up ag'inst, it's four for one we pities 'em instead. "it's like one time 'way back yonder, when me an' steve stevenson has a sudden an' abrupt diffukulty with a buffalo bull. we're camped out on the edge of the rockies near the spanish peaks, an' me an' steve, in the course of a little _passear_ we're takin', is jest roundin' a bunch of plum bushes when, as onexpected as a gun play in a bible class, that devil's son an' heir of a bull--who's been hid by the bushes--ups an charges. which you should have seen me an' steve scatter! we certainly do onbuckle in some hasty moves! he's bigger 'n a baggage wagon, an' as we leaves our guns ten rods away in camp, thar's nothin' for it but to dig out. "nigh whar i'm at is a measley _pinon_ tree, an' the way i swarms aloft among that vegetable's boughs an' branches comes mighty clost to bein' a lesson to mountain lions. steve, who's the onluckiest sport west of the missouri, an' famed as sech, ain't got no tree. the best he can do is go divin' into a hole he sees in some rocks, same as if he's a jack-rabbit with a coyote in hot pursoote. "me an' steve both bein' safe, an' reegyardin' that bull as baffled, i draws a breath of relief. that is, to be ackerate, i starts to draw it; but before i so much as gets it started, yere that inordinate steve comes b'ilin' out of his hole ag'in like he ain't plumb satisfied about that bull. the bull's done give him up, too, an' switchin' his tail some thoughtful has started to go away, when, as i tells you, that fool steve comes surgin' out upon his reetreatin' hocks. "nacherally, what could any se'f-respectin' bull do but wheel an' chase steve back? it's no use, though; steve won't have it. no sooner does the bull get him hived that a-way, an' make ready to reetire to private life ag'in, than, bing! yere steve comes bulgin' like a cork out of a bottle. an' so it continyoos, a reg'lar see-saw between steve an' the bull. steve'll go into his cave of refooge, prairie-dog fashion, a foot ahead of the bull's horns, only to be a foot behind the bull's tail as that painstakin' anamile is arrangin' to deepart. "which sech wretched strategy arouses my contempt. "'you dad-binged siwash,' i yells down at steve, 'whyever don't you-all stay in that hole, ontil the bull forgets whar you're at?' "'go on!' steve shouts back, as in he dives, head-first, for mebby it's the twentieth time; 'it's as simple as suckin' aiggs, ain't it, for you up in your tree? you-all don't know nothin' about this hole; thar's a b'ar in this hole!' "which i allers remembers about that dilemmy of steve's. an' now, when i beholds a gent makin' some rannikaboo break, an' everybody's scoffin' at him an' deenouncin' him for a loonatic or worse, i reeflects that mighty likely if we-all was to go examine the hole he's in, we'd find it plumb full of b'ar. "returnin' to the orig'nal proposition, the same bein' that polack, let me begin by sayin' that whenever it comes to any utterances of his'n, i'm nacherally onable to quote him exact. what with him rollin' his 'rs' ontil they sounds like one of them snare drums, an' the jiggerty-jerkety fashion wharin he chops up his english, a gent might as soon try to quote a planin' mill exact. "that i'm able to give you-all his troo name is doo wholly to him passin' round his kyard a heap profoose, when he first comes ramblin' in, said cognomen as printed bein' 'orloff ivan mitzkowanski, artist and painter of portraits.' we perooses this yere fulm'nation two or three times, an' peets even reads it out loud; but since the tongue of no ordinary gent is capable of ropin' an' throwin' it, to say nothin' of tyin' it down, we cuts the gordian knot in the usual way by re-christenin' him _pro bono publico_ as red mike, which places him within the verbal reach of all. "'yes,' he says, as he ladles out them kyards, an' all with the manner of a prince conferrin' favors--'yes, i'm a artist come to you, seekin' subjects an' color. as you probably observes by my name, i'm a gallant pole, one whose noble ancestors shrieks when kosciusko fell.' "him bein' a stranger that a-way, an' no one, onless it's peets, ever havin' heard about poland, or kosciusko, or whoever does that shriekin' the time when kosciusko finds himse'f bumped off, we lets mike get by with this yere bluff. besides, his name of itse'f sort o' holds us. that anyone, an' specially any furriner, could come as far as he has, flauntin' a name like that in the sensitive face of mankind, an' yet live to tell the tale, is shore plenty preepar'tory to believin' anything. "when we lets it go that owin' to local conditions we'll be obleeged to call him 'red mike,' he's agree'ble. "'as you will, my friends,' he cries, bulgin' out his breast an' thumpin' it. 'what care i, who am destined for immortality, that barbarians should hail me as red mike? it is enough that i am not destroyed, enough that i still move an' have my bein'!' "'mike,' interjecks tutt, bristlin' a little, 'don't cut loose in no offensive flights. it's a heap onadvisable when addressin' us to overwork that word "barbarian." as you says yourself, you're lucky to be alive; which, bein' conceded, it'd be plenty proodent on your part not to go doin' nothin' to change your luck.' "'steady thar, dave,' says enright, 'don't go exhibitin' your teeth to a pore benighted furriner, an' him not onto our curves.' "'him bein' a furriner,' retorts tutt, 'is but a added argyooment in favor of him takin' heed. speakin' for myse'f, i in partic'lar don't want no furriner to step on my tail an' stand thar, same as if my feelin's ain't goin' to count.' "'be composed, my friend,' says mike, tryin' to follow enright out an' squar' himse'f with tutt--'be composed. i reetract the "barbarians" an' suggest a drink.' "'that's all right, mike,' returns tutt, who's easy mollified; 'still i onreservedly says ag'in that in arizona thar's nothin' in becomin' too difoose. all that this time lets you out, mike, is that havin' jest had our feed we're happ'ly lethargic. which if you'd let fly that crack about barbarians, an' us not fed none, some gent not otherwise employed 'd have seized upon you as a mop-rag wharwith to wipe up the floor.' "thar's allers a dispoote as to whether or no mike reely commits sooicide that time. tutt an' texas holds to the last that his light gettin' blowed out like it does is accidental. peets, however, insists it's a shore-enough sooicide. of course, boggs goes with peets. whatever's the question at bay, boggs never fails to string his play with the doc's; it's boggs's system. all you has to do to get a rise out o' boggs is get some opinion out o' peets. once the doc declar's himse'f, boggs is right thar to back said declaration for his last dollar every time. "as sustainin' his claim of sooicide, peets p'ints out that thar's no gent, not a howlin' eediot complete, but knows s'fficient of giant powder to be dead on to how it's cap'ble of bein' fired by friction. "'why,' he says, eloocidatin' his p'sition, 'even darkened savages is posted as to that. i once sees a south sea islander, in a moose-yum east, who sets a bunch of shavin's in a blaze by rubbin' together two sticks. an' this yere mike is a eddycated sharp, eddicated at a dutch outfit called heidelberg. do you-all reckon a gradyooate of sech a sem'nary ever walks out on a cold collar, him not wise, an' performs in the numbskull fashions as this yere mike?' "'that's whatever!' chimes in boggs. "as i tells you, any emphatic idee laid down by peets instantly sets boggs to strikin' same as one of them cuckoo clocks. "enright? "the old silver tip stands nootral, not sidin' with either peets an' boggs or tutt an' texas. "'which this yere mike bein' shore dead,' says enright, 'strikes me as s'fficient. i plants my moccasins on that, an' don't go pirootin' an' projectin' about for no s'lootions which may or may not leave me out on a limb.' "you recalls how it's monte who, while gettin' drunk with him over to the oriental s'loon in tucson, deloodes mike into p'intin' our way. also, what enright says to that deboshed stage driver for so doin'. enright's shore fervent on that occasion, an' the language he uses would have killed two acres of grass. but that don't he'p none. after the dust enright paws up has settled, thar's mike still, all quiled up in the wolfville lap. "thar's a worse feachure, the same bein' mike's wife. she's as young, an' mighty nigh as lovely, too, as nell; only she's blind, this yere mike's girl wife is, blind as any midnight mole. besides her, an' a armful of paint breshes an' pictures, about all mike's got in the way of plunder is a ten-dollar bill. if it's only mike, we-all might have thickened our hides a heap, an' let him go jumpin' sideways for his daily grub, same as other folks. but girls must be fed, speshully blind ones. "which this egreegious mike, who calls her his 'little joolie,' allows her bein' blind that a-way is why he marries her. "'it inshores her innocence,' he says; 'because it inshores her ignorance of the world.' "'likewise,' remarks peets, as we stands discussin' this yere reasonin' of mike's in the red light, 'it inshores her ignorance of them onmitigated pictures he paints. which if ever she was just to get one good look at 'em, he couldn't hold her with a spanish bit. but you-all knows how it is, sam?'--yere peets clinks his glass, an' all mighty sagacious, ag'inst enright's--'the wind is tempered to the shorn lamb. on the whole, i ain't none convinced that her bein' blind, that a-way, ain't for the best.' "to look at this little joolie, you-all'd never know she can't see none. her eyes is big an' soft an' deep, an nothin' queer about 'em except they has a half-blurred, baby look. peets allows it's the nerve bein' dead which does it. but blind or not, little joolie shore dotes on that red mike husband of hers, as though he's made of love an' gold. which he's her heaven! "while it's evident, after a ca'm an' onbiased consideration of his works, that from standp'ints of art this yere mike's about sign-painter size, little joolie regyards him as the top-sawyer genius of this or any other age. "'he'll revolutionize the world of art,' she declar's to nell, who's mighty constant about goin' to see her; 'ivan'--she pronounces it 'vahn'--'is ondoubted destined to become the founder of a noo school.' "'an' her face,' goes on nellie, as she tells us about it over to the o. k. restauraw one evenin', after mike an' his little joolie wife's done pulled their freight for the night--'an' her face glows with the faith of a angel! so if any of you-all boys finds occasion to speak of this yere mike in her presence, you be shore an' sw'ar that, as an artist, he's got nacher backed plumb off the lay-out.' "'the wretch who fails,' adds missis rucker, plenty fierce, 'don't wrastle his hash with me no more! you can gamble that marplot has tackled his final plateful of slapjacks at the o. k. house, an' this yere's notice to that effect.' "it's a cinch, of course, that none of us is that obtoose as to go sayin' anything to pain this yere blind little joolie; at the same time no one regyards it as feas'ble to resent them threats of missis rucker! she's a mighty sperited matron, missis rucker is, sperited to the verge of bein' vindictive, an' rubbin' her fur the wrong way is the same as rubbin' a bobcat's fur the wrong way. as a exercise thar's nothin' in it. besides, we're plumb used to it, owin' to her threatenin' us about one thing or another constant. menaces, that a-way, is missis rucker's style. "mike an' his joolie wife don't live at the o. k. house, but only gets their chuck thar. he allows that to do jestice to his art he's got to have what he calls a 'no'th light,' an' so he goes meanderin' out on the no'th side of town, an' jumps a empty shack. "driv by a lack of money, mighty likely, mike ain't in camp a week before he makes it plenty plain that, onless he's headed off or killed, he's goin' to paint enright a whole lot. as a preelim'nary he loores a passel of us over to his wickeyup to show us samples. "'that's my chef dever,' he says, bringin' for'ard a smudgy lookin' canvas, plastered all over with reds an' browns. "we-all takes a slant at it, maintainin' ourselves meanwhile as grave as a passel of owls. an' at that the most hawk-eyed in the outfit can't make it look like nothin'. we-all hangs back in the straps, an' waits for peets to take the lead. for thar is the pretty little blind joolie wife, all y'ears an' lovin' int'rest, an' after what nell an' missis rucker has done said the gent who lacerates her feelin's is lost. in sech a pinch peets is our guidin' light. "'massive!' says peets, after a pause. "'which she's shore a heap massive!' we murmurs, followin' peets' smoke. "'an' sech atmosphere!' peets goes on. "'atmosphere to give away!' we echoes. "at these yere encomiyums the pore pleased face of little joolie is beamin' like the sun. as for mike, he assoomes a easy attitoode, same as though compliments means nothin' to him. "'what's the subject?' peets asks. "'that, my friend, is the _linden in october_,' returns mike, as though he's showin' us a picture of heaven's front gate. 'yes, the _linden in october_.' "'which if this yere pole,' whispers texas to cherokee, 'is able to make anything out of that smear, he can shore see more things without the aid of licker than any sport that ever spreads his blankets in cochise county.' "texas is a heap careful not to let either mike or the little joolie girl ketch on to what he says. "also, it's worth recallin' that mike an' the little joolie is the only wedded pa'r, of which the southwest preeserved a record, that don't bring bilious recollections to texas of his former laredo wife. [illustration: "what's the subject?" peets asks. "that, my friend, is the 'linden in october,'" returns mike, as though he's a showin' us a picture of heaven's front gate. p. .] "'not but what thar's a wrong thar, doc,' he insists, the time peets mentions it; 'not but what this yere red mike-joolie sityooation harbors a wrong. only it's onavailable to 'llustrate the illyoosage i suffers at the hands of my laredo wife.' "after the _linden_ mike totes out mebby it's a dozen other smeary squar's of canvas. we goes over 'em one by one, cockin' our eyes an' turnin' our heads first one way an' then another, like a bloo jay peerin' into a knothole. when peets lets drive something about 'sky effects,' an' 'fore-grounds,' an' 'middle-distance,' we stacks in all sim'lar. thar's nothin' to it; mike an' the little joolie girl puts in a mighty pleasant hour. "mike, feelin' hospit'ble, an' replyin' to a thirsty look which jack moore sort o' sheds about the room, reegrets he ain't got no whiskey. "'my little joolie objectin',' he explains. "'oh, well,' speaks up peets, who's plumb eager to bring them art studies to a wind-up, 'when thar's famine in canaan thar's corn in egypt. s'ppose we-all goes romancin' over to the red light an' licker up. thar's nothin' like nosepaint, took internal, for bringin' out a picture's convincin' p'ints.' "'right you be, doc,' says moore. 'it's only last week, when i myse'f cuts the trail of monte, who, as the froote of merely the seventh drink, is sheddin' scaldin' tears over a three-sheet poster stuck onto the corral gate. this yere stampede in color deepicts the death of "little eva," as preesented in the _uncle tom_ show ragin' over to the bird cage op'ry house. monte allows it's one of the most movin' things he's ever met up with, an' protests between sobs ag'inst takin' out the stage that day for its reg'lar trip. "which it's a hour for mournin'," he groans; an' he's shore shocked when the company insists. as he throws free the brake he shakes the tears from his eyes, an' says, "these yere corp'rations ain't got no heart!"' "if thar's ever any chance of enright bein' that weak the sight of them smudges an' smears settles it, an' while we stands shovin' the old jordan along the red light bar, he allows to mike that on the whole he don't reckon he'll have himse'f painted none. rememberin', however, that it's a ground-hawg case with mike, who needs the money, enright gives him a commission to paint monte. "'him bein' a histor'cal character, that a-way,' says enright. "monte is over in tucson, but you should have heard that drunkard's language when he's told. "'whatever be you-all tryin' to do to me, sam?' he wails. 'ain't a workin' man got no rights? yere be i, the only gent in camp who has actchooal dooties to perform, an' a plot is set afoot behind my back to make me infamous!' "'it's to go over the red light bar,' explains enright, 'to be a horr'ble example for folks with a tendency to over-drink. as for you yellin' like a pig onder a gate, who is it, i asks, that beguiles this indigent artist party into camp, an' leaves him on our hands? bein' he's yere, i takes it that even your whiskey-drowned intell'gence ree'lizes that this yere mike, an' speshully the little blind joolie, has got to be fed.' "'well, gents,' returns monte, gulpin' down his grief with his nosepaint, 'i reckons if it's your little game to use me as a healthful moral inflooence, i'd lose out to go puttin' up a roar. all the same, as sufferer in chief, i'm entitled to be more consulted by you uplifters before ever you arranges to perpetchooate me to poster'ty as a common jeer.' "shore; these yere protests of monte's ain't more'n half on the level. after a fashion, he's plenty pleased. "'for,' he says, confidin' in black jack over his licker, 'it ain't every longhorn of a stage driver whose picture is took by one of these yere gifted yooropeans.' "black jack agrees to this in full, for he's a good-hearted barkeep, that a-way. "in doo time the picture's hung up back of the red light bar. regyarded as a portrait it's shore some desp'rate, an' even enright sort o' half reepents. monte, after studyin' it a while, begins to get sore in earnest. them scales, like the scriptoors say, certainly do fall from his eyes. "'jack,' he says, appealin' to moore, who happens to be present, 'does that thing look like me?' "'why, yes,' jack replies, squintin' his left eye a heap critical; 'to be shore it flatters you some, but then them artists gen'rally does.' "'jack, if i'm that feeble as to go believin' what you says, i'd borry a shotgun from the express company and blow off the top of my head. that ain't the portrait of no hooman bein"--an' monte raises a dispa'rin' hand at the picture; 'it's a croode preesentation of some onnacheral cross between a coyote and a cowskin trunk.' "cherokee gets up from behind his lay-out, an' strolls over so's to get a line on the picture. he takes a long an' disparagin' survey. "'it ain't that i'm incitin' you to voylence, monte,' he remarks final, 'but if you owes a dooty to s'ciety, don't forget that you owes also a dooty to yourse'f. you'll be lackin' in se'f-respect if you don't give sam enright two weeks to take that outrage down, an' if it ain't removed by then you'll bust it.' "black jack is ag'in the picture, too. "'not,' he says, 'that i wants to put the smother on it entire; only i figger it'd look better in the post office, folks not makin' it so much of a hangout. regyarded commercial, it's a setback to the red light. some gent comes trackin' up intent on drinks, an' feelin' gala. after one glance at monte up thar it's all off. that reveller's changed his mind, an' staggers out into the open ag'in without a word. the joint is daily knocked for about the price of a stack of bloos, as the direct result of that work of art. which i'd as soon have a gila monster in the winder.' "mike ain't present none when all this yere flattery is flyin'. if he was thar in person nothin' would have been said. whoever'd be that hardened as to go harrowin' up the sens'tive soul of a artist, even if his work don't grade as corn-fed? "some later tribyoote to his talents, however, reaches the y'ears of mike. on the back of black jack's protests the lightnin' bug, who's come over from red dog for a little visit, drifts in. when he sees monte's portrait his eyes lights up like a honka-tonk on saturday night. "'rattlesnakes an' stingin' lizards!' he cries; 'which i'm a mexican if you-all ain't gone an' got him painted! however do you-all manage? i remembers when we captures him it's the last spring round-up but one. two weeks goes by before ever we gets him so he'll w'ar clothes! an' even then we-all has to blindfold him an' back him in!' "'whoever do you reckon that is, bug?' asks black jack. "'it's that locoed digger injun, ain't it?' says the bug; 'him we corrals, that time, livin' on ants an' crickets, an' roots an' yarbs, over in potato canyon?' "'it's monte.' "'monte! does anybody get killed about it?' "black jack mentions mike as the artist. "'what, that dutch galoot with the long ha'r?' says the bug. "'which he's a pole.' "'pole or dutchman, what's the odds? i sees a party back in looeyville whose ha'r's most as long as his. we entices him to a barber shop on a bet to have it cut, an' i'm ag'in the union if four flyin' squirrels don't come scootin' out. they've been nestin' in it.' "the bug swings lightly into the saddle after a while, an' goes clatterin' back to red dog. no notice would have been took of what he says, only monte, who hears it from black jack, is that malev'lent he goes an' tells mike. "'you-all will make trouble between 'em, monte,' nell reemonstrates, when monte's braggin' in his besotted way about what he's done. "'that's all right, nellie. both of 'em's been insultin' me; mike by paintin' me so i'm a holy show, an' the bug by lettin' on to take me for a digger buck. s'ppose the bug downs mike, or mike does up the bug? either way it's oats in your uncle monte's feed box. that's me, nellie; that's your old uncle monte every time! which, when it comes to cold intrigue, that a-way, i'm the swiftest sport in our set.' "on hearin' about the bug from monte mike gets plenty intemp'rate. he goes plumb in the air, an' stays thar. he gives it out that he's goin' to prance over to red dog an' lay for the bug. nothin' but blood is goin' to do him. "thar's nothin' we can say or do to stop mike, so after talkin' it over a spell we deecides to throw him loose, enright first sendin' word that he's harmless, an' not to be bumped off. "upon receivin' enright's word the red dog chief passes on a warnin' to the bug. mike mustn't, onder no circumstances, be killed. bein' he's a artist he's not reespons'ble. "'me kill him!' cries the bug, who's scandalized at the idee; 'me take a gun to sech a insect! gents, i've too much reespect for them good old faithful . 's of mine to play it as low down on 'em as all that.' "which there leeniencies i allers feels is on account of the little joolie, an' the blind love she entertains for mike. when the worst does come we carefully conceals from her the troo details, an' insists that the powder house goes off by itse'f. "then nell, with tucson jennie and missis rucker to back her, carries the little joolie girl the news. it's shore tough papers; an' missis rucker an' tucson jennie is kept racin' an' runnin' an' riotin' between the o. k. house an' mike's wickeyup, freightin' over camphor an' sim'lar reestor'tives to the little joolie all night long, while nellie holds her head. "does mike's kickin' the bucket leave the little joolie broke? it's this a-way: you see we-all chips in, an' makes up a fa'rly moderate pile to buy the _linden in october_. "'it's to remember your gifted husband by,' explains enright, as him an' peets an' boggs goes over to clink down the gold, an' get the _linden_. 'this yere transcendent spec'men shall never leave our hands.' "'not while we live!' declar's peets. "'it's a marv'lous picture!' returns the little joolie girl, proud and tearful both at once. "'marv'lous!' repeats peets; 'it's got the _angelus_ beat four ways from the jack.' "'which i should remark!' puts in boggs. 'why, doc, this yere _linden_ of ours shore makes that _angelus_ thing look like an old beer stamp.' "these yere outpourin's of onreestricted admiration shore does set the little joolie to smilin' through her tears. also, the bankroll they brings her sends her back to her folks in style. "so you don't regyard it as the proper caper to go deceivin' the little joolie girl? that's preecisely the p'sition a bible sharp over in tucson takes, when some party's mentionin' the business. "'you go tell that doubtin' thomas of a sky-pilot,' says peets, on hearin' about it, 'that he can bet a ton of watts' hymn books on it. you-all say, too, for his pulpit guidance, that what looks like deceit, that a-way, is often simple del'cacy, while christian charity freequent w'ars the face of fraud.' "but i'm gettin' ahead of the wagons. mike, who's a heap heated, goes lookin' for the bug in the tub of blood s'loon. the bug don't happen to be vis'ble no whar in the scen'ry when mike comes clatterin' in. by way of a enterin' wedge mike subscribes for a drink. as the tub barkeep goes settin' out the glasses mike, with his custom'ry gifts for gettin' himse'f in wrong, starts fomentin' trouble. an' at that it's simply his ignorance, an' a conceited deesire to show off among them red dogs. "as the tub barkeep slams down the crockery mike barks up sort o' sharp an' peevish: "'the ice! ain't you people got no ice?' "the tub barkeep takes a sour squinch-owl look at mike. then he goes softly swabbin' off the counter. "after a while he looks up an' says: "'which you don't notice no swirlin' drifts of snow outside, do you? you ain't been swallowed up in no blizzard, be you, comin' into town? no, my stilted, stiff-laigged sheep of the mountain, we ain't got no ice.' "mike, feelin' some buffaloed by the barkeep's manner, don't say no more. in silence he drinks his licker, an' then sets down at a table. "the barkeep, with the tail of his eye, continyoos to look him over. "'whatever do you make of that crazy maverick,' he asks of a freighter, who's jest rolled in from lordsburg. 'the idee of him askin' for ice in august!' "'mebby he's the ha'r-brained party they sends word about from wolfville,' the freighter replies--'him who's out to crawl the bug's hump a whole lot?' "'that's the identical persimmon!' exclaims the barkeep, slammin' his hand on the counter. 'which i ought to have knowed it without bein' told. i wonder if peets, or some of them other wolfville sports, puts him up to come bully-raggin' round yere about ice to insult us?' "the freighter allows he'll edge into a pow-wow with mike, an' feel him out. "planted at the same table, the freighter an' mike is soon as thick as thieves. they're gettin' along like two pups in a basket, when in comes a disturbin' element in the shape of one of them half-hoss half-alligator felons, whose distinguishin' characteristic is that they're allers grouchy an' hostile. that's the drawback to red dog. it certainly is the home camp of some of the most ornery reptiles, that a-way! "the grouchy sorehead party, from the jump, gets dissatisfied about mike's ha'r, which he w'ars a foot long same as all artists. which a gent can't be no painter onless he's got ha'r like a cow pony. the sorehead party marches up an' down by the table whar mike an' the freighter is swappin' lies, schemin' as to how he's goin' to make a warlike hook-up with mike. after a spell he thinks he sees his way through, an' rounds to an' growls. "'what's that? does one of your onparalleled tarrapins say something deerog'tory about george washin'ton?' "both the freighter an' mike looks up some amazed, but pleads not guilty. they ain't, they says, even thinkin' of washin'ton. "'which i begs your parding,' returns sorehead, snortin' mighty haughty an' elab'rate; 'i fancies i hears some one make some onbecomin' remark about washin'ton. mighty likely it's that licker i drinkt last night.' "two minutes later he halts ag'in. "'it ain't possible i'm mistook this time. an' at that i don't precisely ketch what you offensive ground-owls is observin' about thomas jefferson?' "mike an' the lordsburg freighter insists vehement that thar's been no alloosion to jefferson, none whatever. "'parding!' sorehead snorts; 'ag'in i asks parding! as former, i finds i'm barkin' at a bunch of leaves. my y'ear deeceives me into thinkin' that you two fool ground-owls is indulgin' in reecrim'nations ag'inst thomas jefferson.' "it's the third time, an' sorehead's back, neck bowed an' fingers workin'. "'now thar's no error! which one of you cheap prairie dogs makes that low-flung statement about old andy jackson? let him speak up, an' i'll give him a hundred dollars before devourin' his heart.' "'no one mentions jackson,' says mike, who's becomin' frightened an' fretted; 'whatever's the idee of any one talkin' about jackson, anyhow?' "'oh, ho! perhaps, my bold galoot, you think old andy ain't worth talkin' about!' "sayin' which, that sorehead malcontent reaches for mike, an' the two go sailin' 'round the room permiscus. sorehead picks mike up, an' sweeps a cord or two of glasswar' off the bar with him. then he employs him in bringin' down a picture from the wall. after which he nacherally tosses him hither an' yon in the most irrel'vant way. "sorehead has jest reached up with mike, an' smashed a chandelier carryin' fourteen coal-oil lamps, when in t'ars the lightnin' bug, white an' frothin'. the bug don't waste no time lookin' for holds, but casyooally, yet no less s'fficiently, snags onto sorehead. fixin' his ten claws in him, the bug fo'thwith embarks upon sech feats in the way of ground an' lofty tumblin' with that gladiator, as to make what happens to mike seem pooerile. "'don't you-all know,' shouts the bug, as, havin' done broke a cha'r with sorehead, he proceeds to deevote what's left of him to smashin' a table--'don't you-all know, you abandoned profligate, that this yere artist you've been maltreatin' is a pers'nal friend of mine, yere present in red dog to confab with me on important affairs? an' is it for a houseless sot like you to take to minglin' with him malignant? yereafter don't you-all so much as presoome to breathe without first gettin' my permission so to do in writin'!' "as closin' the incident the bug sends sorehead hurtlin' through a window, sash an' all. after which he dusts off his hands an' says: "'gents, let's licker.' "the barkeep's that gratified he declar's the drinks is on the tub. "'also, the glass an' sash, bug,' he adds. "bein' refreshed, the bug tenderly collects mike, who's in a frayed an' fragmentary condition, an' gently freights him over to us on a buckboard. it's a week before peets allows he's ag'in ready for the show ring, an' he uses up enough co't plaster on him to kyarpet the red light. little joolie? we let's on to her that mike meets up with a she grizzly an' her cubs, an' while he cleans up that fam'ly he nacherally gets chewed. "'mike's shorely some abrated, ma'am,' explains peets; 'but he's mendin' fast. when i first lays eyes on him, after he encounters that bevy of b'ars, it's a question if his skin'll hold his principles. but don't take on, ma'am; now i've got him headed right he'll be as good as new in a week. don't forget, too, that he shore does land that band of grizzlies in the scrap-heap.' "mike emerges from the hands of peets filled with a pecooliar furrin' form of wrath, an' talkin' about his honor. it's sorehead he's after now. as a noble pole, he says, he has been most contoomeliously used, an' insists upon a dooel. not with the bug, who's withdrew them orig'nal jedgments concernin' old monte's portrait, an' substitooted tharfor the view that said picture's bound to become the artistic pride an' joy of arizona. mike wants to fight the onreegen'rate sorehead. "in the flush of their new friendship mike asks the bug to heel an' handle him. also, it's warmin' to your better nacher to note the enthoosiasm wharwith the bug takes up his dooties. "'it'll be six-shooters at ten paces,' he explains to mike; 'an' if you only shoots like you paints, we'll send that tramp whar the wicked cease from troublin' an' the weary are at rest.' "the red dog chief gives his word to enright that mike ain't in no danger. "'comin' down to cases,' says the red dog chief; 'it's even money that this yere sorehead crawfishes. if he don't we've got it all set up to hand him the bug, instead of that red mike artist of yours. so you see thar's lit'rally nothin' for you-all wolves to worry over at all.' "'we-all wolves ain't in the habit of worryin' to any astoundin' extent,' returns enright, some rigid; 'none the less, i allows i'll take a look through the sights myse'f, merely by way of makin' shore which way the gun is p'inted. thar's reasons, one of 'em a lovin' little blind girl, why we're not so plumb partic'lar about havin' this yere alleged artist party put over the jump.' "the fight's a week away, an' by advice of the bug, mike decides to put a polish on his shootin'. this yere's reckoned a bright idee, the more since as near as we-all can jedge mike never does pull a trigger once since when his mother rocks his cradle an' warms his milk. "'only,' warns enright, as mike goes makin' prep'rations, 'don't you-all go aimin' towards town none. we don't want no neeophytes bombardin' the village, which y'ar in an' y'ar out sees bullets enough in the nacheral onfoldment of eevents.' "mike, not havin' no gun, borrys a . of moore. thus equipped, he secoores some cartridges at the noo york store, an' la'nches forth. no one goes with him, since he allows he'll shoot better if he's by himse'f. "thar's a powder house, belongin' to the copper queen mine, about a mile outside of town. it stands off by itse'f an' nothin' near it, no one honin' much to live neighbor to a ton or two of powder. it's about fifth drink time the mornin' mike seelects for his practice shootin' when, like a bolt from the bloo, that copper queen powder house goes up with a most emphatic whang! what peets calls the 'concussion' breaks windows in the wells-fargo office, an' shakes up the red light to that extent it brings down monte's picture an' busts it to forty flinders on the bottles. "'which for a moment,' says black jack, commentin' on the gen'ral mess it makes, 'i thinks it's one of colonel sterett's _coyote_ editorials on the licker question.' "that powder blow-up marks the onforchoonate last of mike. since he never does show up no more, an' a mexican tendin' goats in the vicin'ty informs us he sees him pinnin' a target on the r'ar elevation of the powder house jest prior to the explosion, it's the common feelin' that the blow-up's caused by one of mike's bullets, an' that mike an' the powder reepos'tory takes flight simooltaneous. only, as already set fo'th, peets claims that mike knows what's comin'. mebby peets is right, an' mebby mike that a-way commits sooicide. whichever it is, sooicide or accident, it's a mighty complete success; for the only trace we're able to find of either mike or the powder house is a most elab'rate hole in the ground. "'the same bein', as i holds, a most excellent feachure,' says boggs, who loathes foonerals. 'this yere powder house way of cashin' in meets with my approval. it shore don't leave no reemains!'" x how tutt shot texas thompson "which they starts the yarn in red dog that the shootin' that time between tutt an' texas is born of sectional feelin', an' because texas is a southern gent, while tutt comes from the no'th. sech explainations is absurd--as doc peets well says. also, i'm yere to go one word further an' state that, while it's like them red dogs, idle an' mendacious as they freequent be, to go fosterin' sech fictions, thar ain't a syllable of trooth tharin from soda to hock. the flareup has its start in them two children, annalinda thompson an' little enright peets, an' what sentiments of rivalry nacherally seizes on tutt an' texas as parent an' uncle reespective." "still there must have been some degree of sectional feeling among you," i said, more by way of stirring my old cattleman up than any nobler purpose; "coming some of you from the south, and others from the north, it would have been strange indeed had it been otherwise." "which it's shore strange, then. them wolfville pards of mine is one an' all united states men. they ain't southern men, nor no'thern men, nor eastern men, nor even western men. likewise, the improodent sport who'd go trackin' 'round, ondertaikin' to designate 'em as sech, would get toomultuous action, plenty soon and plenty of it. "why, take texas himse'f: thar's a fly-by-night party pesterin' 'round camp for a space, who lets on he's from the same neck of woods as texas. this yere annoyin' fraud is a heap proud of it, too, an' makes a speshulty of bein' caught a lot in texas' company. he figgers it gives him a standin'. "one mornin', when only a few of us is pervadin' 'round, he plants himse'f plumb comfortable an' important in a red light cha'r, an' followin' the 'nitial drink for the day goes to talkin' with texas. "as he sets thar, all fav'rable an' free, thar comes trackin' in a aged eastern gent, who's been negotiatin' with armstrong about business concernin' the noo york store. the aged eastern shorthorn goes rockin' up to the counter, an' p'litely lets on to black jack that he'll licker. as he does so this yere firegilt party who boasts he's of the same range an' breed as texas speaks up, sharp an' coarse, like the bark of a dog: "'yere, you! i wants a word or two with you-all!' "with that for a start he onfurls what he preetends is his grievances, the same bein' because of somethin' the aged eastern sport does or don't do comin' over on monte's stage--which they're fellow passengers that time, it seems--an' next he cuts loose, an' goes to vitooperatin' an' reecrim'natin', an' pilin' insult on epithet, that a-way, to beat four of a kind. which he certainly does give that aged eastern person a layin' out! shore; he's jest showin' off at that, an' tryin' to impress texas. "at the beginnin' the aged eastern gent stands like he's dazed, onable to collect himse'f. however, he gets his mental feet onder him, an' allowin' he won't stay none to listen to sech tirades, tucks away his nosepaint an' pulls out. "after he's gone the vitooperative party wheels so's to face texas, an' says--mighty pleasant an' agree'ble, like the object of the meetin's been most happ'ly accomplished: "'thar, that shows you.' "'whatever does it show?' texas asks, some grim. "'which it shows the difference between a no'thern gent an' a southern gent. to be shore, that old cimmaron ain't half my size an' is twict my age, but all the same, texas, if he's from the south, you bet, like you an' me, he'd tore into me, win or lose, if he'd got killed!' "'you think so?' says texas, his eyes becomin' as hard an' glitterin' as a snake's. 'now let me tell you something, my lionhearted friend. thar's brave men south, an' brave men no'th. also, thar's quitters; quitters at both ends of that no'thern-southern trail who'll go into the water like a mink. accordin' to my experiences, an' i've been dallyin' with hoomanity in the herd for quite some time, thar's nothin' in that geographical bluff of yours at all. moreover, i reckons that before i'm through, seein' now you've got me goin', i'll prove it. for a starter, then, takin' your say-so for it, you're a southern man?' "'which that's shore c'rrect,' the other responds, but feeble; 'you an' me, as i says former, is both southern men.' "'_bueno!_ now as calk'lated to demonstrate how plumb onfounded is them theeries of yours'--yere texas gets up, an' kicks his cha'r back so he's got room--'i has pleasure in informin' you that you're a onmitigated hoss-thief;--an' you don't dare stand up. yes, sir; you're onfit to drink with a nigger or eat with a dog;--an' you'll set thar an' take it.' "which that aboosive party, pale as paper, certainly does 'set thar an' take it' preecisely as texas prophecies; an' after glowerin' at him, red-eyed an' f'rocious for a moment, texas sticks his paws in his jeans, an' sa'nters off. "it's jest as well. why, if that humbug so much as curls a lip or crooks a finger, after texas takes to enunciatin' them prop'sitions in philosophy, texas'd have tacked him to the table with his bowie an' left him kickin', same as them goggled-eyed professors who calls themselves nacheralists does some buzzin' fly with a pin. "'which, if thar's anything,' texas explains to enright, 'that makes me tired partic'lar, it's them cracks about no'th an' south. if i was range boss for these yere united states i'd shore have them deescriptives legislated into a cap'tal offence.' "'sech observations as that narrow tarrapin onbosoms,' comments enright, 'only goes to show how shallow he is. comin' down to the turn, even that old eastern shorthorn's walkin' away from him don't necessar'ly mean a lack of sand. folks does a heap of runnin' in this vale of tears, but upon various an' varyin' argyooments. a gent runs from a polecat, an' he runs from a b'ar; but the reason ain't the same.' "thar's no sectionalisms in tutt's differences with texas, none whatever. also, while it finds, as i holds, its roots in annalinda an' little enright peets, it don't arise from nothin' which them babies does to one another. two pups in the same basket, two birds on the same bough, couldn't have got along more harmon'ous. the moment nell brings little enright peets over to see annalinda them children falls together like a shock of oats, an' at what times they're onhobbled of fam'ly reestrictions an' footloose so to do, you'd see 'em playin' 'round from sun-up till dark, same as a pa'r of angels. "troo, annalinda does domineer over little enright peets, an' makes him fetch an' carry an' wait on her; an' thar's times, too, when she shore beats him up with a stick or quirt some lib'ral. but what else would you expect? i even encounters little enright peets, down on all-fours, an' annalinda ridin' him like he's a hoss. likewise, she's kickin' his ribs a heap, to make him go faster. but that's nothin'; them two babies is only playin'. "not that i'm none so shore it ain't this yere last identical spectacle which gives nell the notion of them two children marryin' at some footure day. that, however, is merest surmise, an' in a manner onimportant. what i'd like to get proned into you-all is that texas an' tutt lockin' horns like they does has its single cause in them latent jealousies an' struggles for social preecedence, which is bound to occur between a only father an' a only uncle wharever found. which the single safegyard lies in sech a multitoode of fathers an' uncles as renders 'em common. to possess but one of each makes 'em puffed up an' pride-blown, an' engenders a mootual uppishness which before all is over is shore to man'fest itse'f in war. "thar's one boast we-all is able to make, however. that clash between tutt an' texas is the only shore-enough trouble which ever breaks out among the boys. you onderstands, of course, that when i says 'boys' that a-way, i alloodes to enright an' peets an' them others who constitootes wolfville's social an' commercial backbone. thar's other embroglios more or less smoky an' permiscus, which gets pulled off one way an' another, but they ain't held to apply to us of rights. for sech alien hookups, so to speak, we reefooses all reespons'bility. which we regyards them escapades as fortooitous, an' declines 'em utter. tutt's goin' against texas is the only war-jig we feels to be reely wolfville's." "you forget," i said teasingly, "the shooting between boggs and tutt, as incident to the washerwoman's war." "which, that?" there was impatience tinged with acrimony in the tones. "that's nothin' more'n gallantry. it's what's to be looked for whar thar's ladies about, an' is doo to a over-effervescence of sperit, common to the younger males of our species when made gala an' giddy by the alloorin' flutter of a petticoat. boggs an' tutt don't honestly mean them bullets none. also, if you-all is goin' to keep on with your imbecile interruptions, i'll quit." abject apologies on my part, supported by equally abject promises of reform. the old gentleman, thus mollified, resumed: "goin' back to this yere tutt-texas collision, thar's no denyin', an' be fa'r about it, but what tutt has grounds. for goin' on five years he's been looked up to as the only father in camp, an' for texas to appear at what you-all might call the 'leventh hour an' go crowdin' disdainfully into the picture on nothin' more'n bein' a uncle, is preepost'rous. to prance 'round on sech a meager showin', puttin' on the dog he does, an' all in a somber, overbearin' way like he's packin' the world on his shoulders an' we-all's got to be a heap careful not to do nothin' to him to make him drop it, is inexcoosable to the verge of outrage. no rel'tive in the third or fo'th degree is jestified to assoome sech sooperiorities; an' enright tells texas so after peets digs the lead out of the thick of his laig. "which we gets orig'nal notice about annalinda, when a passel of us, as is our custom followin' first drink time in the evenin', drifts into the post office. some gets letters, some don't; an' texas, who, as a roole, don't have no voloominous correspondence, is sayin' that he has the same feelin' about letters he has about trant'lers, as bein' a heap more likely to sting you than anything else, when the postmaster shoves him out one. "it's from laredo, an' when texas gets a glimpse at the mark on it he lets it fall onopened to the floor. "'it's my former wife!' he says, with a shudder. 'yere she is, startin' in to get the upper hand of me ag'in.' "'nonsense!' says peets, pickin' up the letter, 'it's from some lawyers. can't you see their names yere up in the corner?' "'that don't mean nothin',' texas whispers--he's shore a heap shook; 'it'd be about her speed, as she goes plottin' afresh to ondermine me in my present peace, to rope up a law-wolf to show her how.' "bein' urged by peets, an' the balance of us asshorin' him we'll stand pat in his destinies come what may an' defend him to the bitter finish, texas manages to open the envelope. as he stands thar readin' the scare in his face begins to fade in favor of a look of gloom. "'gents,' he says, at last, 'it's my brother ed. he's cashed in.' we expresses the reg'lation reegrets, an' texas continyoos: 'ed leaves me his baby girl, annalinda--she's my niece.' after a pause he adds: 'this yere shore requires consideration.' "'these law sharps,' explains texas, when we're organized all sociable in the red light, an' black jack's come through on right an' reg'lar lines, 'allows it's ed's dyin' reequest that i take an' ride paternal herd on this infant child.' "'but how about its mother?' urges enright. "'which it ain't got none. its mother dies two years ago. now ed's packed in, that baby's been whipsawed; it's a full-fledged orphan, goin' an' comin'.' "'ain't thar no rel'tives on the mother's side?' asks nell, from over back of cherokee's lay out. "'meanest folks, nellie,' says texas, 'bar none, between the colorado an' the mississippi. you see they're kin to my laredo wife, me an' ed both marryin' into the same tribe. which it shows the thompson intell'gence. thar ain't a thompson yet who don't need a guardeen constant.' "after no end of discussion that a-way it's onderstood to be the gen'ral notion that texas ought to bring ed's orphan baby to wolfville. "'but s'ppose,' says texas, 'that in spite of ed wantin' me to cast my protectin' pinions over this yere infant, its mother's outfit, thinkin' mebby to shake me down for some _dinero_, objects?' "'in which case,' says boggs, who's plumb interested, 'you sends for me, texas, an' we mavericks it. you ain't goin' to let no sech callous an' onfeelin' gang as your wife's folks go 'round dictatin' about ed's annalinda child, be you, an' givin' you a stand-off? which you're only tryin' to execoote ed's dying behests.' "it's settled final that texas, ag'inst whatever opp'sition, has got to bring on annalinda to us. that disposed of, it next comes nacherally up as a question how, when we gets annalinda safe to wolfville, she's goin' to be took care of. "'which the o. k. restauraw won't do,' texas says, lookin' anxious out of the tail of his eye at enright an' peets. 'mind, i ain't hintin' nothin' ag'inst missis rucker, who hasn't got her southwest equal at flapjacks, but i submits that for a plastic child that a-way, at a time when it receives impressions easy, to daily witness the way she maltreats rucker, is to go givin' that infant wrong idees of what's coming to husbands as a whole. i'm a hard man, gents; but i don't aim to bring up this yere annalinda baby so that one day she's encouraged to go handin' out the racket to some onforchoonate sport, which my laredo wife hands me.' "'thar's reasons other than missis rucker,' enright is quick to observe, 'why the o. k. house ain't the fittest place for infancy, an' any discussion of our esteemable hostess in them marital attitoodes of hers is sooperfluous. s'ppose we lets it go, without elab'ration, that the o. k. house, from nursery standp'ints, won't do.' "cherokee thinks that mighty likely a good way'd be to have annalinda live with tutt an' tucson jennie. "peets shakes his sagacious head. "'dave'll onderstand my p'sition to be purely scientific,' he says, glancin' across at tutt, 'when i states that sech a move'd be a error. tucson jennie, as wife an' mother, is as fine as silk. but she's also a female woman, an' owns a papoose of her own. thar's inborn reasons why woman, as sech, while sympathetic an' gen'rally speakin' plumb lovely, is oncapable onder certain circumstances of a squar' deal. in this yere business of babies, for example, thar's existed throughout the ages a onbridgable gulf in her eyes between her offspring an' other folks' offspring; an' while disclaiming all disloyalty to tucson jennie, i'm obleeged to say that as between annalinda an' little enright peets, she wouldn't be cap'ble of a even break. do i overstate the trooth, dave?' "'none whatever,' tutt returns. 'what you discovers scientific, doc, i learns more painfully as husband an' father. i fully agrees that when it comes to other folks' children no female mother can hold the onbiased scales.' "'thar's french an' his wife?' chirps nell, her elbow on the lay-out, an' her little round chin in her fist; 'thar's the frenches, over to the corrals? french an' benson annie ain't got no children, an' they'd be pleased to death at havin' annalinda.' "'but be they competent?' asks texas, over whom a feelin' of se'f-importance is already beginnin' to creep like ivy on a wall. 'i don't want to be considered a carper, but as i sees it i'd be doin' less'n my dooty as a uncle if i fails to ask, be them frenches competent?' "'you'll have to rope up a nurse some'ers, anyhow, texas,' boggs puts in. 'thar's dozens of them good-nachered fat young senoritas among the mexicans who'll do. the nurse would know her business, even if the frenches don't.' "'two nurses,' declar's tutt. 'bein' a father, i savvys the nurse game from start to finish. you'll need two; one to hold it, an' one to fetch it things.' "'but about them frenches?' inquires jack moore. 'ain't we goin' a little fast? mebby they themselves has objections.' "'which they'd look mighty well,' observes cherokee, riflin' the deck an' snappin' it into the box plenty vicious, 'to go 'round objectin' after nellie yere's done put 'em in nom'nation for this trust.' "'not that they'd reeject it haughty,' explains moore; 'but, as texas himse'f says, who's to know, they bein' mighty modest people, that they'll regyard themselves as comp'tent? the frenches ain't had no practice, an' thar's nothin' easier than a misdeal about a youngone. thar's a brainless mother saws her baby off on me over in prescott one day, while she goes cavortin' into a store to buy a frock, an' you-all can go put a bet on it i'm raisin' the he'pless long yell inside of the first minute. this takin' charge of babies ain't no sech pushover as it looks. it's certainly no work for amatoors.' "'thar's nothin' in them doubts, jack,' boggs chips in confidently. 'even if them frenches ain't had no practice, an' the nurses should fall down, thar's dozens of us who'll be ever at the elbow of that household; an' if in their ignorance they takes to bunglin' the play we'll be down on 'em in the cockin' of a winchester to give 'em the proper steer.' "'i reckon, nellie,' says texas, lookin' wistful across at nell, 'that if some of the boys yere'll stand your watch as lookout, you'd put in a day layin' in a outfit of duds? you could be doin' it, you know, while i'm down in laredo, treating with them hostiles for possession.' "'shore,' an' nellie smiles at the prospect. 'which i'll jest go stampedin' over to tucson for 'em, too. how old is annalinda?' "texas gives annalinda's age as three. "'she'll be four next fall,' says he; 'i remembers ed writes me she's born durin' the beef round-up.' "'in that case,' comments enright, 'she ought to stand about eight hands high. in clawin' together said raiment, nellie, that'll give you some impression of size.' "'an', nellie,' continyoos texas, 'my idee is you'll want to change in say a thousand dollars?' "'why, texas, you talk like you're locoed. one hundred'll win out all the clothes she could sp'ile, w'ar or t'ar to pieces in a year.' "'shore,' coincides tutt; 'take little enright peets. one hundred _pesos_ leaves him lookin' like a circus.' "'but annalinda,' objects texas doubtfully, 'is a she. it costs more for girls. that laredo wife of mine'd blow in the price of sixty head of cattle, an' then allow she ain't half dressed.' "'one hundred'll turn the trick,' nell insists. "all that night we sets up discussin' an' considerin'. the more we talks the better we likes that annalinda idee. "at sun-up, b'arin' the best wishes of all, texas cinches a hull into his quickest pony, an' hits the trail for tucson to take the railroad kyars for laredo. "'which, onless they gives me more of a battle than i anticipates,' he remarks, as he pushes his feet into the stirrup, 'i'll be back by ten days.' "'an', texas,' says boggs, detainin' him by the bridle rein, 'you-all beat it into that baby that i'm her uncle dan. it'll give you something to do comin' back.' "'which, jedgin' from what i goes through that day in prescott,' remarks moore, mighty cynical, 'texas'll have plenty to do.' "texas don't meet up with no partic'lar laredo opposition, them relatives appearin' almost eager to give him annalinda. one of 'em even goes the insultin' len'th of offerin' to split the expense, but withdraws his bluff when texas threatens to brain him with a six-shooter. "boggs, hearin' of this laredo willin'ness, can't onderstand it no how. "'it's too many for me,' he says. 'if it's me, now, i'd have clung to that blessed baby till the cows come home. they must shore be deeficient in taste, them laredo yahoos!' "as exhibitin' how soon bein' moved into cel'bration as a uncle begins to tell on texas he ups an' in the fullness of his vanity deecides, even before he arrives at laredo, ag'inst the scheme which the camp's half laid out about the frenches an' annalinda, an' arranges to have a 'doby of his own. it's a blow to the frenches, too, for since we notifies 'em, they has set their hearts on the racket. "but texas is immov'ble. "'ed's dyin',' says he, 'an' namin' me to be reespons'ble for annalinda, creates a sityooation best met by me havin' a wickeyup of my own. i'm sorry to disapp'int, but after matoore reeflection, that a-way, i've conclooded to play a lone hand.' "while he's away texas goes projectin' 'round an' cuts out a couple of old black mammies from a day nursery over in dallas, an' brings 'em along. they an' annalinda rides over from tucson in the stage; but, bein' more familiar with the saddle, an' because he's better able tharfrom to soopervise an' go dictatin' terms to monte, he himse'f comes on his pony. "'an', gents,' whines monte, as, throwin' down the reins, he heads for the red light bar, 'between us he ain't the same texas. that annalinda child has shore changed him turrible. all the way from tucson, when he ain't crowdin' up to the wheel to give orders to them senegambians about how to hold or when to feed her, he's menacin' at me. that's why i'm three hours late. at rough places it looks like thar ain't no name mean enough for him to call me; an' once, when the front wheel jolts into a chuckhole an' annalinda sets up a squall, he pulls a gun an' threatens in the most frenzied way to shoot me up. "you be more careful," he roars, "or i'll blow you plumb off your perch! childhood, that a-way, is a fragile flower; an' if you figgers i'll set yere an', in the tender instance of my own pers'nal niece, see some booze-besotted drunkard break that flower short off at the stalk, i'll fool you up a whole lot." an' do you-all know,' monte concloodes, almost with a sob, 'he never does let down the hammer of his . ag'in for most a mile.' "annalinda is plumb pretty. the whole camp goes her way like a landslide. tucson jennie approves of her--with reeservations, of course, in favor of little enright peets; missis rucker finds time to snatch a few moments, between feedin' us an' bossin' rucker, to go see her every day; while, as for nell, she's in an' out of texas' 'doby mornin', noon an' night to sech extents that half the time cherokee ain't got no lookout, an' when he has it's boggs. [illustration: "him an' annalinda shore do constitoote a picture. 'thar's a pa'r to draw to,' says nell to texas, her eyes like brown diamonds." p. .] "nell brings over little enright peets, an' thar's no backin' away from it him an' annalinda shore do constitoote a picture. "'thar's a pa'r to draw to!' says nell to texas, her eyes like diamonds. "bein' romantic, like all girls, an' full of fancies that a-way, nell indulges in playful specyoolations about annalinda an' little enright peets gettin' married later on. not that she intends anything, although texas takes it plenty serious, which shows how his egotism is already workin' overtime. "when monte puts up them groans about how texas is changed, we-all lays it to the complainin' habit which, on account of whiskey mebby, has got to be second nacher with him. he's always kickin' about something; an' so, nacherally, when he onbosoms himse'f of that howl about texas, we don't pay no speshul heed. it ain't three days, however, before it begins to break on us that for once monte's right. texas has certainly changed. thar's a sooperior manner, what you'd call a loftiness, about him, which is hard to onderstand an' harder to put up with. it gets to be his habit constant to reemark in a wearied way, as he slops out his drinks, that we-all'll have to excoose him talkin' to us much, because he's got cares on his mind, besides bein' played out on account of settin' up all night with annalinda. "'which she's sheddin' her milk teeth,' he'd say, 'an' it makes her petyoolant.' "after which he'd turn away in dignified tol'ration, same as if we're too low an' dull to a'preeciate what he has to b'ar. "or, ag'in--an' always before the draw--he'd throw down his hand in a poker game, an' scramble to his feet, sayin': "'heavens! i forgets about that annalinda child!' "an' with that he'd go skallyhootin' off into space, leavin' us planted thar with a misdeal on our hands, an' each one of us holdin' mebby better than aces-up, an' feelin' shore we could have filled. it's nothin' less'n awful the way he acts; an' that we lets him get away with it exhibits them sentiments of christian charity which permeates our breasts. "thar's the way, too, he goes hectorin' at boggs! two occasions in partic'lar i reecalls; an' it's only boggs' forbearance that hostil'ties don't ensoo. one time when annalinda's out for a walk with her two old black mammies boggs crosses up with the outfit an' kisses annalinda. wharupon texas yells out from across the street, like he's been bit by a rattlesnake: "'don't do that, dan! you'll mebby give her something. in mother shrewsbury's "what ails babies and why" it's laid down emphatic that you mustn't kiss 'em.' "'but you kisses her,' retorts boggs. "'me? but i'm her uncle. besides, i only kisses her hands. which i'll permit you-all to kiss her hands, dan, if that'll do you. only don't you go to overplay it none. don't forget that hands is the limit, an' it's thar whar you gets off.' "'which i ain't none shore,' says boggs, who's some hurt, as he's talkin' the thing over with enright an' cherokee in the red light--'which i ain't none shore but texas is right; only he oughtn't to throw out them rooles of health of his so plumb offensive. you'd have reckoned from the row he makes i'm eatin' annalinda.' "another time boggs gives annalinda his six-shooter to play with, she havin' deemanded it with screams. texas comes steamin' up. "'dan,' he cries, grabbin' the weepon from annalinda, 'sometimes i asks myse'f in all ser'ousness be you got common sense! is this yere a snare you're settin' for this innocent child? do you-all want her to blow her head plumb off?' "'but, texas,' boggs expostyoolates, 'thar ain't a chance. how's she goin' to cock that gun, an' the mainspring fifteen pounds resistance?' "'but she might drop it.' "'which, if she does, it can't go off none; i sets the hammer between two shells on purpose.' "'whoever's bringin' up this yere baby, you or me?' texas deemands, as he tosses boggs his gun. 'please don't pass her no more artillery. if it's got to whar her existence is goin' to be a failure onless she's foolin' with a gun, i as her uncle preefers to furnish said hardware myse'f.' "shore, boggs stands it, it's so evident texas is onhinged. "'an' if you look at it straight it ain't no wonder, neither,' says boggs, who's mighty forgivin' that a-way. 'it's apples to ashes if you was to suddenly up an' enrich any of us with a niece like annalinda, we-all in goin' crazy over her 'd give texas kyards an' spades.' "texas, who's always readin' medicine books, likes to go bulgin' 'round eloocidatin' about measles an' scarlet fever an' whoopin' cough, an' what other maladies is allers layin' in wait to bushwhack infancy. at sech moments he's plenty speecious an' foxy, so's to trap us into deebates with him. mebby it'll be about the mumps, an' what's to be done; an' then, after he gets us goin', he'll r'ar back the actchooal image of insult an' floor us with 'mother shrewsbury.' it ain't no overstatin' a sityooation to say he pursoos these yere tactics ontil he's the admitted pest of the camp, an' thar ain't one of us but would sooner see a passel of apaches comin' than him. he can't confab two minutes about annalinda but he grows so insultin' you simply has to hold onto your manhood by the scruff of the neck not to go for him. "even enright ain't exempt. it comes out casyooally one evenin', as texas goes layin' down the law about how he's r'arin' annalinda, that enright's mother was wont to sooth an' engage his infantile hours with a sugar-rag an' a string of spools. which you should have shore seen texas look at him! not with reespect, mind you; not like he's heard anything worth while or interestin'. but like he's sayin' to himse'f, 'an' you sets thar offerin' yourse'f as a argyooment in favor of sugar-rags an' strings of spools! on the back of sech a warnin' you don't figger none i'll go givin' sugar-rags an' strings of spools to annalinda, do you?' while he's thinkin' this he grins that patronizin' it'd set your teeth on edge. "texas in a simple sperit of vain-glory'd take advantage of tutt bein' a father that a-way to back him into a corner; an' then, ignorin' the rest of us as belongin' to the barb'rous herd, he'd insist on discussin' skunk oil as a remedy for croup. an' the worst of it is he finally has tutt, who's bad enough before, gyratin' 'round, his addled nose to the sky in redoubled scorn of childless men. from the two sociablest sports in camp it gets so that the uncle in one an' father in the other so far supplants an' shoves aside the mere man in 'em that job himse'f would have had to make a new record for meekness an' long sufferin' to get along with 'em. which we-all suffers from both to that extent that when they does start to bombardin' each other the eepisode in some of its angles appeals to us as a welcome relief. "even peets goes after texas. it don't do no good. he's become that opinionated he ain't got no more reespect for peets than for monte. texas mentions that annalinda's got a ache some'ers, an' asks peets what's his idee. "'thar's nothin' onder the firmament, texas, the matter with that baby,' says peets, 'but you. which if you'd ever got to him as a yearlin' you'd a-killed hercules himse'f! quit yore fussin', an' give annalinda a chance. take a lesson from the cub coyote. roll annalinda out in the sand, an' let her scuffle. that's the way to bring a youngone up.' "'mother shrewsbury don't agree with you,' says texas. 'also, thar's nothin' in them cub coyote claims of yours for r'arin' children.' "'mother shrewsbury,' retorts peets, 'is nothin' but a patent med'cine outfit, which feeds an' fattens on sech boneheads as you.' "'excoose me, but scattered throughout that invalyooable work is the endorsements of doctors of divinity.' "'shore! half the time a gold brick comes to you wrapped in a tract. all the same, texas, the way you're carryin' on about annalinda is fast bringin' your sanity into doubt.' "texas snorts his scorn at this, an' goes back to 'mother shrewsbury.' "as i've already s'ggested, however, thar's a bitter drop in texas' cup, an' tutt's the drop. as a ondeniable father, tutt can put it all over texas or any other mere uncle whenever he feels like it, an' deep down in his heart texas knows it. he struggles to hide the feelin', but any one can tell that the very sight of tutt is wormwood to him. "likewise, tutt fully ree'lizes his sooperiority, an' in no wise conceals the same. it comes as easy to tutt as suckin' aiggs, he havin' had plenty of practice. ever since little enright peets is born tutt has conducted himse'f in a downhill manner towards all of us, an' been allowed to do so; as why not? this manner has become so much a part of tutt that even after texas inherits annalinda an' sets up house for himse'f, while it makes the rest of us look up to him some, it don't he'p him none with tutt. tutt's too thoroughly aware of the difference between bein' a father an' bein' a uncle. likewise, he lets texas see it at every twist in the trail. "that time nell takes to pa'rin' off little enright peets an' annalinda, an' in a sperit of lightness speaks of how mebby some day they'll wed, she springs the notion on texas, as stated, an' asks him what he thinks. texas, who always has to have time to make up his mind about anything with annalinda in it, is onable to say, first dash out of the box, whether he feels tickled or sore. he grows plenty solemn, as i mentions, grunts mighty elevated an' austere, an' mumbles about some things bein' a long shot an' a limb in the way, an' the wisdom of not crossin' a bridge till you gets to it. "ten minutes later, while he's still got annalinda an' little enright peets on the skyline of his regyard, texas comes upon tutt, who's talkin' pol'tics to armstrong. armstrong has tossed off a few weak-minded opinions about a deefensive an' offensive deal with russia, an' tutt's ag'in it as solid as a sod house. "'yes, sir,' tutt's saying; 'i'm ag'in any sech low alliance. i'd be ashamed to call myse'f a white man an' consent to sech open-eyed disgrace.' "texas turns white. it's among his deefects that he can't escape the feelin' that the whole world is always thinkin' an' talkin' about whatever he himse'f is thinkin' an' talkin' about. overhearin' what tutt says, he concloodes that tutt's declarin' his sent'ments as to little enright peets marryin' annalinda, an' is out to reeject all sech alliances as a disgrace to the tutts. an' texas foomes. to be eat up by tutt's sooperior station as a shore father is bad enough! an' now yere's tutt, aggravatin' injury with insult! which it's too much! "'draw your weepon, dave,' calls out texas, bringin' his own gun to the front. 'your bein' a father don't overawe me none, you bet! likewise, if you're a tutt i'm a thompson, an' i've stood about all i'm going to.' "tutt, as a old experienced gun-player, sees at a glance that he ain't got no time to throw out skirmishers. for reasons onknown, but s'fficient, thar's texas manooverin' to plug him. wharupon, tutt takes steps accordin', an' takes 'em some abrupt. so abrupt, in trooth, that texas ain't got through oratin' before his nigh hind laig has stopped a bullet midway above the knee. shore, he gets a shot at tutt, but it goes skutterin' along in the sand a full foot to one side. thar's only them two shots, enright, armstrong an' jack moore gettin' in between 'em, an' nippin' any further trouble in the bud. "it's two hours later, an' enright has come 'round to beat some sense into texas. "'accordin' to the doc yere,' says enright, as peets ladles the invalid out a hooker of old jordan, 'that laig'll be so you can ride ag'in in a month. pendin' which, while i don't preetend to savvy what's been goin' on between you an' dave, nor what insults has been give or took, i no less tells you, texas, that you're wrong.' "'as how?' growls texas, gulpin' down the nosepaint. "'as to them airs which of late you dons. you know you can't defend 'em none. dave's been the sole onchallenged father in this yere outfit for crowdin' nigh five years; an' for you to come swaggerin' up, insistin' that he divide the pot with you an' you holdin' nothin' higher than a niece, nacherally exasperates him beyond endoorance. which you'd feel the same yourse'f in dave's place.' "'but you don't onderstand, sam. it's him connivin' round an' archin' his neck ag'inst them babies marryin' each other when they're growed up--it's that which sets my blood to b'ilin'. wharever does dave come in to get insultin' action at sech a prop'sition? it'll be a cold day when a thompson ain't equal to a tutt, an' i'll make that good while i can pull an' p'int a . .' "'which dave,' interjecks peets, as he goes cockin' up texas' foot on a gooseha'r pillow, so's the shot laig'll feel it less--'which dave thinks right now, an' so informs me personal, that you-all starts to mussin' with him on account of pol'tics, an' him havin' been a reepublican back east. armstrong b'ars him out, too.' "'pol'tics?' gasps texas, full of wonder. 'whatever do i care about pol'tics? i shore ain't no nigger-lovin' reepublican. at the same time, i ain't no cheap hoss-thief of a democrat, neither, even if i does come from texas. why, doc, takin' jedge an' opposin' counsel an' the clerk who records the decree, on down to that ornery auctioneer of a sheriff who sells up my stock at public vandoo for costs an' al'mony the time my laredo wife grabs off her divorce, every stick-up among 'em's a democrat. an' while i don't know nothin' about pol'tics, an' never aims to, you can go the limit on it i ain't nothin' them bandits be. which i'd sooner be a prohibitionist!' "enright an' peets an' texas keeps on discussin' ontil the misonderstandin' is laid bar', an' texas is quick to admit that he's been mistook. tutt, who's willin' an' ready, is brought in, an' the pa'r reeconciled. "'an', old man,' says tutt, usin' both hands to shake with texas, 'i'd on the level feel a heap better if it's me who gets busted in the laig.' "'don't mention it, dave,' returns texas, who, now he reelizes what he's done, is deeply affected. 'i was plumb wrong; i sees it now. also, if in the fullness of time annalinda declar's in favor of weddin' little enright peets, i yereby binds myse'f to back them nuptials for a thousand head of steers.' "'texas,' an' the water stands in tutt's eyes, 'while it's the first i hears of sech a racket, yere's my hand that i'll go with you, steer for steer an' hoof for hoof.' "what peets calls 'the logic of the sityooation' p'ints to licker all around; an', as we-all drinks to the onclouded future of annalinda an' little enright peets, texas an' tutt ag'in shakes mighty fervent for the second time." xi the funeral of old holt "that turner person! does he remain in wolfville long?" the old cattleman repeated my question as though feeling for its bearings. "well, he don't break no records. which i should say now he sojourns with us mebby it's six months before he ups stakes an' pulls his freight back east. oh, no; it ain't that any gent who's licensed to call himse'f a molder of public opinion, sech as enright or peets, objects to the turner person's further presence none. speakin' gen'ral, the heft of feelin' is in his favor. not but what he has deeficiencies. it's no easy shot, offhand, to tell you preecisely whar this turner person is camped in common esteem. perhaps it's enough to say he's one of them parties who, while they don't excite your disapproval, is shore to keep you loaded with regrets. "ain't you met up frequent with that form of horned toad? thar's nothin' you can lodge ag'inst 'em, nothin' at which a vig'lance committee can rope an' fasten; they're honest, well meanin', even gen'rous; an' yet thar they be, upholstered by nacher in some occult way with about the same chance of bein' pop'lar as a wet dog. speakin' for myse'f, i feels sorry for these yere onforchoonate mavericks, condemned as they be at birth to go pirootin' from the cradle to the grave, meetin' everywhar about the same welcome which awaits a polecat at a picnic. "thar's no predom'natin' element of evil in this turner person. which in his case the trouble swings an' rattles on the way he's built. his crownin' deefect, mighty likely, is that he's got one of them sidehill minds, an' what idees he does evolve can't find no foothold, but is robbed at the start of everything reesemblin' perm'nancy. i watches his comin's in an' goin's out for months on eend, an' i'm yere to say--at the same time ascribin' to him no ill intentions--that onder all condition an' on all o'casions he's as onreli'ble as a woman's watch. "about that weddin' he goes east to consummate? "which it looks like, speakin' mod'rate, he quits winner. he travels back to sni-a-bar as tame as tabby cats in persooance with enright's commands, an', once thar, old man parks an' the rest of 'em whistles him through the marital chute a heap successful. when he shows up among us, his blushin' peggy bride on his arm, he's wearin' all the brands an' y'ear marks of a thor'ughly married man; to sech degrees, indeed, as renders texas oncomfortable. "'it recalls,' says texas, 'them honeymoon days i passed with my laredo wife before she wins out that divorce. it's like a icicle through my heart to look at him,' he goes on, aloodin' to the turner person an' the fatyoous fog of deelight he's evident in. 'thar he is, like a cub b'ar, his troubles all before him, an' not brains enough onder his skelp-lock to a'preeciate his awful p'sition.' "'why, texas,' remonstrates nell as, the turn comin' trey-nine, she picks a stack of bloos off the trey an' puts it in the check rack, 'you talks of wedlock as though that sacriment's a brace. plenty of folks has beat the game. thar's tutt an' tucson jennie.' "'them nuptials of dave's an' jennie's, nell,' returns texas, shakin' his head a heap gloomy, 'ain't far enough to the r'ar to afford a preecedent. wait till dave wakes up.' "'till dave wakes up?' says boggs, who's busy at the lay-out, an' has jest planted a stack of reds coppered in the big squar'. 'sech pess'mism, texas, is reedic'lous. bein' married that a-way, i takes it, is somethin' like walkin' a tightrope. it reequires care, but it can be did. to be shore, if anything happens, you're in for a jo-darter of a jolt. still, the resk don't render the feat imposs'ble, an' a brave man disregyards it.' "'that's whatever,' comments nell, as, the king fallin' to win, she draws down boggs's reds. "thar's no chill on the reception we confers on the turner person an' his peggy bride. monte has orders, in case they're aboard, to onlimber his shotgun a mile or two outside of camp, so's we gets notice an' is not caught off our gyard. for once the old drunkard is faithful to his trust, an' when we hears him whangin' away with both bar'ls, we turns out, as they say in noo york, _en masse_. every gent empties the six chambers of his gun as the stage pulls up, an' the turner person he'ps out his peggy bride into the center of a most joyful foosilade. we couldn't have done more if she's the queen of sheba. "the turner person an' his peggy bride is in right from the go. missis rucker declar's that the bride's a lady; nell proclaims her as 'shore corn-fed,' while tucson jennie allows she's a whole lot too good for sech a jack-rabbit of a husband as she gets. "her beauty? "which you couldn't say it's calc'lated to blind. "for mere loveliness she ain't a marker to nell. to be frank, it's somethin' more'n a simple question that a-way if she splits even with tucson jennie. as for missis rucker, that matron bein' past her yooth ain't properly speakin' in the runnin', an' to go comparin' her with girls would be injestice. "once landed, an' havin' escaped from that ovation we prepar's, the turner person an' his peggy bride moves into the wickeyup okyoopied former by cash box billie an' missis bill, an' opens up their domestic game. hearin' nothin' to the contrary, no howls of anguish from him, no yelps of complaint from her, it's safe to say that in what joys is supposed to attend the connoobyal state, they coppers all of them loogubrious forebodin's of texas, an' gets at least as good as a even break. "old man parks back at sni-a-bar? "it looks like the turner person, him bein' nacherally timid, exaggerates the perils which lurks in that aged cimmaron. leastwise, old parks don't offer no voylance to him, neither at the weddin' nor later. some waifword does come creepin' along that durin' the cer'mony two of the guests has to hold old parks, an' that he's searched for weepons by the preacher before ever said divine consents to turn his game at all. which i'm free to say, however, i never lends no creedence to them yarns. "the turner person, now he's established as a married gent an' a cit'zen in full standin', gives himse'f horn an' hide to business that a-way. he's as prompt about openin' his coffin emporium as ever is black jack in throwin' wide the portals of the red light. once thar, he stays ontil the evenin' lamps is lit, layin' for a corpse to use his new hearse on. "also, the turner person has hopes: an' equally also he ain't without foundations wharon to build. that's an uncle of armstrong who has come totterin' into camp, as he says himse'f, to die. likewise, it's the onbiased view of every gent in the outfit that this reelative of armstrong possesses reasons. he's a walkin' wreck. peets concedes that he's got every malady ever heard of, besides sev'ral as to which science is plumb in the dark. "nacherally, not alone the turner person, but the public at large, figgers that this yere uncle'll shore furnish employment for the hearse, an' at no distant day. but it looks like that onmitigated invalid is out to test our patience. mornin' after mornin' he comes scufflin' into the red light on two canes to get his matootinal nosepaint, an' this he keeps up ontil it begins to look like malice. ree'lizin', too, the pecooliar int'rest we-all is bound to take in him onder the circumstances, he puts on airs, an' goes by us when he meets us as coldly haughty as a paycar by a tramp. or, ag'in, he's prone to grin at us plenty peevish an' malev'lent, an' this he does partic'lar if the turner person's hoverin' round. "'which i shore deespises to keep you boys waitin',' he'd say, with a cacklin', aggravatin' laugh; 'but the way i feels it'd be prematoore to go greasin' up the hubs of that hearse.' "sech taunts he flings forth constant, ontil he comes mighty near drivin' boggs frantic. "'it seems,' says boggs, 'like simply livin' ain't good enough for that old hoss thief. to be wholly happy he's obleeged to make his stay on earth a source of mis'ry to other folks. which he ought to've been in his tomb ten years ago. every day he draws his breath is so much velvet; an', instead of bein' thankful, all he thinks of is makin' mean reemarks an' sayin' bitin' things. he'll keep on till some over-provoked sport bends a six-shooter on his insultin' head.' "weeks of waitin' goes by. armstrong's old badger of a uncle hangs on, an' no outside corpse falls in, arizona, as you doubtless savvys, bein' scand'lously healthy that a-way. so far, too, from any el'g'ble subject arrivin' in the usual way, the town never experiences sech a period of rippleless an' onruffled peace. as showin', too, how far the public is willin' to go to he'p along the play, i need only mention that on two o'casions boggs leaves out his best pony all night, himse'f sprawled in behind a mesquite bush with his winchester, hopin' some mexican'll prove weak enough to want it. all is in vain, however. thar we be, framed up to give a fooneral from which cochise county could date time, an' nothin' in the line of raw mater'al wharwith to pull it off. which i never sees the gen'ral feelin' more exasperated. it's as though in a sperit of sarcasm our destinies is mockin' us. "the turner person, in the face of this yere disheartenin' idleness, takes refooge in a trottin' hoss, which form of equine is as strange to us as camelopards. shore, we has our runnin' races, pony ag'inst pony, a quarter of a mile dash; but that's as far as we goes. "the turner person says that for himse'f he prefers trottin' races, an' after seein' him ride once i shore quits marvellin' at that pref'rence. you could no more keep him on a pony than you could keep him on a red-hot stove. we ties a roll of blankets across the horn of the saddle, an' organizes him with buckin' straps besides, an' in the face of all them safegyards he rolls off that hoss same as you'd expect some chambermaid to do. "accordin' to the turner person, trottin' races is the sport of kings, an' actin' on this feelin' he sends back east for a hoss. he drives it in one evenin' behind the stage, an' we-all goes over to the corral to size it up. it's consid'rable of a hoss, too, standin' three hands higher than the tallest of our ponies. also, it has a ewe neck an' lib'ral legs. it's name is 'henry of navarre,' but we sees at once that sech'll never do, an' re-christens him 'boomerang bob.' "when this hoss arrives boggs gets excited, an' him an' the turner person lays out a track all around town like a belt. boggs allows it's a mile long, or near enough, an' after a passel of greasers cl'ars away the cactus an' mesquite an' spanish bayonet, the turner person hooks up boomerang to a mountain wagon, an' sends him 'round an' 'round an' 'round at a pace that'd make your eyes stick out so far you could see your sins. old boomerang is shore some eevanescent! when that turner person shakes the reins an' yells 'skoot!' you could hear him whizz. on sech occasions he's nothin' short of a four-laigged meteor, an' looks forty feet long passin' a given p'int. "the big drawback is that thar ain't no quadrooped anywhar about to race boomerang ag'inst. leastwise, we don't hear of none for goin' on some months, an' when we do it's as far away as albuquerque. some consumptive tenderfoot, it looks like, has got a trottin' hoss over some'ers between albuquerque an' socorro, sech at least is the word which comes to us. "when this pulmonary sport hears of boomerang, which he does by virchoo of the overblown boastin's of the turner person, he announces that his hoss, toobercloses, can beat him for money, marbles or chalk. then comes a season of bluff an' counter-bluff, the pulmonary party insistin' that the turner person bring boomerang up to albuquerque, an' the turner person darin' the pulmonary sport to fetch his 'dog,' as he scornfully terms toobercloses, down to wolfville. "it's to be said for the turner person that he'd have shore took boomerang, an' gone romancin' off to albuquerque, lookin' for that weak-lunged reprobate an' his hoss, only sent'ment is plumb ag'inst it. we-all don't propose to lose the camp the advantages of that contest, an' so to put an eend to discussion, we urges upon the turner person that we-all'll shore kill him if he tries. this yere firmness gives us the pref'rence over albuquerque, an' the pulmonary sport allows final that he'll come to wolfville, but don't say when. "while eevents is thus a-whirl, an' the camp's all keyed up to concert pitch over the comin' race between boomerang an' toobercloses, the long-hoped for comes to pass an' the turner person, as fooneral director, receives his 'nitial call. over in red dog is a party named holt. he ain't standin' none too high, him havin' married a mexican woman, an' even them red dogs has the se'f-respect to draw the social line at mexicans. one sun-up, however, she goes trapesin' across the line to visit her people down near casa grande, an' she never does come back. it looks like she's got enough of old holt, which to gents who knows him don't go trenchin' on the strange. "the long suit of this yere mexican wife of old holt's is thinkin' she's sick, she holdin' that she's got as many things the matter with her as is preyin' on armstrong's uncle. when she breaks out of the corral an' goes stampedin' off to her tribe, she leaves behind mebby it's a hundred bottles or more of patent med'cine, rangin' all the way from arnica to ha'r dye. "followin' her flight that a-way old holt goes to takin' an account of stock by way of seein' what she cabbages an' what she leaves, an' the first flash he blunders upon this yere bushel or so of drugs. he's too froogal to throw 'em away, old holt is, bein' plumb pars'monious that a-way, an' after revolvin' the play in his mind for a spell, he ups an' swallows 'em to save 'em. "no one ever does figger out jest what individyooal med'cine bumps old holt off that time, an' thar's no sayin' whether it's the arnica or the ha'r dye or some other deecoction, or simply the whole clan-jamfrey in comb'nation. not that any gent goes to reely delvin' for the trooth, the gen'ral interest pitchin' camp contentedly on the simple fact that old holt's been shore put over the jump. doc peets? old holt's packed in before the doc's half way to red dog. shore; some of them bottled med'cines is as ack'rate an' as full of action as a six-shooter. "of course we-all is pleased to think the turner person, as fooneral director, ain't been born to bloom onseen, but the rift in the floote is that the corpse belongs to red dog. old holt ain't ours none, an' from whatever angle we looks at it it appears like wolfville ain't goin' to get a look in. "it's at pinches sech as this that enright shows his genius for leadership. while all of us is lookin' bloo, to see how red dog beats us to it for our own hearse, our fertile old war chief is ribbin' up a game for pop'lar relief. "the red dog del'gation, headed by the red dog chief, comes over to round up the turner person an' his hearse to entomb old holt. at their showin' up enright begins to onkiver his diplomacy. "'which we symp'thizes with you-all in your bereevement, gents,' says he to the red dog bunch, 'but it's ag'inst our rooles for this yere hearse to go outside of camp.' "'ain't you actin' some niggardly about that hearse?' asks the red dog chief coldly. "'not niggardly, only proodent. death cometh as a thief in the night, speshully in arizona, an' we-all'd be a fine band of prairie dogs to go lendin' our only hearse all over the territory, an' mebby have it skallyhootin' 'round som'ers up about the utah line jest when we needs it at home. however, as refootin' your onjest charge of bein' niggards, if you-all red dogs wants to bring deceased over yere, our entire lay-out is at your disposal. allowin' you can find your own sky-pilot, we stands ready to not only let you have our hearse, but furnish you likewise with moosic from the bird cage op'ry house, cha'rs from the dance hall, the noo york store to hold serv'ces in, to say nothin' to considerin' you-all as our guests from soda to hock, with every red light thing said term implies.' "'also,' observes peets, who, from his place at enright's elbow, is ridin' circumspect herd on the play--'also, we presents you-all, without money an' without price, a sepulcher in our buryin' ground on boot hill.' "this yere last provokes a storm of protest, the red dog del'gation takin' turns exposchoolatin'. but enright an' the doc stands ca'mly pat. "'which now,' says the red dog chief, an' his tones is bitter--'which now i begins to ketch onto your plot. you savvys as well as i do that old holt don't ought to go into your pile at all. he belongs in our pile--to red dog's pile. an' let me reemind you intriguers that red dog owns its own cem'tery over in headboard hollow, an' ain't askin' graveyard odds of any outfit west of the spanish peaks. this is a fine idee,' he concloods, turnin' sneerin'ly to his cohorts; 'not content with tryin' to grab off these yere obs'quies, they're brazenly manooverin' to purloin the corpse.' "at these contoomelius reemarks boggs, tutt, moore an' cherokee takes to edgin' to the fore, but enright reepresses 'em with a admon'tory wave of his hand. "'gents,' he says, to the red dog hold-ups, 'as vis'tors, even though se'f-invited, you're entitled to courtesy. but thar's a limit goes with courtesy even, an' you-all mustn't press it.' "this last sets the red dog outfit back on its apol'getic ha'nches, an' after a few more footile but less insultin' bluffs, they retires to consult. the wind-up is that they yields to enright's terms, incloosive of boot hill, an' after libatin' at the red light they canters off to freight over old holt, so's to be ready to hold the fooneral next day. "as i looks back to them prep'rations thar's no denyin' that as a fooneral director the turner person proves himse'f plumb cap'ble of gettin' thar with the goods. once he reeceives the word, everything goes off as measured an' steady as the breathin' of a sleepin' child. even the red dog chief is moved to softer views, as gents frequent be followin' the eighth drink, an' whispers to enright, confidenshul, that when all's in the only thing he deplores is that old holt is bein' planted on boot hill instead of in headboard hollow. at this enright, meetin' the red dog chief half-way, whispers back that later, if red dog desires the same, we'll jump in an' move old holt a whole lot to headboard hollow. at this lib'ral'ty the red dog chief squeezes enright's hand a heap fraternal, an' chokes with emotion. he sobs out that this is the one thing wanted to reestore them former friendly reelations between the camps. "the procession is one of the most exhil'ratin' pageants ever seen in the southwest. at the head is the ploomed hearse, old holt inside, the turner person on the box. next comes the stage coach, monte drivin', an' nell, missis rucker, tucson jennie, little enright peets, the turner person's peggy bride an' other ladies inside. the balance of us attends on our ponies, ridin' two an' two. "as we're waitin' for the preacher sharp, who's goin' in the stage, to get tucked in among the ladies, a hollow-chested, chalk-cheeked, sardonic-lookin', cynical-seemin' bandit, drivin' a lean-laigged hoss to one of them spid'ry things they calls a quill-wheel, comes pirootin' along over to one side of the fooneral cortege at a walk. he's p'intin' in from over red dog way, but i savvys from the wonderin' faces of them red dog sports that he's as new to them as us. the cynical bandit skirts along our procession ontil he's abreast of the hearse. then he pulls up, we-all not havin' had the word to start as yet. "the turner person has hooked up old boomerang to the hearse, so as to confer on this his first fooneral all the style he can. havin' halted his quill-wheel, the hectic bandit, coughin' a little, p'ints his whip at boomerang an' says to the turner person: "'is this the skate you're tryin' to match ag'inst my toobercloses?' "'grizzly b'ars an' golden eagles!' exclaims boggs, who's ridin' next to me, 'if he ain't that lunger from albuquerque!' an' boggs pulls out to the left, an' crowds up towards the hearse for a closer look. "'as fooneral director,' the turner person replies to the hectic, quill-wheel bandit, whom he fathoms instantly--'as fooneral director, i must preeserve the decorums. but only you wait, you onblushin' outlaw, ontil i've patted down the sods on old holt yere, an' i'll race you for every splinter you own.' "'that's all right,' retorts the hectic bandit, givin' another little cat-cough. 'which you needn't get your ondertakin' back up none. meanwhile, i'll nacherally string along with these obs'quies, so's to be ready to talk turkey to you when you're through.' "enright gives the signal an', with boomerang an' the hearse at the head, the procession lines out at a seedate walk for the grave. "boot hill's been located about a mile an' a half off, so as to give our foonerals doo effect. as we pushes for'ard, everything mighty solemn, the hectic bandit, keepin' a few feet off to one side, walks his hoss parallel with the hearse. every now an' then his hoss, makin' a half bolt as if he's been flicked by the lash, would streak ahead a rod or two like a four-laigged shadow. then he'd pull him down to a walk, an' sort o' linger along ontil the hearse comes up ag'in. he does this a half dozen times; an' all in a hectorin' sperit that'd anger the pulseless soul of a clam. "one way an' another it stirs up the feelin's of old boomerang, who's beginnin' to bite at the bit an' throw his laigs some antic an' permiscus. the turner person himse'f acts like a party who's holdin' onto his eemotions by the tail, so as to keep 'em from breakin' loose. his face is set, his elbows squar'd, an' he's settin' up on his hearse as stiff an' straight as a rifle bar'l, lookin' dead ahead between old boomerang's two y'ears. so it goes on for likely half a mile, the hectic bandit seesawin' an' pesterin' an' badgerin' old boomerang, now dartin' ahead, now slowin' back to let the hearse ketch up. "as i yeretofore explains, the turner person ain't arranged mental to entertain more'n one idee at a time. my own notion is that as the hectic bandit, with toobercloses, commences to encroach more an' more upon his attention, he loses sight that a-way of old holt an' the fooneral. whatever the valyoo of this as a theery, thar comes a moment, about a mile from boot hill, when, as sudden as the crack of a rifle, away goes boomerang with the rush of a norther. toobercloses ain't a second behind. thar they be, toobercloses ag'inst boomerang, quill-wheel ag'inst hearse, old holt inside, racin' away to beat a royal flush. "as hearse an' quill-wheel go t'arin' down the trail monte gets the fever, an' sets to pourin' the buckskin into his three span, an' yellin' like forty apaches. the six hosses goes into their collars like lions, an' the stage takes to rockin' an' boundin' an' bumpin' in clost pursoote of the hearse. nor be we-all on ponies left any behind, you bet. we cuts loose, quirt an' spur, an' brings up the r'ar in a dust-liftin', gallopin' half-moon. it's ondoubted the quickest-movin' fooneral that ever gets pulled off. "old holt, an' put it lightest, is a one hundred an' eighty pounder, an' the hearse itse'f is as heavy as a studebaker wagon. from standp'ints of weight pore old boomerang ain't gettin' a squar' deal. which the old hero ain't got no notion of bein' beat, though. he's all heart an' bottom; an', game?--bald hornets is quitters to him! "the load begins to tell at last, though, an' inch by inch toobercloses starts to nose boomerang out. it's then the flood-gates is lifted. nell, head out of one of the coach windows, starts screamin' to boomerang; missis rucker's got her sunbonnet out of another, expressin' her opinion of the hectic bandit an' toobercloses; tucson jennie is shoutin' for dave to come an' rescue her; the turner person's peggy is shriekin' with hysterics; the preacher sharp--who's tryin' to get at monte--is talkin' scriptoorally but various, while little enright peets is contreebutin' his small cub-coyote yelps of exultation to the gen'ral racket. "back among us riders the bets is flyin' hither an' yon as thick as swallow birds at eventide, we offerin' hundreds on boomerang an' them red dogs backin' toobercloses. it's as the tech of death to the wolfville heart when we sees toobercloses slowly surgin' to the fore. [illustration: thar's a bombardment which sounds like a battery of gatlings, the whole punctchooated by a whirlwind of "whoops!" p. .] "half-way to boot hill boggs spurs up on the nigh flank of boomerang. "'yere's whar we puts a little verve into this thing!' he roars; an' pullin' his guns he begins shakin' the loads out of 'em like roman candles. "wolfville an' red dog, every gent follows boggs' example. it sounds like a battery of gattlings, the whole punctchooated by a whirlwind of 'whoops!' that'd have backed a war party of apaches over a bluff. they almost hears us in tucson. "old boomerang reesponds noble to boggs's six-shooters. they was the preecise kind of encouragement he's been waitin' for, an' onder their inspiration he t'ars by toobercloses like a thrown lance. we sweeps on to boot hill, makin' a deemoniac finish, old boomerang leadin' by the len'th of the hearse. "nobody's hurt, onless you wants to count that hectic bandit from albuquerque. after he's beat cold, toobercloses gets tangled up accidental in a mesquite bush, the quill-wheel swaps eends with itse'f, an' the hectic albuquerque bandit lands head on in a bunch of cactus. he's shore a spectacle; an' peets says private that for a while thar's hopes he'll die. as for the parson, who's the sorest divine in arizona, he allows that the only bet he ever knows prov'dence to overlook is not breakin' the hectic bandit's neck. "nacherally, the red dogs feels some grouchy at the way things has gone, an' while they gives up their orig'nal thought of lynchin' the hectic bandit, they're plenty indignant at him for turnin' old holt's fooneral into a hoss race. it ain't old holt that's frettin' 'em so much as that they feels like it's a disgrace on their camp. "this yere red dog feelin' prodooces a onlooked for effect. they goes gloomin' an' glowerin' 'round, an' talkin' to themselves to sech a hostile extent it ups an' scares the turner person. plumb timid by nacher, he gets afraid the red dogs' indignation'll incloode him final, an' eend by drawin' their horns his way. it's no use tryin' to ca'm him. argyooment, reemonstrance, even a promise to protect him with our lives, has no effect. the turner person, in a last stampede of his nerve, is for dustin' back to missouri--him an' his peggy bride. he says it's more peaceful, more civ'lized thar, which shore strikes us as a heap jocose. in the end, however, we has to let him go. "the hearse? "we keeps the hearse, that an' boomerang; armstrong's uncle buys 'em. he says he don't aim to be sep'rated none from the only hearse within a hundred miles, an' him on the verge of the grave. "'which my only reason for livin' now,' says he, 'is to lac'rate boggs, an' even that as a pastime is beginnin' to pall.' "what time does boomerang make? "no one preetends to hold a watch. thar's one thing, though, which looks like he was shore goin' some. tutt on the way back picks up a dead jack-rabbit, that's been run over by the hearse." xii spelling book ben "which it's as you states." the old cattleman assumed the easy attitude of one sure of his position. "reefinement, that a-way, will every now an' then hit the center of the table in manner an' form most onexpected. thar's red dog. now whoever do you reckon would look for sech a oncooth outfit to go onbeltin' in any reefined racket? an' yet thar's once at least when red dog shows it's got its silken side. "an', after all, mebby i'm too narrow about red dog. thar's times when i fears that drawn aside by prejewdyce i misjedges red dog utter, an' takes for ignorant vulgar'ty what comin' down to cases is merely noise. it's the whiskey they drinks, most likely. they're addicted to a kind of cat-bird whiskey over thar, which sets 'em to whistlin' an' chirpin' an' twitterin' an' teeterin' up an' down on the conversational bough, to sech a seemin'ly empty-headed extent it's calc'lated to mislead the ca'mest intellects into a belief that the c'rrect way to deal with red dog is to build one of these yere stone corrals 'round it, call it a loonatic asylum, an' let it go at that. "wolfville's whiskey? "we-all confines ourselves to valley tan an' willow run an' old jordan, all lickers which has a distinct tendency to make a gent seedate, an' render him plumb cer'monious. i in no wise exaggerates when i avers that i freequent cuts the trail of parties who, after the tenth or mebby it's the 'leventh drink across the red light bar, waxes that punctillious they even addresses a measly mexican as 'sir.' "recurrin' to red dog, that silken occasion which i has in mind occurs when, proceedin' without invitation an' wholly as volunteers, they strings up the book-keep sharp who bumps off spellin' book ben. thar's a brief moment when said action runs a profound risk of bein' misconstrooed into becomin' the teemin' source of complications. you see we ain't lookin' for nothin' in the way of a play from red dog more del'cate than the butt of a six-shooter, an' it ain't ontil the red dog chief himse'f onlimbers in planations, an' all plenty loocid, that we ketches fully on. "red dog goes further an' insists on payin' over what money they wagers, an' all as honorable as though that contest which they bets on goes to a showdown. enright won't have it, though, none whatever; an' what with one side heatedly profferin' an' the other coldly refoosin', it looks for a time like thar's goin' to be feelin'. friction is averted, however, when peets--who's allers thar with the s'lootion to any tangle--recommends that red dog an' wolfville chip in half an' half conj'intly, to buy a tombstone for spellin' book, with a inscription kyarved tharon, the same to read: to the memory of spelling book ben. preferring death to the appearance of ignorance, he died a martyr to learning and bravely defending a rightful orthography. the language mourns his loss. "'which we simply aims by this yere hangin',' says the red dog chief in makin' them explanations, the same bein' addressed to enright, 'to save you-all from a disagree'ble dooty.' "'as how?' deemands enright, who's a heap deefensive by instinct, an' never puts down his stack while the kyards is in the hands of the dealer. "'as how to wit,' returns the red dog chief. 'troo, this book-keep malefactor ain't by rights no shore-enough red dogger, seein' he's a importation of the express company's an' at best or worst no more'n a sojourner within our gates. but, considerin' how he trails in yere this evenin' in our company, we feels respons'ble. wharfore, allowin' that mebby--you-all standin' towards us visitors, that a-way, in the light of hosts--your notion of hospital'ty gets its spurs tangled up in your deelib'rations so it impedes the march of jestice, we intervenes. which i shorely trusts that no gent present regyards red dog as that ontaught as to go cuttin' in on what's cl'arly a alien game onasked. red dog ain't quite that exyooberantly bumptious, not to say croodly gay. it's only to relieve the shoulders of you-all from a burden that we strings said offender up.' "'_bueno!_' replies enright, followin' a dignified pause, like he's weighin' the red dog chief's eloocidations. 'a gent, onless his hand is crowded by some p'int of honor, allers takes the word of a fellow gent. in view of which, the execootion you pulls off is yereby accepted as kindly meant, an' as sech is kindly took. i'm preepared on behalf of wolfville to regyard the same as performed in a sperit of del'cate courtesy. whatever, doc, do you-all say?' "'like yourse'f, sam,' says peets, 'i grasps an' a'preeciates the red dog attitoode. also, i holds that the business thus constrooed is calc'lated to cement relations between the two camps which, havin' their roots in mutyooal esteem, is shore to b'ar froote in fraternal affection.' "the doc then goes on an' onbends in flatterin' asshorances that nothin' could be finer worded than the red dog chief's oration, onless it's enright's reply. "'as a jedge of diction,' he concloods, 'an' a lover of proper speakin', i'm onreserved in the view that the statements of both ought to be preeserved as spec'mens of english ondeefiled.' "thar havin' been talk enough, an' enright an' peets contendin' that it's wolfville's treat, both sides goes weavin' over to the red light an' onbends in quite a frolic. "it'd shore been better if we had first cut down the corpse, an' tharby dodged the wrath of missis rucker. it's certainly a oversight. bar that single incident, thar arises nothin' to mar the good feelin' which everywhar preevails. forchoonately, that don't occur none ontil noon next day; an' by that time the red dog folks has all gone home, leastwise all who can go without fallin' out of the saddle. which if them red dogs is present, an' able to form opinions, them intemp'rate exhibitions of missis rucker, an' what she says an' threatens ag'inst us, speshully enright, would have mortified us to death. "as showin' the vagaries of the female mind, missis rucker seelects that lynchin' as a topic at chuck time, an' she shore does carry on scand'lous. we ain't but jest filed into the dinin' room, when she t'ars loose at enright like a cyclone in a calico dress. son, she certainly does curry our old lycurgus frightful! "what does enright do? "whatever can he do more'n mootely arch his back, same as a mule in a storm of hail, an' stand it? "when missis rucker has done freed her feelin's, an' got them reecrim'nations dealt down to the turn, she shakes a finger onder enright's subdooed nose, an' fulm'nates a warnin'. "'i tells you once before, sam enright,' she says, 'an' i tells you now ag'in, that you-all drunkards is either goin' to cease pesterin' me the way you does, or i'm bound i'll make some among you plenty hard to locate. now don't you go tellin' me nothin',' she shouts, as enright starts to say somethin'; 'don't go harrowin' me up with none of your fabrications. it's nothin' but your egreegious pompos'ty that a-way, an' a gen'ral deesire to put on dog an' lord it over us pore females with meals to cook an' water to draw, which sets you-all to hangin' parties to the windmill whar they're plumb in the way. an' all after me takin' my hands out of the dough, too, the time you stranglers puts that b'ar creek stanton over the jump, an' goin' in person to the stage corral to p'int out a beam which is a heap better adapted.' "'but, ma'am,' expostyoolates enright, 'you've done followed off the wrong wagon track entire. it ain't us none; it's them red dog savages. so far as wolfville's concerned, him bein' swung to the windmill, that a-way, is plumb fortooitous.' "'jest the same,' returns missis rucker, who's merciless an' refooses to be softened, 'you better take heed a heap. this once i lets you get away with that red dog crawl-out. but if ever i finds another party suspended to the windmill so's i can't get no water, thar's a passel of sots, of whom you, sam enright, is the onregen'rate chief, who'll shore get their grub fortooitous.' "peets, at this yere crisis, jogs enright's elbow, by way of signin' up to him to draw out; an', except from her domineerin' over rucker more'n common for a couple of days, she ceases her demonstrations. "not but what missis rucker has some rights on her side. what with feedin' forty of us folks three times a day, she's got a lot on her mind; an' to find some sooperfluous sport hangin' in her way, when she goes to fill her bucket, necessar'ly chafes her. "an' yet the stranglers is up ag'inst it, too. hangin' a culprit, dooly convicted, is a public game; an' the windmill's the only piece of public property in sight, besides bein' centrally sityooated. also, thar's nothin' in that corral bluff of missis rucker's. the beam she alloodes to ain't big enough, an' is likewise too low. "boggs, who sympathizes with missis rucker, once when we has a hoss thief we don't need on our hands, su'gests we rope him up to the sign over armstrong's noo york store. but thar's rival trade interests, an' enright fears it'll be took invidious as a covert scheme for drawin' custom to armstrong's emporium. "'personally,' says enright, 'i favors dan's idee. but since armstrong's a member of the committee, you-all sees yourselves that for us to go execootin' culprits on his sign that a-way, the direct effects of which distinguishes him an' booms his game, would shore breed jealousies.' "'how would it do,' asks texas, 'if we takes them marts seeriatim, an' one after another yootilizes all their signs?' "'with doo deference to texas,' interjecks tutt, 'this swingin' round from sign to sign, with deeds of jestice, is a heap likely to subtract from the deterrent effects. it's better we stick to the windmill, an' takes chances on beddin' them resentments of missis rucker's down.' "'that's all right for you, dave,' retorts boggs; 'you're a married man, an' eats at home. you wouldn't feel so plumb gala about quietin' missis rucker if you-all was obleeged diurnal to depend upon that easily exasperated matron for your _frijoles_, same as us. tucson jennie's the best cook in cochise county, an', bein' her husband that a-way, you ain't in no place to jedge.' "'dan's right, dave,' declar's peets; 'surrounded as you be, you can't sense our peril, that is, sense it proper. admirable as tucson jennie is as wife an' mother, an' i says this onbiased by bein' one of two after whom little enright peets is named, she's still more admirable in her rôle of cook. for which reason, dave, you-all, when missis rucker threatens us, ain't able, as dan says, to rightly gauge said menaces.' "them coolinary compliments to tucson jennie placates tutt. he's half started to bow his neck at boggs, but they mollifies him. "'mighty likely you're correct, doc,' he returns, his face cl'arin'; 'an' i begs dan's pardon for some things i was goin' to say. my wife is shore an exempl'ry cook, an' mebby i ain't no fit jedge. none the less, you-all'll find, as to them hangin's, that this yere goin' about from pillar to post with 'em is doo to rob 'em of their moral side.' "'i feels like dave,' observes enright, comin' in on the pow-wow. 'lynchin's, to have weight an' be a credit to us, ought not to be erratic. a lack of reg'larity about 'em would shake our standin' as a camp.' "monte starts the business that time when red dog astounds us with its del'cacy, by comin' bulgin' in one evenin' with word about how the leadin' inflooences in tucson is broke out in a perfect deebauch of spellin' schools. "'an' i'm yere to remark,' says he, in his conceited, rum-soaked way, 'that these yere contests contreebootes a mighty meetropol'tan atmosphere.' "'who orig'nates spellin' schools, anyway?' asks boggs, whose curiosity is allers at half-cock. 'which it's the first time i hears of sech things.' "'spellin' schools ain't nothin' new,' peets replies. 'they're as common as deelirum treemons in the east.' "'which they certainly be,' corroborates enright. 'back along the cumberland, as far away as when i'm a boy, we has 'em constant same as chills an' fever. we-all young bucks attends 'em mighty loyal, too, an' fights to see who-all goes home with the girls. when it comes to bein' pop'lar, spellin' schools is a even break with gander pullin's.' "'thar's a tucson kyard sharp,' continyoos monte, 'over to the oriental s'loon, who tells me them spellin' schools is likewise all the rage in prescott an' benson an' silver city. that lightnin' bug tarrapin' from red dog is loafin' about, too, while the kyard sharp's talkin', his y'ears a-wavin' like a field of clover. you don't figger thar's a chance that red dog gets the notion, sam, an' takes to holdin' them tournaments of learnin' itse'f?' "what monte says sets us thinkin'. as a roole we don't pay much heed to his observations, the same bein' freequent born of alcohol. but that bluff about red dog sort o' scares us up a lot. good can come out of nazareth, an' even monte might once in a while drive the center as a matter of luck. "'it wouldn't do us, doc,' says enright, who's made some oneasy by the thought--'which it shore wouldn't do us, as an advanced camp, to let red dog beat us to them spellin' schools.' "'i should confess as much!' admits peets, mighty emphatic. 'speakin' from commoonal standp'ints, it'd mark us as too dead to skin.' "the sityooation takes shape in a resolootion to hold a spellin' school ourselves, an' invite red dog to stand in. sech steps is calc'lated, we allows, to head off orig'nal action on the red dog part. "'let's challenge 'em to spell ag'in us,' says texas. 'that's shore to stop 'em from holdin' spellin' schools of their own, an' it'll be as simple as tailin' steers to down 'em. i'll gamble what odds you please that, when it comes to edyoocation that a-way, we can make them red dogs look like a bunch of digger injuns.' "'don't move your stack to the center on that proposition, texas,' observes tutt, 'ontil you thoroughly skins your hand. edyoocation ain't wholly dead in red dog. thar's a shorthorn over thar, him who keeps books for the wells-fargo folks, who's edyoocated to a razor edge.' "'him?' says boggs. 'that murderer ain't no book sharp speshul. put him ag'in the doc or col'nel sterett, an' he wouldn't last as long as a quart of whiskey at a barn raisin'. which he's a heap sight better fitted to shine in a gun-play than a spellin' contest.' "'but col'nel sterett ain't here none,' tutt urges, 'havin' gone back to see his folks; an' as for the doc, he'll be needed to put out the words. some competent gent's got to go back of the box an' deal the game, an' the doc's the only stoodent in town who answers that deescription.' "armstrong, who's happened along lookin' for his little old forty drops, lets on he knows a party down in el paso who can spell any word that ever lurks between the covers of a dictionary. "'that's straight,' armstrong declar's. 'this yere el paso savant can spell anything. which i've seen him spell the hind shoes off a shavetail mule for the drinks. he's the boss speller of the rio grande, so much so they calls him "spellin' book ben."' "'let's rope him up,' peets suggests. 'which them red dogs never will quit talkin' if we-all lets 'em down us.' "'do you-all reckon,' asks enright, appealin' to armstrong, 'you could lure that el paso expert up yere to partic'pate in this battle of the intellects?' "'it's as easy as playin' seven-up,' armstrong replies. 'which i'll write him i needs his aid to count up the stock in my store, an' you bet he'll come a-runnin'.' "'but s'ppose,' argues tutt, 'these red dog crim'nals wakes up to it that this yere spellin' book ben's a ringer?' "'in that event,' declar's texas, 'we retorts by beltin' 'em over the heads with our guns. be they, as guests, to go dictatin' terms to us?' "'not onless they're tired of life,' says boggs. 'while i can't spell none to speak of, seein' my missouri youth is more or less neglected by my folks, showin' some red dog felon whar he's in wrong is duck soup to me. in a play like that i sees my way triumphant.' "'shore!' texas insists, mighty confident; 'let red dog wag one feeble y'ear, an' we buffaloes it into instant submission.' "'they can't make no objections stick,' enright observes, after thinkin' things over. 'this spellin' book ben person'll be workin' for armstrong, an' that, as the doc says, makes him a _pro tem._ citizen of the camp. as sech he's plumb legit'mate. red dog couldn't lower its horns at him as a hold-out, even if it would.' "it's settled, an' from then on thar's nothin' talked of but spellin' schools. we issues our deefiance, peets b'arin' the same, an' red dog promptly calls our bluff. regyardin' themselves as entrenched in that gifted wells-fargo book-keep, they're mighty eager for the fray. the _baile_ is set two weeks away, with peets to hold the spellin' book. "after the time is fixed monte comes squanderin' along an' gets enright to move it one day further on. "'because, sam,' the old sot urges, puffin' out his chest like he amounts to somethin', 'that partic'lar evenin' you pitches upon i'll be at the other end of the route, an' i proposes to get in on this yere contest some myse'f.' "'you?' says boggs, who overhears him, an' is nacherally astonished an' contempchoous at monte's nerve. 'whatever be you-all talkin' about? you can't spell none no more than me. the first word the doc names'll make you look like a pig at church.' "'all the same'--for monte's been drinkin', an' allers gets stubborn in direct proportion to what licker he tucks onder his belt--'all the same, dan, as to this yere spellin', i proposes to ask for kyards. even if i ain't no bach'lor of arts, so long as the doc don't fire nothin' at me worse'n words of one syllable, an' don't send 'em along faster than two at a clatter, your uncle monte'll get thar, collars creakin', chains a-rattlin', with both hoofs.' [illustration: "onless girls is barred," declares faro nell, from her perch on the chair "i've a notion to take a hand." p. .] "red dog not only accepts our challenge, but gets that brash it offers to bet. shore, we closes with the prop'sition. it ain't no part of our civic economy to let red dog get by with anything. i reckons, up one side an' down the other, we puts up the price of eight hundred steers. texas and boggs simply goes all spraddled out at it, while cherokee calls down one eboolient red dog specyoolator for three thousand dollars. it's wolfville ag'inst red dog, the roole to govern, 'miss an' out!' "the excitement even reaches the gentler sect. "'which onless girls is barred,' declar's nell, speakin' from her lookout cha'r the second evenin' before the spellin' school is held, 'i've a notion to take a hand.' "'it wouldn't be a squar' deal, nellie,' says texas. 'with you in, everybody'd miss a-purpose.' "'i don't see why none,' says nell. "'for two reasons; first, because you're dazzlin'ly beautiful; an', second, because cherokee's too good a shot.' "'shore,' says boggs, plantin' a stack of reds open on the high kyard. 'them contestants'd all lay down to you, nellie. you certainly don't reckon cherokee'd set thar, him all framed up with a colt's . , an' be that ongallant as to permit some clown to spell you down?' "nell don't insist, an' the turn fallin' 'king-jack,' she nacherally moves boggs's reds to the check-rack. "on the great evenin' red dog comes surgin' in upon us, snortin' an' prancin' an' pitchin'. which it certainly is a confident band of prairie dogs. wolfville's organized and ready, armstrong's spellin' book ben party havin' come over from el paso three days prior. "seein' how mighty se'f-possessed them red dogs feel, boggs begins to grow nervous. "'you don't reckon, dave,' says he, speakin' to tutt, 'that them miscreents has got anything up their sleeve?--any little thing like a ace buried?' "'which they wouldn't dare. also, since you brings the matter up, dan, i now gives notice that for myse'f i shall regyard success on their part as absoloote proof of perfidy. that settled, i sacks that hamlet of red dog, an' plows an' sows its deboshed site with salt.' "'that's the talk!' says boggs. 'let 'em win once, an' you an' me, dave,'ll caper over in our individyooal capac'ty, an' lay waste that red dog hamlet if it's the last act of our lives.' "the spellin' school is schedjooled for the r'ar wareroom of the noo york store, whar the stranglers convenes. all red dog is thar, dressed up like a hoss, their wells-fargo book-keep in their exultant midst. enright calls the meetin' to order with the butt of his six-shooter; our old warchief allers uses his gun as a gavel that a-way, as lookin' more offishul. also, since the dooty of a presidin' officer is to preserve order, it's in line to begin with a show--not too ondecorous--of force. "enright states the object of the gatherin', an' peets, spellin' book in hand, swings into the saddle an' in a moment is off at a road gait. the words falls thick an' sharp, like the crackin' of a rifle. which they shore does thin out them contestants plenty rapid! boggs goes down before 'theery,' spellin' it with a extra 'e.' tutt lasts through three fires, but is sent curlin' like a shot jack-rabbit by 'epitaph,' which he ends with a 'f.' texas dies on 'definite,' bein' misled by what happens to tutt into introdoocin' tharin a sooperfluous 'ph.' "'i ain't none astonished,' texas says sadly, when peets informs him that he's in the diskyard; 'since ever my former laredo wife acquires that divorce, together with al'mony an' the reestoration of her maiden name, the same bein' suggs, i ain't been the onerrin' speller i once was.' "cherokee has luck, an' lasts for quite a time. it's the 'leventh word that fetches him. an' at that thar's a heap to be said on the side of cherokee. "the word's 'capitol,' as peets lets it fly. "'c-a-p-i-t-a-l,' spells cherokee. "'dead bird!' peets says, plenty sententious. "'whatever kind o' capital?' "'capitol of a state.' "'then i misonderstands you. which i takes it you're referrin' to a bankroll.' "the doc, however, is obdoorate, an' cherokee shoves back. "'i think,' says nell, whisperin' to missis rucker an' tucson jennie, who, with little enright peets, is off to one side--'i think the doc's a mighty sight too contracted in his scope.' "monte falls by the wayside on 'scenery,' an' is that preepost'rous he starts to give peets an argyooment. monte spells it 'seenry.' "'whar do you-all get your licence, doc,' he demands, when peets tells him how it's spelled, 'to jam in that misfit "c"? me havin' drove stage for twenty years, i've seen as much scenery as any gent present, an' should shore know how it's spelled. scenery is what you sees. "s-e-e" spells see; an' tharfore i contends that "s-e-e-n-r-y" spells scenery. that "c" you springs on us, doc, is a solecism, an' as much out of place as a cow on a front porch.' "enright raps monte down. '"scenery" is spelled any way which the doc says,' declar's enright, his eye some severe, 'an' i trusts no gent'll compel the cha'r to take measures.' "'say no more,' responds monte, plenty humble and prompt. 'what i urges is only to 'licit information. i still thinks, however, that onder the gen'ral wellfare clause of the constitootion, an' with an onfenced alphabet to pick an' choose from, a sport ought to have the inalienable right to spell things the way he likes. otherwise, whatever is the use of callin' this a free country? if a gent's to be compelled to spell scenery with a fool "c," i asks you why was yorktown an' wharfore bunker hill?' "monte, havin' thus onloaded, reetires to the r'ar, coverin' his chagrin by hummin' a stanzy or two from the well-known ditty, 'bill, of smoky hill.' bill driv three spans of hosses, an' when injuns hove in sight, he'd holler "fellers, give 'em hell! i ain't got time to fight." but he chanced one time to run ag'in a bullet made of lead, an' when they brung bill into town, a bar'l of tears was shed. "while texas an' boggs an' tutt an' cherokee an' monte an' the rest of the wolfville outfit is fallin' like november's leaves, them red dog bandits is fadin' jest as fast. if anything, they're fadin' faster. they're too p'lite or too proodent to cavil at the presence of spellin' book ben, an' by third drink time after we starts thar's no gents left standin' except that wells-fargo book-keep sharp for red dog, an' spellin' book for us. it's give an' take between 'em for mebby one hundred words, an' neither so much as stubs his orthographic toe. "the evenin' w'ars into what them poets calls the 'small hours.' missis rucker is wearily battin' her eyes, while little enright peets is snorin' guinea-pig snores in tucson jennie's lap. "thar comes a pause for black jack to pass the refreshments, an' nell takes advantage of the lull. "'hopin' no one,' says nell, 'will think us onp'lite, we ladies will retire. jedgin' from the way little enright peets sounds, not to mention how i feels or missis rucker looks, it's time we weaker vessels hits the blankets.' "'yes, indeed,' adds missis rucker, smothering a yawn with her hand; 'i'd certainly admire to stay a whole lot, but rememberin' the hour i thinks, like nellie, that we-all ladies better pull our freight.' "enright settin' the example, we gents stands up while the ladies withdraws, little enright peets bein' drug along between nell an' tucson jennie plumb inert. "peets resoomes his word-callin', an' them two heroes spells on for a hour longer. "at last, however, the wells-fargo book-keep sharp commences to turn shaky; the pressure's beginnin' to tell. as for spellin' book ben, he's as steady as a church. "'by the grave of moses, dan,' tutt whispers to boggs, 'that red dog imposter's on the brink of a stampede.' "peets gives out 'colander'; it's spellin' book ben's turn. as he starts to whirl his verbal loop the red dog adept whips out his gun, an' jams it ag'inst spellin' book's ribs. "'spell it with a "u,"' says the red dog sharp, 'or i'll shore send you shoutin' home to heaven! which i've stood all of your dad-binged eryoodition my nerves is calk'lated to endoore.' "spellin' book ben's game, game as yaller wasps. with the cold muzzle of that book-keep murderer's hint to the onconverted pushin' into his side, he never flickers. "'c-o,' he begins. "but that's as far as he ever gets. thar's a dull roar, an' pore spellin' book comes slidin' from his learned perch. it's done so quick that not even jack moore has time to hedge a stack down the other way. "'it's too late, doc,' says pore spellin' book, as peets stoops over him; 'he gets me all right.' then he rolls a gen'ral eye on all. 'gents,' he says, 'don't send my remainder back to el paso. boot hill does me.' "them's spellin' book's last words, an' they does him proud. "it's the lightnin' bug who grabs the murderin' book-keep sharp, an' takes his gun away. then he swings him before enright. "'he's your pris'ner,' says the red dog chief, actin' for his outfit, an' enright bows his acknowledgments. "son, it's a lesson to see them two leaders of men. enright never shows up nobler, an' you can wager your bottom peso that the red dog chief is a long shot from bein' a slouch. "jack moore takes the wells-fargo book-keep homicide in charge, while enright, who declar's that jestice to be effectyooal must be swift, says that onless shown reason he'll convene the committee at once. he adds, likewise, that it'll be kindly took if the red dog chief, an' what members of his triboonal is present, will b'ar their part. "in all p'liteness, the red dog chief deeclines. "'this is your joorisdiction,' he says, 'an' we red dogs can only return the compliment which your su'gestion implies by asshorin' you-all of our advance confidence in the rectitoode of what jedgments you inflicts.' "'speak your piece,' says enright to the wells-fargo book-keep culprit, when stood up before him by moore. 'whatever prompts you to blow out this spellin' book ben's candle that a-way?' "'let me say,' exclaims the wells-fargo book-keep murderer, an' his manner is some torrid, 'that i has five hundred dollars bet on this yere contest----' "'that is a question,' interrupts enright, suave but plenty firm, 'which will doubtless prove interestin' to your execooter. this, however, is not the time nor place. i asks ag'in, whatever is your reason for shovin' this yere expert in orthography from shore?' "'do you-all think,' returns the wells-fargo murderer, 'that i'll abide to see a obscoority like him outspell me?--me, who's the leadin' speller of eight states and two territories, an' never scores less than sixty-five out of a poss'ble fifty? which i'd sooner die.' "'so you'd sooner die?' repeats enright, as cold an' dark an' short as a november day. 'well, most folks don't get their sooners in this world, but it looks a heap like you will!' turnin' to moore, he goes on: 'our friends from red dog'll hold your captive, jack, while you-all goes rummagin' over to the corral an' gets a rope, the committee havin' come onprovided.' "moore gives the wells-fargo homicide to the red-dog chief, an' tharupon, we stranglers bein' ready to go into execyootive session, all hands except enright an' the committee steps outside. we're in confab mebby it's ten minutes, an' enright has jest approved a yoonanimous vote in favor of hangin', when thar's a modest tap at the door. "it's the lightnin' bug. "'it ain't,' he says, when we asks his mission, 'that we-all aims to disturb your deelib'rations none, gents, but the chief'd like to borry doc peets for five minutes to say a few words over the corpse.' "upon this yere hint we-all gambols forth, an' finds what's left of the wells-fargo book-keep murderer adornin' the windmill. thar's whar their del'cacy comes in; that's how them red dogs saves us from a disagree'ble dooty. "we plants spellin' book ben on boot hill as per that sufferer's last request, an' red dog graces the obsequies to a man. thar spellin' book lies to-day; an' the story of his ontoward takin' off, as told on that tombstone conj'intly erected as aforesaid by wolfville an' red dog, is anyooally read by scores of devotees of learnin' who, bar'-headed an' mournful, comes as pilgrims to his grave." the end "the art of the photoplay" is a condensed textbook of the technical knowledge necessary for the preparation and sale of motion picture scenarios. more than , photoplays are produced annually in the united states. the work of staff-writers is insufficient. free-lance writers have greater opportunities than ever before, for the producing companies can not secure enough good comedies and dramas for their needs. the first edition of this book met with unusual success. its author, now the director general of productions for the beaux arts film corporation, is the highest paid scenario writer in the world, as well as being a successful producing manager. among his successes were the scenarios for the spectacular productions: "robin hood," "the squaw man," "the banker's daughter," "the fire king," "checkers," "the curse of cocaine" and "the kentucky derby." what those who know have said: "in my opinion, based upon six years' experience producing motion pictures, mr. eustace hale ball is the most capable scenario writer in the business to-day." (signed) w. f. haddock, producing director with edison, eclair, all star, and now president, mirror film corporation. "mr. ball has thoroughly grasped present day and future possibilities of the moving picture business with relation to the opportunities for real good work by scenario writers." (signed) p. kimberley, managing director, imperial film company, ltd., london, england. "to those who wish to earn some of the money which the moving picture folk disburse, eustace hale ball proffers expert and valuable advice." new york times review of books. "ball's art of the photoplay puts into concrete form, with expert simplicity, the secrets of writing photoplays which appeal to the millions of americans who attend the theatres and the producers can not buy enough of such plays to satisfy the exhibitors." (signed) robert lee macnabb, national vice-president, motion picture exhibitor's league of america. "you have succeeded in producing a clear and helpful exposition of the subject." (signed) wm. r. kane, editor of "the editor magazine." mo. cloth bound, $ . net. g. w. dillingham co., publishers new york three splendid books by alfred henry lewis faro nell and her friends a new story of "wolfville" days--the best of all. it pictures the fine comradeship, broad understanding and simple loyalty of faro nell to her friends. here we meet again old monte, dave tutt, cynthiana, pet-named original sin, dead shot baker, doc peets, old man enright, dan boggs, texas and black jack, the rough-actioned, good-hearted men and women who helped to make this author famous as a teller of tales of western frontier life. mo. cloth. illustrated. popular edition. cents the apaches of new york a truthful account of actual happenings in the underworld of vice and crime in the metropolis, that gives an appalling insight into the life of the new york criminal. it contains intimate, inside information concerning the gang fights and the gang tyranny that has since startled the entire world. the book embraces twelve stories of grim, dark facts secured directly from the lips of the police and the gangsters themselves. mo. cloth. illustrated. popular edition. cents the story of paul jones a wonderful historical romance. a story of the boyhood and later life of that daring and intrepid sailor whose remains are now in america. thousands and tens of thousands have read it and admired it. many consider it one of the best books mr. lewis has produced. mo. cloth. illustrated. popular edition. cents g. w. dillingham company publishers new york nine splendid novels by william macleod raine the pirate of panama a tale of old-time pirates and of modern love, hate and adventure. the scene is laid in san francisco on board the argus and in panama. a romantic search for the lost pirate gold. an absorbing love-story runs through the book. mo, cloth, jacket in colors. net $ . . the vision splendid a powerful story in which a man of big ideas and fine ideals wars against graft and corruption. a most satisfactory love affair terminates the story. mo, cloth, illustrated. net $ . . crooked trails and straight a story of arizona; of swift-riding men and daring outlaws; of a bitter feud between cattle-men and sheep-herders. the heroine is a most unusual woman and her love-story reaches a culmination that is fittingly characteristic of the great free west. mo, cloth, illustrated. popular edition cents. brand blotters a story of the cattle range. this story brings out the turbid life of the frontier with all its engaging dash and vigor with a charming love interest running through its pages. mo, cloth, illustrated. jacket in colors. popular edition cents. "mavericks" a tale of the western frontier, where the "rustler," whose depredations are so keenly resented by the early settlers of the range, abounds. one of the sweetest love stories ever told. mo, cloth, illustrated. popular edition, cents. a texas ranger how a member of the most dauntless border police force carried law into the mesquit, saved the life of an innocent man after a series of thrilling adventures, followed a fugitive to wyoming, and then passed through deadly peril to ultimate happiness. mo, cloth, illustrated. popular edition, cents. wyoming in this vivid story of the outdoor west the author has captured the breezy charm of "cattleland," and brings out the turbid life of the frontier with all its engaging dash and vigor. mo, cloth, illustrated. popular edition, cents. ridgway of montana the scene is laid in the mining centers of montana, where politics and mining industries are the religion of the country. the political contest, the love scene, and the fine character drawing give this story great strength and charm. mo, cloth, illustrated. popular edition, cents. bucky o'connor every chapter teems with wholesome, stirring adventures, replete with the dashing spirit of the border, told with dramatic dash and absorbing fascination of style and plot. mo, cloth, illustrated. popular edition, cents. traffic in souls novelized from the great photo-play by eustace hale ball traffic in souls is a powerful study, in fiction garb, of the vice conditions of new york and their cure. the facts upon which it is based were compiled from the john d. rockefeller, jr., white slave report, and other documents of that nature, including charles s. whitman's, district-attorney of new york. the story tells of the active fight of a conscientious policeman, officer , bobbie burke, to thwart the evil machinations of a gang of organized traffickers. his personal interest is suddenly doubled by the abduction of the young sister of his fiancée, mary barton. burke, assisted by mary, tracks the evil doers. after a sensational series of fights mixed with thrilling detective work, many women, including the young sister, are saved. the operations of the gangsters, in securing victims from the emigrant ships, the railroad stations and the working classes are shown in a manner treated delicately, yet imbued with a powerful moral lesson. the tender love story of bobbie and mary purges the book of the morbidity which it would otherwise possess. this photo-drama feature is the only one dealing with white slavery conditions which has met the unqualified sanction of the district-attorney's office, the board of censorship and the other vice crusading societies of new york. mo. cloth. illustrated with unusual photographs of the action of the drama. popular price, cents net. by mail, cents. g. w. dillingham co., publishers new york mr. dooley in peace and in war [illustration] boston small, maynard & company copyright, , by the chicago journal copyright, , by small, maynard & company first edition ( , copies) november, second edition ( , copies) december, third edition ( , copies) january, press of george h. ellis, boston, u.s.a. to w.h. turner preface. archey road stretches back for many miles from the heart of an ugly city to the cabbage gardens that gave the maker of the seal his opportunity to call the city "urbs in horto." somewhere between the two--that is to say, forninst th' gas-house and beyant healey's slough and not far from the polis station--lives martin dooley, doctor of philosophy. there was a time when archey road was purely irish. but the huns, turned back from the adriatic and the stock-yards and overrunning archey road, have nearly exhausted the original population,--not driven them out as they drove out less vigorous races, with thick clubs and short spears, but edged them out with the more biting weapons of modern civilization,--overworked and under-eaten them into more languid surroundings remote from the tanks of the gas-house and the blast furnaces of the rolling-mill. but mr. dooley remains, and enough remain with him to save the archey road. in this community you can hear all the various accents of ireland, from the awkward brogue of the "far-downer" to the mild and aisy elizabethan english of the southern irishman, and all the exquisite variations to be heard between armagh and bantry bay, with the difference that would naturally arise from substituting cinders and sulphuretted hydrogen for soft misty air and peat smoke. here also you can see the wakes and christenings, the marriages and funerals, and the other fêtes of the ol' counthry somewhat modified and darkened by american usage. the banshee has been heard many times in archey road. on the eve of all saints' day it is well known that here alone the pookies play thricks in cabbage gardens. in it was reported that malachi dempsey was called "by the other people," and disappeared west of the tracks, and never came back. a simple people! "simple, says ye!" remarked mr. dooley. "simple like th' air or th' deep sea. not complicated like a watch that stops whin th' shoot iv clothes ye got it with wears out. whin father butler wr-rote a book he niver finished, he said simplicity was not wearin' all ye had on ye'er shirt-front, like a tin-horn gambler with his di'mon' stud. an' 'tis so." the barbarians around them are moderately but firmly governed, encouraged to passionate votings for the ruling race, but restrained from the immoral pursuit of office. the most generous, thoughtful, honest, and chaste people in the world are these friends of mr. dooley,--knowing and innocent; moral, but giving no heed at all to patented political moralities. among them lives and prospers the traveller, archæologist, historian, social observer, saloon-keeper, economist, and philosopher, who has not been out of the ward for twenty-five years "but twict." he reads the newspapers with solemn care, heartily hates them, and accepts all they print for the sake of drowning hennessy's rising protests against his logic. from the cool heights of life in the archey road, uninterrupted by the jarring noises of crickets and cows, he observes the passing show, and meditates thereon. his impressions are transferred to the desensitized plate of mr. hennessy's mind, where they can do no harm. "there's no betther place to see what's goin' on thin the ar-rchey road," says mr. dooley. "whin th' ilicthric cars is hummin' down th' sthreet an' th' blast goin' sthrong at th' mills, th' noise is that gr-reat ye can't think." he is opulent in good advice, as becomes a man of his station; for he has mastered most of the obstacles in a business career, and by leading a prudent and temperate life has established himself so well that he owns his own house and furniture, and is only slightly behind on his license. it would be indelicate to give statistics as to his age. mr. hennessy says he was a "grown man whin th' pikes was out in forty-eight, an' i was hedge-high, an' i'm near fifty-five." mr. dooley says mr. hennessy is eighty. he closes discussion on his own age with the remark, "i'm old enough to know betther." he has served his country with distinction. his conduct of the important office of captain of his precinct ( - ) was highly commended, and there was some talk of nominating him for alderman. at the expiration of his term he was personally thanked by the hon. m. mcgee, at one time a member of the central committee. but the activity of public life was unsuited to a man of mr. dooley's tastes; and, while he continues to view the political situation always with interest and sometimes with alarm, he has resolutely declined to leave the bar for the forum. his early experience gave him wisdom in discussing public affairs. "politics," he says, "ain't bean bag. 'tis a man's game; an' women, childher, an' pro-hybitionists'd do well to keep out iv it." again he remarks, "as shakespeare says, 'ol' men f'r th' council, young men f'r th' ward.'" an attempt has been made in this book to give permanent form to a few of the more characteristic and important of mr. dooley's utterances. for permission to reprint the articles the thanks of the editor are due to mr. george g. booth, of the chicago _journal_, and to mr. dooley's constant friend, mr. h.h. kohlsaat, of the chicago _evening post_. f. p. d. contents. mr. dooley in war page on diplomacy on war preparations on fitz-hugh lee on mules and others on his cousin george on some army appointments on strategy on general miles's moonlight excursion on admiral dewey's activity on the philippines on prayers for victory on the anglo-saxon on a letter from the front on our cuban allies on the destruction of cervera's fleet on a letter to mr. depew on the president's cat on a speech by president mckinley on the hero in politics mr. dooley in peace on new year's resolutions on gold-seeking on books on reform candidates on paternal duty on criminals on a plot on the new woman on expert testimony on the popularity of firemen on the game of football on the necessity of modesty among the rich on the power of love on the victorian era on the currency question on political parades on charity on nansen on a populist convention on a family reunion on a famous wedding on a quarrel between england and germany on oratory in politics on christmas gifts on anarchists on the dreyfus case on the decadence of greece on the indian war on golf on the french character mr. dooley in war on diplomacy. "i'll explain it to ye," said mr. dooley. "'tis this way. ye see, this here sagasta is a boonco steerer like canada bill, an' th' likes iv him. a smart man is this sagasta, an' wan that can put a crimp in th' ca-ards that ye cudden't take out with a washerwoman's wringer. he's been through manny a ha-ard game. talk about th' county dimocracy picnic, where a three-ca-ard man goes in debt ivry time he hurls th' broads, 'tis nawthin' to what this here spanish onion has been again an' beat. f'r years an' years he's played on'y profissionals. th' la-ads he's tackled have more marked ca-ards in their pockets thin a preacher fr'm mitchigan an' more bad money thin ye cud shake out iv th' coat-tail pockets iv a prosp'rous banker fr'm injianny. he's been up again gladstun an' bisma-arck an' ol' what-ye-call-'im, th' eyetalian,--his name's got away from me,--an' he's done thim all. "well, business is bad. no wan will play with him. no money's comin' in. th' circus has moved on to th' nex' town, an' left him without a customer. th' jew man that loaned him th' bank-roll threatens to seize th' ca-ards on' th' table. whin, lo an' behold, down th' sthreet comes a ma-an fr'm th' counthry,--a lawyer fr'm ohio, with a gripsack in his hand. oh, but he's a proud man. he's been in town long enough f'r to get out iv th' way iv th' throlley ca-ar whin th' bell rings. he's larned not to thry an' light his see-gar at th' ilicthric light. he doesn't offer to pay th' ilivator ma-an f'r carryin' him upstairs. he's got so he can pass a tall buildin' without thryin' f'r to turn a back summersault. an' he's as haughty about it as a new man on an ice-wagon. they'se nawthin' ye can tell him. he thinks iv himsilf goin' back to canton with a r-red necktie on, an' settin' on a cracker box an' tellin' th' lads whin they come in fr'm pitchin' hor-rseshoes what a hot time he's had, an' how he's seen th' hootchy-kootchy an' th' pammer house barber shop, an' th' other ondacint sights iv a gr-reat city. "an' so he comes up to where sagasta is kind iv throwin' th' ca-ards idly on th' top iv th' bar'l, an' sagasta pipes him out iv th' corner iv his eye, an' says to himsilf: 'oh, i dinnaw,' an' thanks hiven f'r th' law that has a sucker bor-rn ivry minyit. an' th' la-ad fr'm canton thinks he can pick out th' jack, an' sometimes he can an' sometimes he can't; but th' end iv it is th' spanyard has him thrimmed down to his chest protector, an' he'll be goin' back to canton in a blanket. ye see it ain't his game. if it was pitchin' hor-rseshoes, 'twud be diff'rent. he cud bate sagasta at that. he cud do him at rasslin' or chasin' th' greased pig, or in a wan-legged race or th' tug-iv-war. he cud make him look foolish at liftin' a kag iv beer or hitchin' up a team. but, whin it comes to di-plo-macy, th' spanyard has him again th' rail, an' counts on him till his ar-rm is sore." "why don't he tur-rn in an' fight?" demanded the patriotic mr. hennessy. "lord knows," said mr. dooley. "mebbe 'twill tur-rn out th' way it did with two frinds iv mine. they was joe larkin an' a little r-red-headed man be th' name iv o'brien, an' they wint out to th' picanic at ogden's grove, where wanst a year ireland's freed. they was a shell ma-an wurrukin' near th' fence, an' larkin says, says he: 'he's aisy. lave me have some money, an' we'll do him. i can see th' pea go undher th' shell ivry time.' so o'brien bein' a hot spoort loaned him th' money, an' he wint at it. ivry time larkin cud see th' pea go undher th' shell as plain as day. wanst or twict th' shell man was so careless that he left th' pea undher th' edge iv th' shell. but in five minyits all iv o'brien's money was in th' bad ma-an's pockits, an' he was lookin' around f'r more foolish pathrites. it took o'brien some time f'r to decide what to do. thin says he, ''twas my money this fool blowed in.' an' he made a dash f'r th' shell ma'an; an' he not on'y got what he'd lost, but all th' r-rest iv th' capital besides. ye see, that was his game. that was where he come in. an' he took th' money an' carrid it over to a cor-rner iv th' gr-rounds where a la-ad had wan iv thim matcheens where ye pay tin cints f'r th' privilege iv seein' how har-rd ye can hit with a sledge-hammer, an' there he stayed till th' polis come ar-round to dhrive people off th' gr-rounds." on war preparations "well," mr. hennessy asked, "how goes th' war?" "splendid, thank ye," said mr. dooley. "fine, fine. it makes me hear-rt throb with pride that i'm a citizen iv th' sixth wa-ard." "has th' ar-rmy started f'r cuba yet?" "wan ar-rmy, says ye? twinty! las' choosdah an advance ar-rmy iv wan hundherd an' twinty thousand men landed fr'm th' gussie, with tin thousand cannons hurlin' projick-tyles weighin' eight hundherd pounds sivinteen miles. winsdah night a second ar-rmy iv injineers, miners, plumbers, an' lawn tinnis experts, numberin' in all four hundherd an' eighty thousand men, ar-rmed with death-dealin' canned goods, was hurried to havana to storm th' city. "thursdah mornin' three thousand full rigimints iv r-rough r-riders swum their hor-rses acrost to matoonzas, an' afther a spirited battle captured th' rainy christiny golf links, two up an' hell to play, an' will hold thim again all comers. th' same afthernoon th' reg'lar cavalry, con-sistin' iv four hundherd an' eight thousan' well-mounted men, was loaded aboord th' tug lucy j., and departed on their earned iv death amidst th' cheers iv eight millyon sojers left behind at chickamaha. these cav'lry'll co-operate with commodore schlow; an' whin he desthroys th' spanish fleet, as he does ivry sundah an' holy day except in lent, an' finds out where they ar-re an' desthroys thim, afther batterin' down th' forts where they ar-re con-cealed so that he can't see thim, but thinks they ar-re on their way f'r to fight cousin george dooley, th' cav'lry will make a dash back to tampa, where gin'ral miles is preparin' to desthroy th' spanish at wan blow,--an' he's th' boy to blow. "the gin'ral arrived th' other day, fully prepared f'r th' bloody wurruk iv war. he had his intire fam'ly with him. he r-rode recklessly into camp, mounted on a superb specyal ca-ar. as himsilf an' uncle mike miles, an' cousin hennery miles, an' master miles, aged eight years, dismounted fr'm th' specyal train, they were received with wild cheers be eight millyon iv th' bravest sojers that iver give up their lives f'r their counthry. th' press cinchorship is so pow'rful that no news is allowed to go out; but i have it fr'm th' specyal corryspondint iv mesilf, clancy th' butcher, mike casey, an' th' city direchtry that gin'ral miles instantly repaired himsilf to th' hotel, where he made his plans f'r cr-rushin' th' spanyards at wan blow. he will equip th' ar-rmy with blow-guns at wanst. his uniforms ar-re comin' down in specyal steel protected bullyon trains fr'm th' mint, where they've been kept f'r a year. he has ordhered out th' gold resarve f'r to equip his staff, numberin' eight thousan' men, manny iv whom ar-re clubmen; an', as soon as he can have his pitchers took, he will cr-rush th' spanish with wan blow. th' purpose iv th' gin'ral is to permit no delay. decisive action is demanded be th' people. an', whin th' hot air masheens has been sint to th' front, gin'ral miles will strike wan blow that'll be th' damdest blow since th' year iv th' big wind in ireland. "iv coorse, they'se dissinsions in th' cabinet; but they don't amount to nawthin'. th' sicrety iv war is in favor iv sawin' th' spanish ar-rmy into two-be-four joists. th' sicrety iv th' three-asury has a scheme f'r roonin' thim be lindin' thim money. th' sicrety iv th' navy wants to sue thim befure th' mattsachusetts supreme coort. i've heerd that th' prisident is arrangin' a knee dhrill, with th' idee iv prayin' th' villyans to th' divvil. but these diff'rences don't count. we're all wan people, an' we look to gin'ral miles to desthroy th' spanish with wan blow. whin it comes, trees will be lifted out be th' roots. morro castle'll cave in, an' th' air'll be full iv spanish whiskers. a long blow, a sthrong blow, an' a blow all together." "we're a gr-reat people," said mr. hennessy, earnestly. "we ar-re," said mr. dooley. "we ar-re that. an' th' best iv it is, we know we ar-re." on fitz-hugh lee. "iv coorse, he's irish," said mr. dooley. "th' fitz-hughs an' th' mchughs an' th' mckeoughs is not far apart. i have a cousin be th' name iv mckeough, an' like as not th' gin'ral is a relation iv mine." "if i was you, i'd write him an' see," said mr. hennessy. "he's a gr-reat ma-an." "he is so," said mr. dooley. "he is that. wan iv th' gr-reatest. an' why shudden't he be with thim two names? they'se pothry in both iv thim. fitz-hugh lee! did ye iver see a pitcher iv him? a fat ma-an, with a head like a football an' a neck big enough to pump blood into his brain an' keep it fr'm starvin'. white-haired an' r-red-faced. th' kind iv ma-an that can get mad in ivry vein in his body. whin he's hot, i bet ye his face looks like a fire in a furniture facthry. whin a ma-an goes pale with r-rage, look out f'r a knife in th' back. but, whin he flames up so that th' perspi-ration sizzles on his brow, look out f'r hand an' feet an' head an' coupling pins an' rapid-firin' guns. fitz can be ca'm whin they'se annything to be ca'm about, but he can't wait. if he was a waiter, he'd be wurrukin' at th' thrade. look at th' jaw iv him! it's like a paving block. "does fitz believe in di-plomacy? not him. he sets there in his office in havana, smokin' a good see-gar, an' a boy comes in an' tells him they've jugged an american citizen. he jams his hat down on his eyes, an' r-rushes over to where gin'ral blanco has his office. 'look here,' says he, 'ye pizenous riptile,' he says, 'if ye don't lave me counthryman out iv th' bull-pen in fifteen minyits be th' watch,' he says, 'i'll take ye be th' hair iv th' head an' pull ye fr'm th' corner iv halsted sthreet to th' r-red bridge,' he says. 'lave us debate this,' says blanco. 'i'll debate nawthin', says fitz. 'hurry up, or i'll give ye a slap,' he says. 'r-run over an' wake up th' loot at th' station, an' let thim americans out, or,' he says, 'we'll go to the flure,' he says. "that's fitz. he's ca'm, an' he waits part iv th' time. that's whin he's asleep. but, as soon as his eyes opins, his face begins to flare up like wan iv thim r-round stoves in a woodman's shanty whin rosiny wood is thrun in. an' fr'm that time on till he's r-ready to tur-rn in an' sleep peaceful an' quite,--not like a lamb full iv vigetable food, but like a line that's wur-rked ha-ard an' et meat,--he niver stops rampin' an' ragin'. ye don't hear iv fitz lookin' worn with th' sthruggle. ye don't r-read iv him missin' anny meals. no one fears that fitz will break down undher th' suspinse. that ain't in th' breed. he's another kind iv a man. he hasn't got th' time to be tired an' worrid. he needs food, an' he has it; an' he needs sleep, an' he takes it; an' he needs fightin', an' he gets it. that's fitz. they ain't such a lot iv diff'rence between th' bravest man in the wurruld an' th' cow'rdliest. not such a lot. it ain't a question iv morality, hinnissy. i've knowed men that wint to church ivry sundah an' holyday reg'lar, an' give to th' poor an' loved their neighbors, an' they wudden't defind their wives against a murdherer. an' i've knowed th' worst villyuns on earth that'd die in their thracks to save a stranger's child fr'm injury. 'tis a question iv how th' blood is pumped. whin a man shows th' sthrain, whin he gets thin an' pale an' worrid in th' time f'r fightin', he's mighty near a cow'rd. but, whin his face flames an' his neck swells an' his eyes look like a couple iv ilicthric lamps again a cyclone sky, he'd lead a forlorn hope acrost th' battlemints iv hell." on mules and others "i see," said mr. dooley, "th' first gr-reat land battle iv th' war has been fought." "where was that?" demanded mr. hennessy, in great excitement. "lord save us, but where was that?" "th' alger gyards," said mr. dooley, "bruk fr'm th' corral where they had thim tied up, atin' thistles, an' med a desp'rate charge on th' camp at tampa. they dayscinded like a whur-rl-wind, dhrivin' th' astonished throops before thim, an' thin charged back again, completin' their earned iv desthruction. at th' las' account th' brave sojers was climbin' threes an' tillygraft poles, an' a rig'mint iv mules was kickin' th' pink silk linin' out iv th' officers' quarthers. th' gallant mules was led be a most courageous jackass, an' 'tis undhersthud that me frind mack will appint him a brigadier-gin-ral jus' as soon as he can find out who his father is. 'tis too bad he'll have no childher to perpituate th' fame iv him. he wint through th' camp at th' head iv his throops iv mules without castin' a shoe. he's th' biggest jackass in tampa to-day, not exciptin' th' cinsor; an' i doubt if they'se a bigger wan in wash'n'ton, though i cud name a few that cud thry a race with him. annyhow, they'll know how to reward him. they know a jackass whin they see wan, an' they see a good manny in that peaceful city. "th' charge iv tampa'll go into histhry as th' first land action iv th' war. an', be th' way, hinnissy, if this here sociable is f'r to go on at th' prisint rate, i'm sthrong to ar-rm th' wild ar-rmy mules an' the unbridled jackasses iv th' pe-rary an' give thim a chanst to set cuba free. up to this time th' on'y hero kilt on th' spanish side was a jackass that poked an ear above th' batthries at matoonzas f'r to hear what was goin' on. 'behold,' says sampson, 'th' insolince iv th' foe,' he says. 'for-rm in line iv battle, an' hur-rl death an' desthruction at yon castilyan gin'ral.' 'wait,' says an officer. 'it may be wan iv our own men. it looks like th' sicrety iv'--'hush!' says th' commander. 'it can't be an american jackass, or he'd speak,' he says. 'fire on him.' shot afther shot fell round th' inthrepid ass; but he remained firm till th' dinnymite boat vesoovyus fired three hundherd an' forty thousand pounds iv gum cotton at him, an' the poor crather was smothered to death. now, says i, give these tampa mules a chanst, an' we'll have no need iv wastin' ammun-ni-tion. properly led, they'd go fr'm wan end iv cuba to th' other, kickin' th' excelsior out iv ivry stuffed spanish gin'ral fr'm bahoohoo hoondoo to sandago de cuba. they'd be no loss iv life. th' sojers who haven't gone away cud come home an' get cured iv th' measles an' th' whoopin'-cough an' th' cholera infantum befure th' public schools opens in th' fall, an' ivrything wud be peaceful an' quiet an' prosp'rous. th' officers in th' field at prisint is well qualified f'r command iv th' new ar-rmy; an', if they'd put blinders on th' mules, they wudden't be scared back be wan iv thim spanish fleets that a jackass sees whin he's been up all night, secretly stuffing himsilf with silo. they'd give wan hew-haw, an' follow their leaders through th' hear-rt iv th' inimy's counthry. but give thim th' wurrud to git ap, an' they'd ate their thistles undher th' guns iv some ol' morro castle befure night. "ye don't see th' diff'rence, says ye. they ain't anny i' th' leaders. as efficient a lot iv mules as iver exposed their ears. th' throuble is with th' rank an' file. they're men. what's needed to carry on this war as it goes to-day is an ar-rmy iv jacks an' mules. whin ye say to a man, 'git ap, whoa, gee, back up, get alang!' he don't know what ye'er dhrivin' at or to. but a mule hears th' ordhers with a melancholy smile, dhroops his ears, an' follows his war-rm, moist breath. th' ordhers fr'm washin'ton is perfectly comprehinsible to a jackass, but they don't mane annything to a poor, foolish man. no human bein', hinnissy, can undherstand what the divvie use it was to sink a ship that cost two hundherd thousan' dollars an' was worth at laste eighty dollars in sandago harbor, if we have to keep fourteen ships outside to prevint five spanish ships fr'm sailin'. th' poor, tired human mind don't tumble, hinnissy, to th' raison f'r landin' four hundherd marines at guanotommy to clear th' forests, whin havana is livin' free on hot tamales an' ice-cream. th' mind iv a demostheens or a tim hogan would be crippled thryin' to figure out why throops ar-re sint out fr'm tampa an' thin ordhered back through a speakin' chube, while wan iv th' new briga-deer-gin'rals has his hands manicured an' says good-by to his nurse. but it ought to be as plain to th' mule that hears it as it is to th' jackasses that gets it up. what we need, hinnissy, is a perfect undherstandin' between th' ar-rmy an' th' administhration. we need what hogan calls th' esphrite th' corpse, an' we'll on'y have it whin th' mules begins to move." "i shud think," said mr. hennessy, "now that th' jackasses has begun to be onaisy"-- "we ought to be afraid th' cabinet an' th' boord iv sthrateejy 'll be stampeded?" mr. dooley interrupted. "niver fear. they're too near th' fodder." on his cousin george. "well," said mr. hennessy, in tones of chastened joy: "dewey didn't do a thing to thim. i hope th' poor la-ad ain't cooped up there in minneapolis." "niver fear," said mr. dooley, calmly. "cousin george is all r-right." "cousin george?" mr. hennessy exclaimed. "sure," said mr. dooley. "dewey or dooley, 'tis all th' same. we dhrop a letter here an' there, except th' haitches,--we niver dhrop thim,--but we're th' same breed iv fightin' men. georgy has th' thraits iv th' fam'ly. me uncle mike, that was a handy man, was tol' wanst he'd be sint to hell f'r his manny sins, an' he desarved it; f'r, lavin' out th' wan sin iv runnin' away fr'm annywan, he was booked f'r ivrything from murdher to missin' mass. 'well,' he says, 'anny place i can get into,' he says, 'i can get out iv,' he says. 'ye bet on that,' he says. "so it is with cousin george. he knew th' way in, an' it's th' same way out. he didn't go in be th' fam'ly inthrance, sneakin' along with th' can undher his coat. he left ding dong, or whativer 'tis ye call it, an' says he, 'thank gawd,' he says, 'i'm where no man can give me his idees iv how to r-run a quiltin' party, an' call it war,' he says. an' so he sint a man down in a divin' shute, an' cut th' cables, so's mack cudden't chat with him. thin he prances up to th' spanish forts, an' hands thim a few oranges. tosses thim out like a man throwin' handbills f'r a circus. 'take that,' he says, 'an' raymimber th' maine,' he says. an' he goes into th' harbor, where admiral what-th'-'ell is, an', says he, 'surrinder,' he says. 'niver,' says th' dago. 'well,' says cousin george, 'i'll just have to push ye ar-round,' he says. an' he tosses a few slugs at th' spanyards. th' spanish admiral shoots at him with a bow an' arrow, an' goes over an' writes a cable. 'this mornin' we was attackted,' he says. 'an' he says, 'we fought the inimy with great courage,' he says. 'our victhry is complete,' he says. 'we have lost ivrything we had,' he says. 'th' threachrous foe,' he says, 'afther destroyin' us, sought refuge behind a mud-scow,' he says; 'but nawthin' daunted us. what boats we cudden't r-run ashore we surrindered,' he says. 'i cannot write no more,' he says, 'as me coat-tails are afire,' he says; 'an' i am bravely but rapidly leapin' fr'm wan vessel to another, followed be me valiant crew with a fire-engine,' he says. 'if i can save me coat-tails,' he says, 'they'll be no kick comin', he says. 'long live spain, long live mesilf.' "well, sir, in twinty-eight minyits be th' clock dewey he had all th' spanish boats sunk, an' that there harbor lookin' like a spanish stew. thin he r-run down th' bay, an' handed a few war-rm wans into th' town. he set it on fire, an' thin wint ashore to war-rm his poor hands an' feet. it chills th' blood not to have annything to do f'r an hour or more." "thin why don't he write something?" mr. hennessy demanded. "write?" echoed mr. dooley. "write? why shud he write? d'ye think cousin george ain't got nawthin' to do but to set down with a fountain pen, an' write: 'dear mack,--at o'clock i begun a peaceful blockade iv this town. ye can see th' pieces ivrywhere. i hope ye're injyin' th' same gr-reat blessin'. so no more at prisint. fr'm ye'ers thruly, george dooley.' he ain't that kind. 'tis a nice day, an' he's there smokin' a good tin-cint see-gar, an' throwin' dice f'r th' dhrinks. he don't care whether we know what he's done or not. i'll bet ye, whin we come to find out about him, we'll hear he's ilicted himself king iv th' f'lip-ine islands. dooley th' wanst. he'll be settin' up there undher a pa'm-three with naygurs fannin' him an' a dhrop iv licker in th' hollow iv his ar-rm, an' hootchy-kootchy girls dancin' befure him, an' ivry tin or twinty minyits some wan bringin' a prisoner in. 'who's this?' says king dooley. 'a spanish gin'ral,' says th' copper. 'give him a typewriter an' set him to wurruk,' says th' king. 'on with th' dance,' he says. an' afther awhile, whin he gits tired iv th' game, he'll write home an' say he's got the islands; an' he'll tur-rn thim over to th' gover'mint an' go back to his ship, an' mark hanna'll organize th' f'lip-ine islands jute an' cider comp'ny, an' th' rivolutchinists'll wish they hadn't. that's what'll happen. mark me wurrud." on some army appointments. "well, sir," said mr. dooley, "i didn't vote f'r mack, but i'm with him now. i had me doubts whether he was th' gr-reatest military janius iv th' cinchry, but they'se no question about it. we go into this war, if we iver do go into it, with th' most fash'n-able ar-rmy that iver creased its pants. 'twill be a daily hint fr'm paris to th' crool foe. "other gin'rals iv th' r-rough-house kind, like napoleon bonypart, th' impror iv th' frinch, gin'ral ulis s. grant, an' cousin george dooley, hired coarse, rude men that wudden't know th' diff'rence between goluf an' crokay, an' had their pants tucked in their boots an' chewed tobacco be th' pound. thank hivin, mckinley knows betther thin to sind th' likes iv thim abroad to shock our frinds be dumpin' their coffee into thimsilves fr'm a saucer. "th' dure bell rings, an' a futman in liv'ry says: 'i'm master willie dooselbery's man, an' he's come to be examined f'r th' army,' says he. 'admit him,' says mckinley; an' master willie enters, accompanied be his val-lay, his mah an' pah an' th' comity iv th' goluf club. 'willie,' says th' prisident, 'ye ar-re enthrin' upon a gloryous car-eer, an' 'tis nic'ssry that ye shud be thurly examined, so that ye can teach th' glories iv civilization to th' tyr-ranies iv europe that is supported be ye'er pah an' mah,' he says. ''twud be a tur-r'ble thing,' he says, 'if some day they shud meet a spanish gin'ral in mahdrid, an' have him say to thim, "i seen ye'er son willie durin' th' war wearin' a stovepipe hat an' tan shoes." let us begin th' examination,' he says. 'ar-re ye a good goluf player?' 'i am,' says willie. 'thin i appint ye a liftnant. what we need in th' ar-rmy is good goluf players,' he says. 'in our former war,' he says, 'we had th' misfortune to have men in command that didn't know th' diff'rence between a goluf stick an' a beecycle; an' what was th' raysult? we foozled our approach at bull r-run,' he says. 'ar-re ye a mimber iv anny clubs?' he says. 'four,' says willie. 'thin i make ye a major,' he says. 'where d'ye get ye'er pants?' he says. 'fr'm england,' says willie. 'gloryous,' says mckinley. 'i make ye a colonel,' he says. 'let me thry ye in tactics,' he says. 'suppose ye was confronted be a spanish ar-rmy in th' afthernoon, how wud ye dhress?' he says. 'i'd wear a stovepipe hat, a long coat, a white vest, an' lavender pants,' says willie. 'an' if th' attack was be night?' he says. 'i'd put on me dhress shoot, an' go out to meet thim,' says willie. 'a thuro sojer,' says mckinley. 'suppose th' sociable lasted all night?' he says. 'i'd sound th' rethreat at daybreak, an' have me brave boys change back,' he says, 'to suitable appar'l,' he says. 'masterly,' says mckinley. 'i will sind ye'er name in as a brigadier-gin'ral,' he says. 'thank gawd, th' r-rich,' he says, 'is brave an' pathriotic,' he says. 'ye will jine th' other boys fr'm th' club at tampa,' he says. 'ye shud be careful iv ye'er equipment,' he says. 'i have almost ivrything r-ready,' says willie. 'me man attinded to thim details,' he says. 'but i fear i can't go to th' fr-ront immejetly,' he says. 'me pink silk pijammas hasn't arrived,' he says. 'well,' says mack,' 'wait f'r thim,' he says. 'i'm anxious f'r to ind this hor'ble war,' he says, 'which has cost me manny a sleepy night,' he says; 'but 'twud be a crime f'r to sind a sojer onprepared to battle,' he says. 'wait f'r th' pijammas,' he says. 'thin on to war,' he says; 'an' let ye'er watchword be, "raymimber ye'er manners,"' he says. "'they'se a man out here,' says th' privit sicrity, 'that wants to see ye,' he says. 'he's a r-rough-lookin' charackter that was in th' soo war,' he says. 'his name is gin'ral fiteum,' he says. 'throw th' stiff out,' says mack. 'i seen him in pinnsylvania avnoo yisterdah, r-ridin' in a sthreet ca-ar,' he says. 'ah, willie, me boy,' he says, ''tis little ye know what throuble i have fr'm these vulgar sojers with pants that bags at th' knees. give me a goold-tipped cigareet, an' tell me whether shirt waists is much worn in new york this year.' "yis, hinnissy, we'll put th' tastiest ar-rmy in th' field that iver come out iv a millinery shop. 'right dhress!' will be an ordher that'll mean somethin'. th' ar-rmy'll be followed be specyal correspondints fr'm butthrick's pattherns an' harper's bazar; an', if our brave boys don't gore an' pleat th' inimy, 'twill be because th' inimy'll be r-rude enough to shoot in anny kind iv clothes they find on th' chair whin they wake up." on strategy. "a sthrateejan," said mr. dooley, in response to mr. hennessy's request for information, "is a champeen checker-player. whin th' war broke out, me frind mack wint to me frind hanna, an' says he, 'what,' he says, 'what can we do to cr-rush th' haughty power iv spain,' he says, 'a'n br-ring this hateful war to a early conclusion?" he says. 'mobilize th' checker-players,' says hanna. an' fr'm all cor-rners iv th' counthry they've gone to washin'ton, where they're called th' sthrateejy board. "day an' night they set in a room with a checker-board on th' end iv a flour bar'l, an' study problems iv th' navy. at night mack dhrops in. 'well, boys,' says he, 'how goes th' battle?' he says. 'gloryous,' says th' sthrateejy board. 'two more moves, an' we'll be in th' king row.' 'ah,' says mack, 'this is too good to be thrue,' he says. 'in but a few brief minyits th' dhrinks'll be on spain,' he says. 'have ye anny plans f'r sampson's fleet?' he says. 'where is it?' says th' sthrateejy board. 'i dinnaw,' says mack. 'good,' says th' sthrateejy board. 'where's th' spanish fleet?' says they. 'bombardin' boston, at cadiz, in san june de matzoon, sighted near th' gas-house be our special correspondint, copyright, , be mike o'toole.' 'a sthrong position,' says th' sthrateejy board. 'undoubtedly, th' fleet is headed south to attack and seize armour's glue facthory. ordher sampson to sail north as fast as he can, an' lay in a supply iv ice. th' summer's comin' on. insthruct schley to put on all steam, an' thin put it off again, an' call us up be telephone. r-rush eighty-three millyon throops an' four mules to tampa, to mobile, to chickenmaha, to coney island, to ireland, to th' divvle, an' r-rush thim back again. don't r-rush thim. ordher sampson to pick up th' cable at lincoln par-rk, an' run into th' bar-rn. is th' balloon corpse r-ready? it is? thin don't sind it up. sind it up. have th' mulligan gyards co-op'rate with gomez, an' tell him to cut away his whiskers. they've got tangled in th' riggin'. we need yellow-fever throops. have ye anny yellow fever in th' house? give it to twinty thousand three hundherd men, an' sind thim afther gov'nor tanner. teddy rosenfelt's r-rough r-riders ar-re downstairs, havin' their uniforms pressed. ordher thim to th' goluf links at wanst. they must be no indecision. where's richard harding davis? on th' bridge iv the new york? tur-rn th' bridge. seize gin'ral miles' uniform. we must strengthen th' gold resarve. where's th' gussie? runnin' off to cuba with wan hundherd men an' ar-rms, iv coorse. oh, war is a dhreadful thing. it's ye'er move, claude,' says th' sthrateejy board. "an' so it goes on; an' day by day we r-read th' tur-rble story iv our brave sthrateejans sacrificin' their time on th' altar iv their counthry, as hogan says. little we thought, whin we wint into this war, iv th' horrors it wud bring. little we thought iv th' mothers at home weepin' f'r their brave boys down at washin'ton hur-rtin their poor eyes over a checker-board. little we thought iv these devoted men, as hogan says, with achin' heads, plannin' to sind three hundherd thousand millyon men an' a carload iv beans to their fate at tampa, fla. but some wan must be sacrificed, as hogan says. an' these poor fellows in washin'ton with their r-red eyes an' their tired backs will be an example to future ginerations, as hogan says, iv how an american sojer can face his jooty whin he has to, an' how he can't whin he hasn't to." "dewey ain't a sthrateejan?" inquired mr. hennessy. "no," said mr. dooley. "cousin george is a good man, an' i'm very fond iv him,--more be raison iv his doin' that may-o bosthoon pat mountjoy, but he has low tastes. we niver cud make a sthrateejan iv him. they'se a kind iv a vulgar fightin' sthrain in him that makes him want to go out an' slug some wan wanst a month. i'm glad he ain't in washin'ton. th' chances ar-re he'd go to th' sthrateejy board and pull its hair." on general miles's moonlight excursion. "dear, oh, dear," said mr. dooley, "i'd give five dollars--an' i'd kill a man f'r three--if i was out iv this sixth wa-ard to-night, an' down with gin'ral miles' gran' picnic an' moonlight excursion in porther ricky. 'tis no comfort in bein' a cow'rd whin ye think iv thim br-rave la-ads facin' death be suffication in bokays an' dyin' iv waltzin' with th' pretty girls iv porther ricky. "i dinnaw whether gin'ral miles picked out th' job or whether 'twas picked out f'r him. but, annyhow, whin he got to sandago de cubia an' looked ar-round him, he says to his frind gin'ral shafter, 'gin'ral,' says he, 'ye have done well so far,' he says. ''tis not f'r me to take th' lorls fr'm th' steamin' brow iv a thrue hero,' he says. 'i lave ye here,' he says, 'f'r to complete th' victhry ye have so nobly begun,' he says. 'f'r you,' he says, 'th' wallop in th' eye fr'm th' newspaper rayporther, th' r-round robbing, an' th' sunsthroke,' he says, 'f'r me th' hardship iv th' battlefield, th' late dinner, th' theayter party, an' th' sickenin' polky,' he says. 'gather,' he says, 'th' fruits iv ye'er bravery,' he says. 'return,' he says, 'to ye'er native land, an' receive anny gratichood th' sicrety iv war can spare fr'm his own fam'ly,' he says. 'f'r me,' he says, 'there is no way but f'r to tur-rn me back upon this festive scene,' he says, 'an' go where jooty calls me,' he says. 'ordherly,' he says, 'put a bottle on th' ice, an' see that me goold pants that i wear with th' pale blue vest with th' di'mon buttons is irned out,' he says. an' with a haggard face he walked aboord th' excursion steamer, an' wint away. "i'd hate to tell ye iv th'thriles iv th' expedition, hinnissy. whin th' picnic got as far as punch, on th' southern coast iv porther ricky, gin'ral miles gazes out, an' says he, 'this looks like a good place to hang th' hammicks, an' have lunch,' says he. 'forward, brave men,' says he, 'where ye see me di'mon's sparkle,' says he. 'forward, an' plant th' crokay ar-rches iv our beloved counthry,' he says. an' in they wint, like inthrepid warryors that they ar-re. on th' beach they was met be a diligation fr'm th' town of punch, con-sistin' iv th' mayor, th' common council, th' polis an' fire departments, th' gr-rand ar-rmy iv th' raypublic, an' prominent citizens in carredges. gin'ral miles, makin' a hasty tielet, advanced onflinchingly to meet thim. 'gintlemen,' says he, 'what can i do f'r ye?' he says. 'we come,' says th' chairman iv th' comity, 'f'r to offer ye,' he says, 'th' r-run iv th' town,' he says. 'we have held out,' he says, 'as long as we cud,' he says. 'but,' he says, 'they'se a limit to human endurance,' he says. 'we can withstand ye no longer,' he says. 'we surrinder. take us prisoners, an' rayceive us into ye'er gloryous an' well-fed raypublic,' he says. 'br-rave men,' says gin'ral miles, 'i congratulate ye,' he says, 'on th' heeroism iv yer definse,' he says. 'ye stuck manfully to yer colors, whativer they ar-re,' he says. 'i on'y wondher that ye waited f'r me to come befure surrindhrin,' he says. 'i welcome ye into th' union,' he says. 'i don't know how th' union'll feel about it, but that's no business iv mine,' he says. 'ye will get ye'er wur-rkin-cards fr'm th' walkin' diligate,' he says; 'an' ye'll be entitled,' he says, 'to pay ye'er share iv th' taxes an' to live awhile an' die whin ye get r-ready,' he says, 'jus' th' same as if ye was bor-rn at home,' he says. 'i don't know th' names iv ye; but i'll call ye all casey, f'r short,' he says. 'put ye'er bokays in th' hammick,' he says, 'an' return to punch,' he says; 'an' freeze somethin' f'r me,' he says, 'f'r me thrawt is parched with th' labors iv th' day,' he says. th' r-rest iv th' avenin' was spint in dancin,' music, an' boat-r-ridin'; an' an inj'yable time was had. "th' nex' day th' army moved on punch; an' gin'ral miles marched into th' ill-fated city, preceded be flower-girls sthrewin' r-roses an' geranyums befure him. in th' afthernoon they was a lawn tinnis party, an' at night the gin'ral attinded a banket at th' gran' palace hotel. at midnight he was serenaded be th' raymimber th' maine banjo an' mandolin club. th' entire popylace attinded, with pork chops in their buttonholes to show their pathreetism. th' nex' day, afther breakfastin' with mayor casey, he set out on his weary march over th' r-rough, flower-strewn paths f'r san joon. he has been in gr-reat purl fr'm a witherin' fire iv bokays, an' he has met an' overpowered some iv th' mos' savage orators in porther ricky; but, whin i las' heerd iv him, he had pitched his tents an' ice-cream freezers near the inimy's wall, an' was grajully silencin' thim with proclamations." "they'll kill him with kindness if he don't look out," said mr. hennessy. "i dinnaw about that," said mr. dooley; "but i know this, that there's th' makin' iv gr-reat statesmen in porther ricky. a proud people that can switch as quick as thim la-ads have nawthin' to larn in th' way iv what hogan calls th' signs iv gover'mint, even fr'm th' supreme court." on admiral dewey's activity. "if they don't catch up with him pretty soon," said mr. dooley, "he'll fight his way ar-round th' wurruld, an' come out through barsaloona or cades." "who's that?" asked mr. hennessy. "me cousin george, no less," said mr. dooley. "i suppose ye think th' war is over an' peace has rayturned jus' because tiddy rosenfelt is back home again an' th' sojers ar-re hungry in new york 'stead iv in sandago. that's where ye'er wrong, hinnissy. that's where ye'er wrong, me bucko. th' war is not over till cousin george stops fightin'. th' spanyards have had enough, but among thrue fightin' men it don't make anny diff'rence what th' feelin's iv th' la-ad undherneath may be. 'tis whin th' man on top has had his fill iv fightin' that th' throuble's over, an' be the look iv things cousin george has jus' begun to take tay. "whin me frind mack con-cluded 'twas time f'r us to stop fightin' an' begin skinning each other in what hogan calls th' marts iv thrade, ye thought that ended it. so did mack. he says, says he, 'let us have peace,' he says. an' mark hanna came out iv' th' cellar, where he's been since cousin george presinted his compliments to th' ph'lippines an' wud they prefer to be kilt or dhrownded, an' pro-posals was made to bond th' cubian pathrites, an' all th' deuces in th' deck begun to look like face car-rds again, whin suddently there comes a message fr'm cousin george. 'in pursooance iv ordhers that niver come,' he says, 'to-day th' squadhron undher my command knocked th' divvle out iv th' fortifications iv th' ph'lippines, bombarded the city, an' locked up th' insurgent gin'ral. the gov'nor got away be swimmin' aboord a dutch ship, an' th' dutchman took him to ding dong. i'll attind to th' dutchman some afthernoon whin i have nawthin'else to do. i'm settin' in the palace with me feet on th' pianny. write soon. i won't get it. so no more at prisint, fr'm ye'er ol' frind an' well-wisher, george dooley.' "how ar-re they goin' to stop him? how ar-re they goin' to stop him? there's mack on th' shore bawlin' ordhers. 'come back,' he says. 'come back, i command ye,' he says. 'george, come back,' he says. 'th' war is over,' he says. 'we're at peace with th' wurruld,' he says. 'george,' he says, 'george, be a good fellow,' he says. 'lave up on thim,' he says. 'hivins an' earth, he's batin' that poor spanyard with a pavin' block. george, george, ye break me hear-rt,' he says. "but george dooley, he gives th' wink to his frinds, an' says he, 'what's that man yellin' on th' shore about?' he says. 'louder,' he says. 'i can't hear ye,' he says. 'sing it,' he says. 'write it to me on a postal ca-ard at mahdrid,' he says. 'don't stop me now,' he says. 'this is me, busy day,' he says; an' away he goes with a piece iv lead pipe in wan hand an' a couplin' pin in th' other. "what'll we do with him? we can't catch up with him. he's goin' too fast. mack's a week behind him ivry time he stops annywhere. he has sthrung a throlley acrost th' islands, an' he's climbin' mountains with his fleet. th' on'y thing i see, hinnissy, that mack can do is to go east an' meet him comin' r-round. if he hurries, he'll sthrike him somewhere in rooshia or boohlgahria, an' say to him: 'george, th' war's over. won't ye come home with me?' i think he'll listen to reason." "i think a man ought to stop fightin' whin th' war is ended," said mr. hennessy. "i dinnaw about that," said mr. dooley. "he started without askin' our lave, an' i don't see what we've got to do with th' way he finishes. 'tis a tur-rble thing to be a man iv high sperrits, an' not to know whin th' other fellow's licked." on the philippines. "i know what i'd do if i was mack," said mr. hennessy. "i'd hist a flag over th' ph'lippeens, an' i'd take in th' whole lot iv thim." "an' yet," said mr. dooley, "tis not more thin two months since ye larned whether they were islands or canned goods. ye'er back yard is so small that ye'er cow can't turn r-round without buttin' th' woodshed off th' premises, an' ye wudden't go out to th' stock yards without takin' out a policy on yer life. suppose ye was standin' at th' corner iv state sthreet an' archey r-road, wud ye know what car to take to get to th' ph'lippeens? if yer son packy was to ask ye where th' ph'lippeens is, cud ye give him anny good idea whether they was in rooshia or jus' west iv th' thracks?" "mebbe i cudden't," said mr. hennessy, haughtily, "but i'm f'r takin' thim in, annyhow." "so might i be," said mr. dooley, "if i cud on'y get me mind on it. wan iv the worst things about this here war is th' way it's makin' puzzles f'r our poor, tired heads. whin i wint into it, i thought all i'd have to do was to set up here behind th' bar with a good tin-cint see-gar in me teeth, an' toss dinnymite bombs into th' hated city iv havana. but look at me now. th' war is still goin' on; an' ivry night, whin i'm countin' up the cash, i'm askin' mesilf will i annex cubia or lave it to the cubians? will i take porther ricky or put it by? an' what shud i do with the ph'lippeens? oh, what shud i do with thim? i can't annex thim because i don't know where they ar-re. i can't let go iv thim because some wan else'll take thim if i do. they are eight thousan' iv thim islands, with a popylation iv wan hundherd millyon naked savages; an' me bedroom's crowded now with me an' th' bed. how can i take thim in, an' how on earth am i goin' to cover th' nakedness iv thim savages with me wan shoot iv clothes? an' yet 'twud break me heart to think iv givin' people i niver see or heerd tell iv back to other people i don't know. an', if i don't take thim, schwartzmeister down th' sthreet, that has half me thrade already, will grab thim sure. "it ain't that i'm afraid iv not doin' th' r-right thing in th' end, hinnissy. some mornin' i'll wake up an' know jus' what to do, an' that i'll do. but 'tis th' annoyance in th' mane time. i've been r-readin' about th' counthry. 'tis over beyant ye'er left shoulder whin ye're facin' east. jus' throw ye'er thumb back, an' ye have it as ac'rate as anny man in town. 'tis farther thin boohlgahrya an' not so far as blewchoochoo. it's near chiny, an' it's not so near; an', if a man was to bore a well through fr'm goshen, indianny, he might sthrike it, an' thin again he might not. it's a poverty-sthricken counthry, full iv goold an' precious stones, where th' people can pick dinner off th' threes an' ar-re starvin' because they have no step-ladders. th' inhabitants is mostly naygurs an' chinnymen, peaceful, industhrus, an' law-abidin', but savage an' bloodthirsty in their methods. they wear no clothes except what they have on, an' each woman has five husbands an' each man has five wives. th' r-rest goes into th' discard, th' same as here. th' islands has been ownded be spain since befure th' fire; an' she's threated thim so well they're now up in ar-rms again her, except a majority iv thim which is thurly loyal. th' natives seldom fight, but whin they get mad at wan another they r-run-a-muck. whin a man r-runs-a-muck, sometimes they hang him an' sometimes they discharge him an' hire a new motorman. th' women ar-re beautiful, with languishin' black eyes, an' they smoke see-gars, but ar-re hurried an' incomplete in their dhress. i see a pitcher iv wan th' other day with nawthin' on her but a basket of cocoanuts an' a hoop-skirt. they're no prudes. we import juke, hemp, cigar wrappers, sugar, an' fairy tales fr'm th' ph'lippeens, an' export six-inch shells an' th' like. iv late th' ph'lippeens has awaked to th' fact that they're behind th' times, an' has received much american amminition in their midst. they say th' spanyards is all tore up about it. "i larned all this fr'm th' papers, an' i know 'tis sthraight. an' yet, hinnissy, i dinnaw what to do about th' ph'lippeens. an' i'm all alone in th' wurruld. ivrybody else has made up his mind. ye ask anny con-ducthor on ar-rchy r-road, an' he'll tell ye. ye can find out fr'm the papers; an', if ye really want to know, all ye have to do is to ask a prom'nent citizen who can mow all th' lawn he owns with a safety razor. but i don't know." "hang on to thim," said mr. hennessy, stoutly. "what we've got we must hold." "well," said mr. dooley, "if i was mack, i'd lave it to george. i'd say: 'george,' i'd say, 'if ye're f'r hangin' on, hang on it is. if ye say, lave go, i dhrop thim.' 'twas george won thim with th' shells, an' th' question's up to him." on prayers for victory. "it looks to me," said mr. dooley, "as though me frind mack'd got tired iv th' sthrateejy board, an' was goin' to lave th' war to th' men in black." "how's that?" asked mr. hennessy, who has at best but a clouded view of public affairs. "well," said mr. dooley, "while th' sthrateejans have been wearin' out their jeans on cracker-boxes in wash'n'ton, they'se been goin' on th' mos' deadly conflict iver heerd tell iv between th' pow'rful preachin' navies iv th' two counthries. manila is nawthin' at all to th' scenes iv carnage an' slaughter, as hogan says, that's been brought about be these desthroyers. th' spanyards fired th' openin' gun whin th' bishop iv cades, a pow'rful turreted monitor (ol' style), attackted us with both for'ard guns, an' sint a storm iv brimstone an' hell into us. but th' victhry was not f'r long with th' hated spanyard. he was answered be our whole fleet iv preachers. thin he was jined be th' bishop iv barsaloona an' th' bishop iv mahdrid an' th' bishop iv havana, all battle-ships iv th' first class, followed be a fleet iv cruisers r-runnin' all th' way fr'm a full-ar-rmored vicar gin'ral to a protected parish priest. to meet thim, we sint th' bishop iv new york, th' bishop iv philadelphia, th' bishop iv baltimore, an' th' bishop iv chicago, accompanied be a flyin' squadhron iv methodists, three presbyteryan monitors, a fleet iv baptist submarine desthroyers, an' a formidable array iv universalist an' unitaryan torpedo boats, with a jew r-ram. manetime th' bishop iv manila had fired a solid prayer, weighin' a ton, at san francisco; an' a masked batthry iv congregationalists replied, inflictin' severe damage. our atlantic fleet is now sarchin' f'r th' inimy, an' the bishop iv new york is blockadin' th' bishop iv sandago de cuba; an' they'se been an exchange iv prayers between th' bishop iv baltimore an' th' bishop iv havana without much damage. "th' lord knows how it'll come out. first wan side prays that th' wrath iv hiven'll descind on th' other, an' thin th' other side returns th' compliment with inthrest. th' spanish bishop says we're a lot iv murdherin', irreligious thieves, an' ought to be swept fr'm th' face iv th' earth. we say his people ar-re th' same, an' manny iv thim. he wishes hivin to sink our ships an' desthroy our men; an' we hope he'll injye th' same gr-reat blessin'. we have a shade th' best iv him, f'r his fleets ar-re all iv th' same class an' ol' style, an' we have some iv th' most modhern prayin' machines in the warruld; but he prays har-rd, an' 'tis no aisy wurruk to silence him." "what d'ye think about it?" asked mr. hennessy. "well," said mr. dooley, "i dinnaw jus' what to think iv it. me own idee is that war is not a matther iv prayers so much as a matther iv punchin'; an' th' on'y place a prayer book stops a bullet is in th' story books. 'tis like what father kelly said. three weeks ago las' sundah he met hogan; an' hogan, wantin' to be smart, ast him if he'd offered up prayers f'r th' success iv th' cause. 'faith, i did not,' says th' good man. 'i was in too much iv a hurry to get away.' 'what was th' matther?' ast hogan. 'i had me uniform to brush up an' me soord to polish,' says father kelly. 'i am goin' with th' rig'mint to-morrah,' he says; an' he says, 'if ye hear iv me waitin' to pray,' he says, 'anny time they'se a call f'r me,' he says, 'to be in a fight,' he says, 'ye may conclude,' he says, 'that i've lost me mind, an' won't be back to me parish,' he says. 'hogan,' he says, 'i'll go into th' battle with a prayer book in wan hand an' a soord in th' other,' he says; 'an' if th' wurruk calls f'r two hands, 'tis not th' soord i'll dhrop,' he says. 'don't ye believe in prayer?' says hogan. 'i do,' says th' good man; 'but,' he says, 'a healthy person ought,' he says, 'to be ashamed,' he says, 'to ask f'r help in a fight,' he says." "that's th' way i look at it," said mr. hennessy. "when 'tis an aven thing in th' prayin', may th' best man win." "ye're r-right, hinnissy," said mr. dooley, warmly. "ye're r-right. an' th' best man will win." on the anglo-saxon. "well," said mr. dooley, "i see be th' pa-apers that th' snow-white pigeon iv peace have tied up th' dogs iv war. it's all over now. all we've got to do is to arrest th' pathrites an' make th' reconcenthradios pay th' stamp tax, an' be r-ready f'r to take a punch at germany or france or rooshia or anny counthry on th' face iv th' globe. "an' i'm glad iv it. this war, hinnissy, has been a gr-reat sthrain on me. to think iv th' suffrin' i've endured! f'r weeks i lay awake at nights fearin' that th' spanish ar-rmadillo'd lave the cape verde islands, where it wasn't, an' take th' thrain out here, an' hur-rl death an' desthruction into me little store. day be day th' pitiless exthries come out an' beat down on me. ye hear iv teddy rosenfelt plungin' into ambus-cades an' sicrity iv wars; but d'ye hear iv martin dooley, th' man behind th' guns, four thousan' miles behind thim, an' willin' to be further? they ar-re no bokays f'r me. i'm what hogan calls wan iv th' mute, ingloryous heroes iv th' war; an' not so dam mute, ayther. some day, hinnissy, justice'll be done me, an' th' likes iv me; an', whin th' story iv a gr-reat battle is written, they'll print th' kilt, th' wounded, th' missin', an' th' seryously disturbed. an' thim that have bore thimsilves well an' bravely an' paid th' taxes an' faced th' deadly newspa-apers without flinchin' 'll be advanced six pints an' given a chanst to tur-rn jack f'r th' game. "but me wurruk ain't over jus' because mack has inded th' war an' teddy rosenfelt is comin' home to bite th' sicrety iv war. you an' me, hinnissy, has got to bring on this here anglo-saxon 'lieance. an anglo-saxon, hinnissy, is a german that's forgot who was his parents. they're a lot iv thim in this counthry. there must be as manny as two in boston: they'se wan up in maine, an' another lives at bogg's ferry in new york state, an' dhrives a milk wagon. mack is an anglo-saxon. his folks come fr'm th' county armagh, an' their naytional anglo-saxon hymn is 'o'donnell aboo.' teddy rosenfelt is another anglo-saxon. an' i'm an anglo-saxon. i'm wan iv th' hottest anglo-saxons that iver come out iv anglo-saxony. th' name iv dooley has been th' proudest anglo-saxon name in th' county roscommon f'r many years. "schwartzmeister is an anglo-saxon, but he doesn't know it, an' won't till some wan tells him. pether bowbeen down be th' frinch church is formin' th' circle francaize anglo-saxon club, an' me ol' frind dominigo that used to boss th' ar-rchey r-road wagon whin callaghan had th' sthreet conthract will march at th' head iv th' dago anglo-saxons whin th' time comes. there ar-re twinty thousan' rooshian jews at a quarther a vote in th' sivinth ward; an', ar-rmed with rag hooks, they'd be a tur-rble thing f'r anny inimy iv th' anglo-saxon 'lieance to face. th' bohemians an' pole anglo-saxons may be a little slow in wakin' up to what th' pa-apers calls our common hurtage, but ye may be sure they'll be all r-right whin they're called on. we've got together an anglo-saxon 'lieance in this wa-ard, an' we're goin' to ilict sarsfield o'brien prisidint, hugh o'neill darsey vice-prisidint, robert immitt clancy sicrety, an' wolfe tone malone three-asurer. o'brien'll be a good wan to have. he was in the fenian r-raid, an' his father carrid a pike in forty-eight. an' he's in th' clan. besides, he has a sthrong pull with th' ancient ordher iv anglo-saxon hibernyans. "i tell ye, whin th' clan an' th' sons iv sweden an' th' banana club an' th' circle francaize an' th' pollacky benivolent society an' th' rooshian sons of dinnymite an' th' benny brith an' th' coffee clutch that schwartzmeister r-runs an' th' tur-rnd'ye-mind an' th' holland society an' th' afro-americans an' th' other anglo-saxons begin f'r to raise their anglo-saxon battle-cry, it'll be all day with th' eight or nine people in th' wurruld that has th' misfortune iv not bein' brought up anglo-saxons." "they'se goin' to be a debate on th' 'lieance at th' ninety-eight picnic at ogden's gr-rove," said mr. hennessy. "p'r'aps," said mr. dooley, sweetly, "ye might like to borry th' loan iv an ice-pick." on a letter from the front. mr. dooley looked important, but affected indifference, as he mopped the bar. mr. hennessy, who had learned to study his friend in order to escape disagreeable complications, patiently waited for the philosopher to speak. mr. dooley rubbed the bar to the end, tossed the cloth into a mysterious recess with a practised movement, moved a glass or two on the shelf, cleaned his spectacles, and drew a letter from his pocket. "hm-m!" he said: "i have news fr'm th' fr-ront. me nevvew, terry donahue, has sint me a letther tellin' me all about it." "how shud he know?" mr. hennessy asked. "how shud he know, is it?" mr. dooley demanded warmly. "how shudden't he know? isn't he a sojer in th' ar-rmy? isn't it him that's down there in sandago fightin' f'r th' honor iv th' flag, while th' likes iv you is up here livin' like a prince, an' doin' nawthin' all th' livelong day but shovel at th' rollin'-mills? who are ye f'r to criticize th' dayfinders iv our counthry who ar-re lyin' in th' trinches, an' havin' th' clothes stole off their backs be th' pathriotic cubians, i'd like to know? f'r two pins, hinnissy, you an' i'd quarrel." "i didn't mean nawthin'," mr. hennessy apologized. "i didn't know he was down there." "nayether did i," said mr. dooley. "but i informed mesilf. i'll have no wan in this place speak again th' ar-rmy. ye can have ye'er say about mack. he has a good job, an' 'tis r-right an' proper f'r to baste him fr'm time to time. it shows ye'er in good thrim, an' it don't hur-rt him. they'se no wan to stop his pay. he goes up to th' cashier an' dhraws his forty-wan-sixty-six jus' th' same whether he's sick or well, an' whether he's pulled th' box reg-lar or has been playin' forty-fives in th' back room. but whin ye come to castin' aspersions on th' ar'rmy, be hivens, ye'll find that i can put me thumb on this showcase an' go over at wan lep." "i didn't say annything," said mr. hennessy. "i didn't know about terry." "iv coorse, ye didn't," said mr. dooley. "an' that's what i'm sayin'. ye're here wallowin' in luxury, wheelin' pig ir'n fr'm morn till night; an' ye have no thought iv what's goin' on beyant. you an' jawn d. rockefeller an' phil ar-rmour an' jay pierpont morgan an' th' r-rest iv ye is settin' back at home figurin' how ye can make some wan else pay ye'er taxes f'r ye. what is it to ye that me nevvew terry is sleepin' in ditch wather an' atin' hard tacks an' coffee an' bein' r-robbed be leeber cubians, an' catchin' yallow fever without a chanst iv givin' it to e'er a spanyard. ye think more iv a stamp thin ye do iv ye'er counthry. ye're like th' sugar thrust. f'r two cints ye'd refuse to support th' govermint. i know ye, ye bloated monno-polist." "i'm no such thing," said mr. hennessy, hotly. "i've been a dimmycrat f'r thirty year." "well, annyhow," said mr. dooley, "don't speak disrayspictful iv th' ar-rmy. lave me r-read you terry's letter fr'm th' fr-ront. 'm--m: in th' trinches, two miles fr'm sandago, with a land crab as big as a lobster crawlin' up me back be way iv kingston, june , dear uncle martin.' that's th' way it begins. 'dear uncle martin: we are all well here, except thim that is not, an' hope ye're injyin' th' same gr-reat blessin'. it's hotter down here thin billy-be-dam'd. they'se a rollin'-mill near here jus' th' same as at home, but all th' hands is laid off on account iv bad times. they used ol'-fashioned wooden wheelbahrs an' fired with wood. i don't think they cud handle th' pig th' way we done, bein' small la-ads. th' coke has to be hauled up in sacks be th' gang. th' derrick hands got six a week, but hadn't anny union. helpers got four twinty. puddlers was well paid. i wint through th' plant befure we come up here, an' r-run a wagon up th' plank jus' to keep me hand in. tell me frinds that wan gang iv good la-ads fr'm th' r-road cud wurruk anny three iv th' gangs down here. th' mills is owned be rockefellar, so no more at prisint fr'm yer affecshunate nevvew, peter casey, who's writin' this f'r me.'" "'tis a good letter," said mr. hennessy. "i don't see how they cud get derrick hands f'r six a week." "me frind jawn d. knows how," said mr. dooley. on our cuban allies. "well, sir," said mr. dooley, "dam thim cubians! if i was gin'ral shafter, i'd back up th' wagon in front iv th' dure, an' i'd say to gin'ral garshy, i'd say, 'i want you'; an' i'd have thim all down at th' station an' dacently booked be th' desk sergeant befure th' fall iv night. th' impydince iv thim!" "what have they been doin'?" mr. hennessy asked. "failin' to undherstand our civilization," said mr. dooley. "ye see, it was this way. this is th' way it was: gin'ral garshy with wan hundherd thousan' men's been fightin' bravely f'r two years f'r to liberyate cubia. f'r two years he's been marchin' his sivinty-five thousan' men up an' down th' island, desthroyin' th' haughty spanyard be th' millyons. whin war was declared, he offered his own sarvice an' th' sarvices iv his ar-rmy iv fifty thousan' men to th' united states; an', while waitin' f'r ships to arrive, he marched at th' head iv his tin thousan' men down to sandago de cuba an' captured a cigar facthry, which they soon rayjooced to smokin' ruins. they was holdin' this position--gin'ral garshy an' his gallant wan thousan' men--whin gin'ral shafter arrived. gin'ral garshy immedjitly offered th' sarvices iv himsilf an' his two hundherd men f'r th' capture iv sandago; an', when gin'ral shafter arrived, there was gin'ral garshy with his gallant band iv fifty cubians, r-ready to eat at a minyit's notice. "gin'ral shafter is a big, coorse, two-fisted man fr'm mitchigan, an', whin he see gin'ral garshy an' his twinty-five gallant followers, 'fr-ront,' says he. 'this way,' he says, 'step lively,' he says, 'an' move some iv these things,' he says. 'sir,' says gin'ral garshy, 'd'ye take me f'r a dhray?' he says. 'i'm a sojer,' he says, 'not a baggage car,' he says. 'i'm a cubian pathrite, an' i'd lay down me life an' the lives iv ivry wan iv th' eighteen brave men iv me devoted ar-rmy,' he says; 'but i'll be dam'd if i carry a thrunk,' he says. 'i'll fight whiniver 'tis cool,' he says, 'an' they ain't wan iv these twelve men here that wudden't follow me to hell if they was awake at th' time,' he says; 'but,' he says, 'if 'twas wurruk we were lookin' f'r, we cud have found it long ago,' he says. 'they'se a lot iv it in this counthry that nobody's usin',' he says. 'what we want,' he says, 'is freedom,' he says; 'an', if ye think we have been in th' woods dodgin' th' savage corryspondint f'r two year,' he says, 'f'r th' sake iv r-rushin' yer laundhry home,' he says, ''tis no wondher,' he says, 'that th' r-roads fr'm marinette to kalamazoo is paved with goold bricks bought be th' people iv ye'er native state,' he says. "so shafter had to carry his own thrunk; an' well it was f'r him that it wasn't gin'ral miles', the weather bein' hot. an' shafter was mad clear through; an', whin he took hold iv sandago, an' was sendin' out invitations, he scratched garshy. garshy took his gallant band iv six back to th' woods; an' there th' three iv thim ar-re now, ar-rmed with forty r-rounds iv canned lobster, an' ready to raysist to th' death. him an' th' other man has written to gin'ral shafter to tell him what they think iv him, an' it don't take long." "well," said mr. hennessy, "i think shafter done wrong. he might've asked garshy in f'r to see th' show, seein' that he's been hangin' ar-round f'r a long time, doin' th' best he cud." "it isn't that," explained mr. dooley. "th' throuble is th' cubians don't undherstand our civilization. over here freedom means hard wurruk. what is th' ambition iv all iv us, hinnissy? 'tis ayether to hold our job or to get wan. we want wurruk. we must have it. d'ye raymimber th' sign th' mob carrid in th' procession las' year? 'give us wurruk, or we perish,' it said. they had their heads bate in be polismen because no philan-thropist'd come along an' make thim shovel coal. now, in cubia, whin th' mobs turns out, they carry a banner with the wurruds, 'give us nawthin' to do, or we perish.' whin a cubian comes home at night with a happy smile on his face, he don't say to his wife an' childher, 'thank gawd, i've got wurruk at last!' he says, 'thank gawd, i've been fired.' an' th' childher go out, and they say, 'pah-pah has lost his job.' and mrs. cubian buys hersilf a new bonnet; and where wanst they was sorrow an' despair all is happiness an' a cottage organ. "ye can't make people here undherstand that, an' ye can't make a cubian undherstand that freedom means th' same thing as a pinitinchry sintince. whin we thry to get him to wurruk, he'll say: 'why shud i? i haven't committed anny crime.' that's goin' to be th' throuble. th' first thing we know we'll have another war in cubia whin we begin disthributin' good jobs, twelve hours a day, wan sivinty-five. th' cubians ain't civilized in our way. i sometimes think i've got a touch iv cubian blood in me own veins." on the destruction of cervera's fleet. [these comments were made by mr. dooley during a strike of the stereotypers, which caused the english newspapers of chicago temporarily to suspend publication.] "i hear," said mr. hennessy, "that th' stereopticons on th' newspapers have sthruck." "i sh'd think they wud," said mr. dooley. "th' las' time i was down town was iliction night, whin charter haitch's big la-ad was ilicted, an' they was wurrukin' th' stereopticons till they was black in th' face. what's th' news?" "th' what cheer, ioway, lamp iv freedom is on th' sthreets with a tillygram that shafter has captured sandago de cuba, an' is now settin' on gin'ral pando's chest with his hands in his hair. but this is denied be th' palo gazoot, the macoupin county raygisther, an' th' meridyan sthreet afro-american. i also see be th' daily scoor card, th' wine list, th' deef mute's spokesman, th' morgue life, the bill iv fare, th' stock yards sthraight steer, an' jack's tips on th' races, the on'y daily paper printed in chicago, that sampson's fleet is in th' suez canal bombarding cades. th' northwestern christyan advycate says this is not thrue, but that george dixon was outpointed be an english boxer in a twinty-r-round go in new york." "ye've got things mixed up," said mr. dooley. "i get th' news sthraight. 'twas this way. th' spanish fleet was bottled up in sandago harbor, an' they dhrew th' cork. that's a joke. i see it in th' pa-apers. th' gallant boys iv th' navy was settin' out on th' deck, defindin' their counthry an' dhrawin' three ca-ards apiece, whin th' spanish admiral con-cluded 'twud be better f'r him to be desthroyed on th' ragin' sea, him bein' a sailor, thin to have his fleet captured be cav'lry. annyhow, he was willin' to take a chance; an' he says to his sailors: 'spanyards,' he says, 'castiles,' he says, 'we have et th' las' bed-tick,' he says; 'an', if we stay here much longer,' he says, 'i'll have to have a steak off th' armor plate fried f'r ye,' he says. 'lave us go out where we can have a r-run f'r our money,' he says. an' away they wint. i'll say this much f'r him, he's a brave man, a dam brave man. i don't like a spanyard no more than ye do, hinnissy. i niver see wan. but, if this here man was a--was a zulu, i'd say he was a brave man. if i was aboord wan iv thim yachts that was convarted, i'd go to this here cervera, an' i'd say: 'manuel,' i'd say, 'ye're all right, me boy. ye ought to go to a doctor an' have ye'er eyes re-set, but ye're a good fellow. go downstairs,' i'd say, 'into th' basemint iv the ship,' i'd say, 'an' open th' cupboard jus' nex' to th' head iv th' bed, an' find th' bottle marked "floridy wather," an' threat ye'ersilf kindly.' that's what i'd say to cervera. he's all right. "well, whin our boys see th' spanish fleet comin' out iv th' harbor, they gathered on th' deck an' sang th' naytional anthem, 'they'll be a hot time in th' ol' town to-night.' a liftnant come up to where admiral sampson was settin' playin' sivin up with admiral schley. 'bill,' he says, 'th' spanish fleet is comin' out,' he says. 'what talk have ye?' says sampson. 'sind out some row-boats an' a yacht, an' desthroy thim. clubs is thrumps,' he says, and he wint on playin'. th' spanish fleet was attackted on all sides be our br-rave la-ads, nobly assisted be th' dispatch boats iv the newspapers. wan by wan they was desthroyed. three battle-ships attackted th' convarted yacht gloucester. th' gloucester used to be owned be pierpont morgan; but 'twas convarted, an' is now leadin' a dacint life. th' gloucester sunk thim all, th' christobell comma, the viscera, an' th' admiral o'quinn. it thin wint up to two spanish torpedo boats an' giv thim wan punch, an' away they wint. be this time th' sojers had heerd of the victhry, an' they gathered on th' shore, singin' th' naytional anthem, 'they'll be a hot time in th' ol' town to-night, me babby.' th' gloryous ol' chune, to which washington an' grant an' lincoln marched, was took up be th' sailors on th' ships, an' admiral cervera r-run wan iv his boats ashore, an' jumped into th' sea. at last accounts th' followin' dispatches had been received: 'to willum mckinley: congratulations on ye'er noble victhry. (signed) willum mckinley.' 'to russell a. alger: ye done splendid. (signed) russell a. alger.' 'to james wilson, sicrety iv agriculture: this is a gr-reat day f'r ioway. ar-re ye much hur-rted? (signed) james wilson.'" "where did ye hear all this?" asked mr. hennessy, in great amazement. "i r-read it," said mr. dooley, impressively, "in the staats zeitung." on a letter to mr. depew. "i usen't to know," said mr. dooley, "what me frind gin'ral sherman meant whin he said that thing about war. i've been through two iv thim, not to speak iv convintions an' prim'ries, an' divvle th' bit iv har-rm come to me no more thin if i was settin' on a roof playin' an accorjeen. but i know now what th' ol' la-ad meant. he meant war was hell whin 'twas over. "i ain't heerd anny noise fr'm th' fellows that wint into threnches an' plugged th' villyanious spanyard. most iv thim is too weak to kick. but th' proud an' fearless pathrites who restrained thimsilves, an' didn't go to th' fr-ront, th' la-ads that sthruggled hard with their warlike tindincies, an' fin'lly downed thim an' stayed at home an' practised up upon th' typewriter, they're ragin' an' tearin' an' desthroyin' their foes. "did ye see what me frind alger wrote to chansy depoo? well, sir, alger has been misthreated. there's a good man. i say he's a good man. an' he is, too. at anny thrick fr'm shingles to two-be-fours he's as good as th' best. but no wan apprechated alger. no wan undherstud him. no wan even thried to. day be day he published th' private letters iv other people, an' that didn't throw anny light on his charackter. day be day he had his pitchers took, an' still th' people didn't get onto th' cur-rves iv him. day be day he chatted iv th' turrors iv war, an' still people on'y said: 'an' alger also r-ran.' but th' time come whin alger cud contain himsilf no longer, an' he set down an' wrote to chansy depoo. "'mr. chansy depot, care iv grand cintral depew, new york, n.y., esquire. dear chanse: i've been expectin' a letter fr'm ye f'r three or four days. in reply to same will say: oh, chanse, ye don't know how i suffer. i'm that low in me mind i feel like a bunch iv lathes. oh, dear, to think iv what i've gone through. i wint into th' war onprepared. i had on'y so many r-rounds iv catridges an' a cross-cut saw, an' i failed to provide mesilf with th' ord'nary necessities iv life. but, in spite iv me deficiencies, i wint bravely ahead. th' sthrain was something tur-r'ble on me. me mind give out repeatedly. i cud not think at times, but i niver faltered. in two months i had enough supplies piled up in maine to feed ivry sojer in cubia. they were thousands iv r-rounds iv catridges f'r ivry rig'mint, and all th' rig'mints had to do was to write f'r thim. th' navy had taken manila an' cervera's fleet, an' th' ar-rmy had taken sandago an' th' yellow fever. th' war is over, an' peace wanst more wags her wings over th' counthry. pine scantlings is quoted sthrong. ivrywhere is peace an' contint. me photographs are on sale at all first-class newsdealers. yet there is no ca'm f'r me. onthinkin' wans insult me. they tell me a sojer can't ate gin'ral ordhers. they want me to raysign an' go back to me humble home in mitchigan. disgustin' men that've done nawthin' but get thimsilves shot, ask f'r milk an' quinine. they'll be askin' me to carry food to thim nex'. oh, chanse, oh, hivens, ye can't know how grieved i am! rather wud i have perished in a logjam thin to've indured this ingratichood. but, in lookin' back over me past life, i can think iv no wrong i've done. if me mim'ry is at fault, please note. me car-eer is an open book. i've held nawthin' back fr'm th' public, not even whin 'twas mar-rked private. i can say with th' pote that i done me jooty. but, oh, chanse! don't iver aspire to my job. be sicrety of war, if ye will; but niver be sicrety iv a war. do not offer this letter to th' newspapers. make thim take it. how's things goin' with ye, ol' pal? i hope to see ye at th' seaside. till thin, i'm yours, sick at heart, but atin' reg'lar. russ.'" "well," said mr. hennessy, "th' poor man must've had a har-rd time iv it." "he did," said mr. dooley. "niver laid his head to a pillow before eight, up with th' moon: he's suffered as no man can tell. but he'll be all r-right whin his mind's at r-rest." on the president's cat. "'twas this way about dr. huckenlooper. mack has a cat that was give him f'r a chris'mas prisint be me frind pierpont morgan, an' th' cat was a gr-reat favor-ite in th' white house. 'twas as quite as th' sicrety iv agriculture an' as affectionate as th' sicrety iv th' three-asury. th' cat was called goold bonds, because iv th' inthrest he dhrew. he very often played with th' sicrety iv th' navy, an' ivry wan that come to th' white house f'r a job loved him. "but wan day goold bonds begun to look bad. he cudden't ate th' r-rich crame out iv th' di'mon'-studded saucer. he stopped castin' an eye at th' c'nary in th' cage. whin th' sicrety iv th' navy wint down f'r to play with him, goold bonds spit at that good an' gr-reat man. mack was shavin' himsilf befure th' lookin'-glass, an' had jus' got his face pulled r-round to wan side f'r a good gash, whin he heerd a scream iv ag'ny behind him, an' tur-rned to see goold bonds leap up with his paws on his stomach an' hit th' ceilin'. mack give a cry iv turror, an' grabbed at goold bonds. away wint goold bonds through th' house. th' sicrety iv war seen him comin', an' called, 'pussy, pussy.' goold bonds wint through his legs, an' galloped f'r where th' postmaster-gin'ral was settin' editin' his pa-aper. th' postmaster-gin'ral had jus' got as far as 'we opine,' whin he see goold bonds, an' he bate th' cat to th' windy be a whisker. "well, goold bonds ended up in th' coal cellar, an' they was a cab'net council f'r to see what was to be done. 'sind f'r doctor heinegagubler,' says th' sicrety iv war. 'he's wan iv th' gr-reatest surgeons iv our time,' he says, 'an' can cure annything fr'm pips to glanders,' he says. th' famous doctor honeycooler was summoned. 'sir,' says mack, 'goold bonds, th' pride iv th' administhration, has had a fit,' he says. ''twud br-reak our hear-rts to lose our little pet,' he says. 'go,' he says, 'an' take such measures as ye'er noble healin' ar-rt sug-gists,' he says; 'an' may th' prayers iv an agonized foster-parent go with ye,' he says. an' doctor higgenlocker wint down into th' coal-shed; an' whin he come back, it was with goold bonds in his ar-rms, weak an' pale, but with a wan smile on his lips. "afther embracin' goold bonds an' tuckin' him away in bed, mack tur-rns to th' dock. 'dock,' he says, 'ye have performed a noble sarvice,' he says. 'i appint ye a major-gin'ral,' he says. 'i'm that already,' says th' dock. 'i've r-rich relatives in philadelphia,' he says. 'but,' says mack, ''tis a shame to think iv ye'er noble sarvices bein' wasted,' he says, 'whin ye'er counthry calls,' he says. 'i appint ye,' he says, 'surgeon-gin'ral,' he says. 'pro-ceed,' he says, 'to cubia, an' stamp out th' dhread ravages,' he says, 'iv r-ringbone an' stagger,' he says. "that's how dock got th'job. he was a gr-reat man down there, an' now he's wan iv th' vethranaryans iv th' war. ye heerd iv typhoid an' yellow fever in th' threnches; but did ye hear annything iv spavin or th' foot-an'-mouth disease? not wanst. dock was on jooty late an' early. sleepless an' vigilant, he stood beside th' suffrin' mules, allayin' their pain, an' slowly but surely dhraggin' thim out iv th' clutches iv pinkeye an' epizootic. he had a cheery wurrud, a pleasant smile, an' a bottle iv liniment f'r wan an' all. he cured teddy rosenfelt's hor-rse iv intherference an' made a soothin' lotion iv axle-grease f'r gin'ral shafter's buckboard. ye might see him anny time wandhrin' through th' camp with a hatful of oats or a wisp of hay. they called him th' stall angel, and countless thousands iv sick hor-rses blessed him. he's a gr-reat man is th' dock. but, if it hadn't been f'r goold bonds, th' counthry wud niver have had his sarvices. who knows but that mack's cat was th' rale victhor at sandago?" "didn't he cure anny men?" asked mr. hennessy. "sure," said mr. dooley. "he cured teddy rosenfelt iv boltin'." on a speech by president mckinley. "i hear-r that mack's in town," said mr. dooley. "didn't ye see him?" asked mr. hennessy. "faith, i did not!" said mr. dooley. "if 'tis meetin' me he's afther, all he has to do is to get on a ca-ar an' r-ride out to number nine-double-naught-nine archey r-road, an' stop whin he sees th' sign iv th' tip-p'rary boodweiser brewin' company. i'm here fr'm eight in the mornin' till midnight, an' th' r-rest iv th' time i'm in the back room in th' ar-rms iv or-rphyus, as hogan says. th' presidint is as welcome as anny rayspictable marrid man. i will give him a chat an' a dhrink f'r fifteen cints; an', as we're not, as a frind iv mine in th' grocery an' pothry business says, intirely a commercial an' industhreel nation, if he has th' sicrety iv th' threasury with him, i'll give thim two f'r twinty-five cints, which is th' standard iv value among civilized nations th' wurruld over. prisidint iv th' united states, says ye? well, i'm prisidint iv this liquor store, fr'm th' pitcher iv th' chicago fire above th' wash-stand in th' back room to th' dure-step. beyond that belongs to th' polisman on th' bate. an amurrican's home, as wan iv th' potes says, is his castle till th' morgedge falls due. an' divvle a fut will i put out iv this dure to see e'er a prisidint, prince, or potentate, fr'm th' czar iv rooshia to th' king iv chiny. there's prisidint mack at th' audjiotoroom, an' here's prisidint dooley at nine-double-naught-nine, an' th' len'th iv th' sthreet between thim. says he, 'come over to th' hotel an' see me.' says i, 'if ye find ye'ersilf thrun fr'm a ca-ar in me neighborhood, dhrop in.' an' there ye ar-re. "i may niver see him. i may go to me grave without gettin' an' eye on th' wan man besides mesilf that don't know what th' furrin' policy iv th' united states is goin' to be. an he, poor man, whin some wan asts him, 'did ye iver meet dooley:' 'll have to say, 'no, i had th' chanst wanst, but me ac-cursed pride kept me from visitin' him.' "i r-read his speeches, though, an' know what he's doin.' some iv thim ar-re gr-reat. he attinded th' banket given be th' prospurity brigade at th' hotel where he's stoppin'. 'twas a magnificent assimblage iv th' laborin' classes, costin' fifteen dollars a plate, an' on'y disturbed whin a well-to-do gintleman in th' dhry-goods business had to be thrun out f'r takin' a kick at a waiter. i r-read be th' papers that whin mack come in he was rayceived be th' gatherin' with shouts iv approval. th' proceedin's was opened with a prayer that providence might r-remain undher th' protection iv th' administhration. th' sicrety iv th' treasury followed with a gran' speech, highly commindin' th' action iv th' threasury department durin' th' late war; 'but,' says he, 'i cannot,' he says, 'so far forget mesilf,' he says, 'as not to mintion,' he says, 'that,' he says, 'if it hadn't been f'r the sublime pathreetism an' courage,' he says, 'iv th' gintleman whom we honor,' he says, 'in puttin' me on th' foorce,' he says, 'i might not be here to-night,' he says. "th' sicrety iv th' threasury was followed be th' gin'ral shafter. 'gintlemen,' says he, 'it gives me,' he says, 'gr-reat pleasure,' he says, 'to be prisint in th' mist iv so manny an' so various vittles,' he says. 'iv coorse,' he says, 'i re-elize me own gr-reat worth,' he says; 'but,' he says, 'i wud have to be more thin human,' he says, 'to overlook th' debt iv gratichood,' he says, 'th' counthry owes,' he says, 'to th' man whose foresight, wisdom, an' prudence brought me for-ard at such an opparchune time,' he says. 'gintlemen,' he says, 'onless ye have lived in th' buckboard f'r months on th' parched deserts iv cubia,' he says, 'ye little know what a pleasure it is,' he says, 'to dhrink,' he says, 'to th' author iv our bein' here,' he says. an' gin-ral miles wint out an' punched th' bell-boy. mack r-rose up in a perfect hurcane iv applause, an' says he, 'gintlemen,' he says, 'an' fellow-heroes,' he says, 'ye do me too much honor;' he says. 'i alone shud not have th' credit iv this gloryous victhry. they ar-re others.' [a voice: 'shafter.' another voice: 'gage.' another voice: 'dooley.'] 'but i pass to a more conganial line iv thought,' he says. 'we have just emerged fr'm a turrible war,' he says. 'again,' he says, 'we ar-re a united union,' he says. 'no north,' he says, 'no south, no east,' he says, 'no west. no north east a point east,' he says. 'th' inimies iv our counthry has been cr-rushed,' he says, 'or is stuck down in floridy with his rig'mint talkin',' he says, 'his hellish docthrines to th' allygatars,' he says. 'th' nation is wanst more at peace undher th' gran' goold standard,' he says. 'now,' he says, 'th' question is what shall we do with th' fruits iv victhry?' he says. [a voice, 'can thim.'] 'our duty to civilization commands us to be up an' doin',' he says. 'we ar-re bound,' he says, 'to--to re-elize our destiny, whativer it may be,' he says. 'we can not tur-rn back,' he says, 'th hands iv th' clock that, even as i speak, he says, 'is r-rushin' through th' hear-rts iv men,' he says, 'dashin' its spray against th' star iv liberty an' hope, an' no north, no south, no east, no west, but a steady purpose to do th' best we can, considerin' all th' circumstances iv the case.' he says. 'i hope i have made th' matther clear to ye,' he says, 'an', with these few remarks,' he says, 'i will tur-rn th' job over to destiny,' he says, 'which is sure to lead us iver on an' on, an' back an' forth, a united an' happy people, livin',' he says, 'undher an administhration that, thanks to our worthy prisidint an' his cap-ble an' earnest advisers, is second to none,' he says." "what do you think ought to be done with th' fruits iv victhry?" mr. hennessy asked. "well," said mr. dooley, "if 'twas up to me, i'd eat what was r-ripe an' give what wasn't r-ripe to me inimy. an' i guess that's what mack means." on the hero in politics. "'tis as much as a man's life is worth these days," said mr. dooley, "to have a vote. look here," he continued, diving under the bar and producing a roll of paper. "here's th' pitchers iv candydates i pulled down fr'm th' windy, an' jus' knowin' they're here makes me that nervous f'r th' contints iv th' cash dhrawer i'm afraid to tur-rn me back f'r a minyit. i'm goin' to throw thim out in th' back yard. "all heroes, too, hinnissy. they'se mike o'toole, th' hero iv sandago, that near lost his life be dhrink on his way to th' arm'ry, an' had to be sint home without lavin' th' city. there's turror teddy mangan, th' night man at flaher-ty's, that loaded th' men that loaded th' guns that kilt th' mules at matoonzas. there's hero o'brien, that wud've inlisted if he hadn't been too old, an' th' contractin' business in such good shape. there's bill cory, that come near losin' his life at a cinematograph iv th' battle iv manila. they're all here, bedad, r-ready to sarve their country to th' bitter end, an' to r-rush, voucher in hand, to th' city threasurer's office at a minyit's notice. "i wint to a hero meetin' th' other night, hinnissy, an' that's sthrange f'r me. whin a man gets to be my age, he laves th' shoutin' f'r th' youth iv th' land, onless he has a pol-itical job. i niver had a job but wanst. that was whin i was precin't cap'n; an' a good wan i was, too. none betther. i'd been on th' cinthral comity to-day, but f'r me losin' ambition whin they r-run a man be th' name iv eckstein f'r aldherman. i was sayin', hinnissy, whin a man gets to be my age, he ducks pol-itical meetin's, an' r-reads th' papers an' weighs th' ividence an' th' argymints,--pro-argymints an' con-argymints,--an' makes up his mind ca'mly, an' votes th' dimmycratic ticket. but young dorsey he med me go with him to th' hero's meetin' in finucane's hall. "well, sir, there was o'toole an' all th' rest on th' platform in unyform, with flags over thim, an' the bands playin' 'they'll be a hot time in th' ol' town to-night again'; an' th' chairman was plunkett. ye know plunkett: a good man if they was no gr-rand juries. he was makin' a speech. 'whin th' battle r-raged,' he says, 'an' th' bullets fr'm th' haughty spanyards' raypeatin' mouser r-rifles,' he says, 'where was cassidy?' he says. 'in his saloon,' says i, 'in i'mrald av'noo,' says i. 'thrue f'r ye,' says plunkett. 'an' where,' he says, 'was our candydate?' he says. 'in somebody else's saloon,' says i. 'no,' says he. 'whin th' prisidint,' he says, 'called th' nation to ar-rms,' he says, 'an' congress voted fifty million good bucks f'r th' naytional definse,' he says, 'thomas francis dorgan,' he says, 'in that minyit iv naytional pearl,' says he, 'left his good job in the pipe-yard,' he says, 'an' wint down to th' raycruitin' office, an' says, "how manny calls f'r volunteers is out?" he says. "wan," says th' officer. "put me down," says dorgan, "f'r th' tenth call," he says. this, gintlemen iv th' foorth precin't,' he says, 'is thomas francis dorgan, a man who, if ilicted,' he says, 'victhry'll perch,' he says, 'upon our banners,' he says; 'an',' he says, 'th' naytional honor will be maintained,' he says, 'in th' county boord,' he says. "i wint out to take th' air, an' i met me frind clohessy, th' little tailor fr'm halsted sthreet. him an' me had a shell iv beer together at th' german's; an' says i, 'what d'ye think iv th' heroes?' i says. 'well,' says he, 'i make no doubt 'twas brave iv dorgan,' he says, 'f'r to put his name in f'r th' tenth call,' he says; 'but,' he says, 'i don't like plunkett, an' it seems to me a man'd have to be a hell iv a sthrong man, even if he was a hero, to be plunkett's man, an' keep his hands out iv ye'er pockets,' he says. 'i'm with clancy's candydate,' he says. 'he niver offered to enlist for th' war,' he says, 'but 'twas clancy put terence on th' polis foorce an' got th' school f'r aggie,' he says. "that's the way i feel," said mr. hennessy. "i wudden't thrust plunkett as far as i cud throw a cow be th' tail. if dorgan was clancy's war hero, i'd be with him." "annyhow," said mr. dooley, "mighty few iv th' rale heroes iv th' war is r-runnin' f'r office. most iv thim put on their blue overalls whin they was mustered out an' wint up an' ast f'r their ol' jobs back--an' sometimes got thim. ye can see as manny as tin iv thim at the rollin'-mills defindin' th' nation's honor with wheelbahr's an' a slag shovel." mr. dooley in peace on new year's resolutions. mr. hennessy looked out at the rain dripping down in archey road, and sighed, "a-ha, 'tis a bad spell iv weather we're havin'." "faith, it is," said mr. dooley, "or else we mind it more thin we did. i can't remimber wan day fr'm another. whin i was young, i niver thought iv rain or snow, cold or heat. but now th' heat stings an' th' cold wrenches me bones; an', if i go out in th' rain with less on me thin a ton iv rubber, i'll pay dear f'r it in achin' j'ints, so i will. that's what old age means; an' now another year has been put on to what we had befure, an' we're expected to be gay. 'ring out th' old,' says a guy at th' brothers' school. 'ring out th' old, ring in th' new,' he says. 'ring out th' false, ring in th' thrue,' says he. it's a pretty sintimint, hinnissy; but how ar-re we goin' to do it? nawthin'd please me betther thin to turn me back on th' wicked an' ingloryous past, rayform me life, an' live at peace with th' wurruld to th' end iv me days. but how th' divvle can i do it? as th' fellow says, 'can th' leopard change his spots,' or can't he? "you know dorsey, iv coorse, th' cross-eyed may-o man that come to this counthry about wan day in advance iv a warrant f'r sheep-stealin'? ye know what he done to me, tellin' people i was caught in me cellar poorin' wather into a bar'l? well, last night says i to mesilf, thinkin' iv dorsey, i says: 'i swear that henceforth i'll keep me temper with me fellow-men. i'll not let anger or jealousy get th' betther iv me,' i says. 'i'll lave off all me old feuds; an' if i meet me inimy goin' down th' sthreet, i'll go up an' shake him be th' hand, if i'm sure he hasn't a brick in th' other hand.' oh, i was mighty compliminthry to mesilf. i set be th' stove dhrinkin' hot wans, an' ivry wan i dhrunk made me more iv a pote. 'tis th' way with th' stuff. whin i'm in dhrink, i have manny a fine thought; an', if i wasn't too comfortable to go an' look f'r th' ink-bottle, i cud write pomes that'd make shakespeare an' mike scanlan think they were wurrkin' on a dredge. 'why,' says i, 'carry into th' new year th' hathreds iv th' old?' i says. 'let th' dead past bury its dead,' says i. 'tur-rn ye'er lamps up to th' blue sky,' i says. (it was rainin' like th' divvle, an' th' hour was midnight; but i give no heed to that, bein' comfortable with th' hot wans.) an' i wint to th' dure, an', whin mike duffy come by on number wan hundherd an' five, ringin' th' gong iv th' ca-ar, i hollered to him: 'ring out th' old, ring in th' new.' 'go back into ye'er stall,' he says, 'an' wring ye'ersilf out,' he says. 'ye'er wet through,' he says. "whin i woke up this mornin', th' pothry had all disappeared, an' i begun to think th' las' hot wan i took had somethin' wrong with it. besides, th' lumbago was grippin' me till i cud hardly put wan foot befure th' other. but i remimbered me promises to mesilf, an' i wint out on th' sthreet, intindin' to wish ivry wan a 'happy new year,' an' hopin' in me hear-rt that th' first wan i wished it to'd tell me to go to th' divvle, so i cud hit him in th' eye. i hadn't gone half a block before i spied dorsey acrost th' sthreet. i picked up a half a brick an' put it in me pocket, an' dorsey done th' same. thin we wint up to each other. 'a happy new year,' says i. 'th' same to you,' says he, 'an' manny iv thim,' he says. 'ye have a brick in ye'er hand,' says i. 'i was thinkin' iv givin' ye a new year's gift,' says he. 'th' same to you, an' manny iv thim,' says i, fondlin' me own ammunition. ''tis even all around,' says he. 'it is,' says i. 'i was thinkin' las' night i'd give up me gredge again ye,' says he. 'i had th' same thought mesilf,' says i. 'but, since i seen ye'er face,' he says, 'i've con-cluded that i'd be more comfortable hatin' ye thin havin' ye f'r a frind,' says he. 'ye're a man iv taste,' says i. an' we backed away fr'm each other. he's a tip, an' can throw a stone like a rifleman; an', hinnissy, i'm somethin' iv an amachoor shot with a half-brick mesilf. "well, i've been thinkin' it over, an' i've argied it out that life'd not be worth livin' if we didn't keep our inimies. i can have all th' frinds i need. anny man can that keeps a liquor sthore. but a rale sthrong inimy, specially a may-o inimy,--wan that hates ye ha-ard, an' that ye'd take th' coat off yer back to do a bad tur-rn to,--is a luxury that i can't go without in me ol' days. dorsey is th' right sort. i can't go by his house without bein' in fear he'll spill th' chimbly down on me head; an', whin he passes my place, he walks in th' middle iv th' sthreet, an' crosses himsilf. i'll swear off on annything but dorsey. he's a good man, an' i despise him. here's long life to him." on gold-seeking. "well, sir," said mr. hennessy, "that alaska's th' gr-reat place. i thought 'twas nawthin' but an iceberg with a few seals roostin' on it, an' wan or two hundherd ohio politicians that can't be killed on account iv th' threaty iv pawrs. but here they tell me 'tis fairly smothered in goold. a man stubs his toe on th' ground, an lifts th' top off iv a goold mine. ye go to bed at night, an' wake up with goold fillin' in ye'er teeth." "yes," said mr. dooley, "clancy's son was in here this mornin', an' he says a frind iv his wint to sleep out in th' open wan night, an' whin he got up his pants assayed four ounces iv goold to th' pound, an' his whiskers panned out as much as thirty dollars net." "if i was a young man an' not tied down here," said mr. hennessy, "i'd go there: i wud so." "i wud not," said mr. dooley. "whin i was a young man in th' ol' counthry, we heerd th' same story about all america. we used to set be th' tur-rf fire o' nights, kickin' our bare legs on th' flure an' wishin' we was in new york, where all ye had to do was to hold ye'er hat an' th' goold guineas'd dhrop into it. an' whin i got to be a man, i come over here with a ham and a bag iv oatmeal, as sure that i'd return in a year with money enough to dhrive me own ca-ar as i was that me name was martin dooley. an' that was a cinch. "but, faith, whin i'd been here a week, i seen that there was nawthin' but mud undher th' pavement,--i larned that be means iv a pick-axe at tin shillin's th' day,--an' that, though there was plenty iv goold, thim that had it were froze to it; an' i come west, still lookin' f'r mines. th' on'y mine i sthruck at pittsburgh was a hole f'r sewer pipe. i made it. siven shillin's th' day. smaller thin new york, but th' livin' was cheaper, with mon'gahela rye at five a throw, put ye'er hand around th' glass. "i was still dreamin' goold, an' i wint down to saint looey. th' nearest i come to a fortune there was findin' a quarther on th' sthreet as i leaned over th' dashboord iv a car to whack th' off mule. whin i got to chicago, i looked around f'r the goold mine. they was injuns here thin. but they wasn't anny mines i cud see. they was mud to be shovelled an' dhrays to be dhruv an' beats to be walked. i choose th' dhray; f'r i was niver cut out f'r a copper, an' i'd had me fill iv excavatin'. an' i dhruv th' dhray till i wint into business. "me experyence with goold minin' is it's always in th' nex' county. if i was to go to alaska, they'd tell me iv th' finds in seeberya. so i think i'll stay here. i'm a silver man, annyhow; an' i'm contint if i can see goold wanst a year, whin some prominent citizen smiles over his newspaper. i'm thinkin' that ivry man has a goold mine undher his own dure-step or in his neighbor's pocket at th' farthest." "well, annyhow," said mr. hennessy, "i'd like to kick up th' sod, an' find a ton iv goold undher me fut." "what wud ye do if ye found it?" demanded mr. dooley. "i--i dinnaw," said mr. hennessy, whose dreaming had not gone this far. then, recovering himself, he exclaimed with great enthusiasm, "i'd throw up me job an'--an' live like a prince." "i tell ye what ye'd do," said mr. dooley. "ye'd come back here an' sthrut up an' down th' sthreet with ye'er thumbs in ye'er armpits; an' ye'd dhrink too much, an' ride in sthreet ca-ars. thin ye'd buy foldin' beds an' piannies, an' start a reel estate office. ye'd be fooled a good deal an' lose a lot iv ye'er money, an' thin ye'd tighten up. ye'd be in a cold fear night an' day that ye'd lose ye'er fortune. ye'd wake up in th' middle iv th' night, dhreamin' that ye was back at th' gas-house with ye'er money gone. ye'd be prisidint iv a charitable society. ye'd have to wear ye'er shoes in th' house, an' ye'er wife'd have ye around to rayciptions an dances.' ye'd move to mitchigan avnoo, an' ye'd hire a coachman that'd laugh at ye. ye'er boys'd be joods an' ashamed iv ye, an' ye'd support ye'er daughters' husbands. ye'd rackrint ye'er tinants an' lie about ye'er taxes. ye'd go back to ireland on a visit, an' put on airs with ye'er cousin mike. ye'd be a mane, close-fisted, onscrupulous ol' curmudgeon; an', whin ye'd die, it'd take half ye'er fortune f'r rayqueems to put ye r-right. i don't want ye iver to speak to me whin ye get rich, hinnissy." "i won't," said mr. hennessy. on books. "ivry time i pick up me mornin' paper to see how th' scrap come out at batthry d," said mr. dooley, "th' first thing i r-run acrost is somethin' like this: 'a hot an' handsome gift f'r christmas is lucy ann patzooni's "jims iv englewood thought"'; or 'if ye wud delight th' hear-rt iv yer child, ye'll give him dr. harper's monymental histhry iv th' jewish thribes fr'm moses to dhry-fuss' or 'ivrybody is r-readin' roodyard kiplin's "busy pomes f'r busy people."' th' idee iv givin' books f'r christmas prisints whin th' stores are full iv tin hor-rns an' dhrums an' boxin' gloves an choo-choo ca-ars! people must be crazy." "they ar-re," said mr. hennessy. "my house is so full iv books ye cudden't tur-rn around without stumblin' over thim. i found th' life iv an ex-convict, the 'prisoner iv zinders,' in me high hat th' other day, where mary ann was hidin' it fr'm her sister. instead iv th' chidher fightin' an' skylarkin' in th' evenin', they're settin' around th' table with their noses glued into books. th' ol' woman doesn't read, but she picks up what's goin' on. 'tis 'honoria, did lor-rd what's-his-name marry th' fair aminta?' or 'but that lady jane was a case.' an' so it goes. there's no injymint in th' house, an' they're usin' me cravats f'r bookmarks." "'tis all wrong," said mr. dooley. "they're on'y three books in th' wurruld worth readin',--shakespeare, th' bible, an' mike ahearn's histhry iv chicago. i have shakespeare on thrust, father kelly r-reads th' bible f'r me, an' i didn't buy mike ahearn's histhry because i seen more thin he cud put into it. books is th' roon iv people, specially novels. whin i was a young man, th' parish priest used to preach again thim; but nobody knowed what he meant. at that time willum joyce had th' on'y library in th' sixth wa-ard. th' mayor give him th' bound volumes iv th' council proceedings, an' they was a very handsome set. th' on'y books i seen was th' kind that has th' life iv th' pope on th' outside an' a set iv dominos on th' inside. they're good readin'. nawthin' cud be better f'r a man whin he's tired out afther a day's wurruk thin to go to his library an' take down wan iv th' gr-reat wurruks iv lithratchoor an' play a game iv dominos f'r th' dhrinks out iv it. anny other kind iv r-readin', barrin' th' newspapers, which will niver hurt anny onedycated man, is desthructive iv morals. "i had it out with father kelly th' other day in this very matther. he was comin' up fr'm down town with an ar-rmful iv books f'r prizes at th' school. 'have ye th' key to heaven there?' says i. 'no,' says he, 'th' childher that'll get these books don't need no key. they go in under th' turnstile,' he says, laughin'. 'have ye th' lives iv th' saints, or the christyan dooty, or th' story iv saint rose iv lima?' i says. 'i have not,' says he. 'i have some good story books. i'd rather th' kids'd r-read char-les dickens than anny iv th' tales iv thim holy men that was burned in ile or et up be lines,' he says. 'it does no good in these degin'rate days to prove that th' best that can come to a man f'r behavin' himsilf is to be cooked in a pot or di-gisted be a line,' he says. 'ye're wrong,' says i. 'beggin' ye'er riv'rince's pardon, ye're wrong,' i says. 'what ar-re ye goin' to do with thim young wans? ye're goin' to make thim near-sighted an' round-shouldered,' i says. 'ye're goin' to have thim believe that, if they behave thimsilves an' lead a virchous life, they'll marry rich an' go to congress. they'll wake up some day, an' find out that gettin' money an behavin' ye'ersilf don't always go together,' i says. 'some iv th' wickedest men in th' wurruld have marrid rich,' i says. 'ye're goin' to teach thim that a man doesn't have to use an ax to get along in th' wurruld. ye're goin' to teach thim that a la-ad with a curlin' black mustache an' smokin' a cigareet is always a villyan, whin he's more often a barber with a lar-rge family. life, says ye! there's no life in a book. if ye want to show thim what life is, tell thim to look around thim. there's more life on a saturdah night in th' ar-rchy road thin in all th' books fr'm shakespeare to th' rayport iv th' drainage thrustees. no man,' i says, 'iver wrote a book if he had annything to write about, except shakespeare an' mike ahearn. shakespeare was all r-right. i niver read anny of his pieces, but they sound good; an' i know mike ahearn is all r-right.'" "what did he say?" asked mr. hennessy. "he took it all r-right," said mr. dooley. "he kind o' grinned, an' says he: 'what ye say is thrue, an' it's not thrue,' he says. 'books is f'r thim that can't injye thimsilves in anny other way,' he says. 'if ye're in good health, an' ar-re atin' three squares a day, an' not ayether sad or very much in love with ye'er lot, but just lookin' on an' not carin' a'--he said rush--'not carin' a rush, ye don't need books,' he says. 'but if ye're a down-spirited thing an' want to get away an' can't, ye need books. 'tis betther to be comfortable at home thin to go to th' circus, an' 'tis betther to go to th' circus thin to r-read anny book. but 'tis betther to r-read a book thin to want to go to th' circus an' not be able to,' he says. 'well,' says i, 'whin i was growin' up, half th' congregation heard mass with their prayer books tur-rned upside down, an' they were as pious as anny. th' apostles' creed niver was as con-vincin' to me afther i larned to r-read it as it was whin i cudden't read it, but believed it.'" on reform candidates. "that frind iv ye'ers, dugan, is an intilligent man," said mr. dooley. "all he needs is an index an' a few illusthrations to make him a bicyclopedja iv useless information." "well," said mr. hennessy, judiciously, "he ain't no soc-rates an' he ain't no answers-to-questions colum; but he's a good man that goes to his jooty, an' as handy with a pick as some people are with a cocktail spoon. what's he been doin' again ye?" "nawthin'," said mr. dooley, "but he was in here choosday. 'did ye vote?' says i. 'i did,' says he. 'which wan iv th' distinguished bunko steerers got ye'er invalu'ble suffrage?' says i. 'i didn't have none with me,' says he, 'but i voted f'r charter haitch,' says he. 'i've been with him in six ilictions,' says he, 'an' he's a good man,' he says. 'd'ye think ye're votin' f'r th' best?' says i. 'why, man alive,' i says, 'charter haitch was assassinated three years ago,' i says. 'was he?' says dugan. 'ah, well, he's lived that down be this time. he was a good man,' he says. "ye see, that's what thim rayform lads wint up again. if i liked rayformers, hinnissy, an' wanted f'r to see thim win out wanst in their lifetime, i'd buy thim each a suit iv chilled steel, ar-rm thim with raypeatin' rifles, an' take thim east iv state sthreet an' south iv jackson bullyvard. at prisint th' opinion that pre-vails in th' ranks iv th' gloryous ar-rmy iv rayform is that there ain't annything worth seein' in this lar-rge an' commodyous desert but th' pest-house an' the bridewell. me frind willum j. o'brien is no rayformer. but willum j. undherstands that there's a few hundherds iv thousands iv people livin' in a part iv th' town that looks like nawthin' but smoke fr'm th' roof iv th' onion league club that have on'y two pleasures in life, to wurruk an' to vote, both iv which they do at th' uniform rate iv wan dollar an' a half a day. that's why willum j. o'brien is now a sinitor an' will be an aldherman afther next thursdah, an' it's why other people are sinding him flowers. "this is th' way a rayform candydate is ilicted. th' boys down town has heerd that things ain't goin' r-right somehow. franchises is bein' handed out to none iv thim; an' wanst in a while a mimber iv th' club, comin' home a little late an' thryin' to ricon-cile a pair iv r-round feet with an embroidered sidewalk, meets a sthrong ar-rm boy that pushes in his face an' takes away all his marbles. it begins to be talked that th' time has come f'r good citizens f'r to brace up an' do somethin', an' they agree to nomynate a candydate f'r aldherman. 'who'll we put up?' says they. 'how's clarence doolittle?' says wan. 'he's laid up with a coupon thumb, an' can't r-run.' 'an' how about arthur doheny?' 'i swore an oath whin i came out iv colledge i'd niver vote f'r a man that wore a made tie.' 'well, thin, let's thry willie boye.' 'good,' says th' comity. 'he's jus' th' man f'r our money.' an' willie boye, after thinkin' it over, goes to his tailor an' ordhers three dozen pairs iv pants, an' decides f'r to be th' sthandard-bearer iv th' people. musin' over his fried eyesthers an' asparagus an' his champagne, he bets a polo pony again a box of golf-balls he'll be ilicted unanimous; an' all th' good citizens make a vow f'r to set th' alar-rm clock f'r half-past three on th' afthernoon iv iliction day, so's to be up in time to vote f'r th' riprisintitive iv pure gover'mint. "'tis some time befure they comprehind that there ar-re other candydates in th' field. but th' other candydates know it. th' sthrongest iv thim--his name is flannigan, an' he's a re-tail dealer in wines an' liquors, an' he lives over his establishment. flannigan was nomynated enthusyastically at a prim'ry held in his bar-rn; an' before willie boye had picked out pants that wud match th' color iv th' austhreelyan ballot this here flannigan had put a man on th' day watch, tol' him to speak gently to anny ray-gistered voter that wint to sleep behind th' sthove, an' was out that night visitin' his frinds. who was it judged th' cake walk? flannigan. who was it carrid th' pall? flannigan. who was it sthud up at th' christening? flannigan. whose ca-ards did th' grievin' widow, th' blushin' bridegroom, or th' happy father find in th' hack? flannigan's. ye bet ye'er life. ye see flannigan wasn't out f'r th' good iv th' community. flannigan was out f'r flannigan an' th' stuff. "well, iliction day come around; an' all th' imminent frinds iv good gover'mint had special wires sthrung into th' club, an' waited f'r th' returns. th' first precin't showed votes f'r willie boye to f'r flannigan. 'that's my precin't,' says willie. 'i wondher who voted thim fourteen?' 'coachmen,' says clarence doolittle. 'there are thirty-five precin'ts in this ward,' says th' leader iv th' rayform ilimint. 'at this rate, i'm sure iv meejority. gossoon,' he says, 'put a keg iv sherry wine on th' ice,' he says. 'well,' he says, 'at last th' community is relieved fr'm misrule,' he says. 'to-morrah i will start in arrangin' amindmints to th' tariff schedool an' th' ar-bitration threety,' he says. 'we must be up an' doin',' he says. 'hol' on there,' says wan iv th' comity. 'there must be some mistake in this fr'm th' sixth precin't,' he says. 'where's the sixth precin't?' says clarence. 'over be th' dumps,' says willie. 'i told me futman to see to that. he lives at th' corner iv desplaines an bloo island av'noo on goose's island,' he says. 'what does it show?' 'flannigan, three hundherd an' eighty-five; hansen, forty-eight; schwartz, twinty; o'malley, sivinteen; casey, ten; o'day, eight; larsen, five; o'rourke, three; mulcahy, two; schmitt, two; moloney, two; riordon, two; o'malley, two; willie boye, wan.' 'gintlemin,' says willie boye, arisin' with a stern look in his eyes, 'th' rascal has bethrayed me. waither, take th' sherry wine off th' ice. they'se no hope f'r sound financial legislation this year. i'm goin' home.' "an', as he goes down th' sthreet, he hears a band play an' sees a procission headed be a calceem light; an', in a carredge, with his plug hat in his hand an' his di'mond makin' th' calceem look like a piece iv punk in a smoke-house, is flannigan, payin' his first visit this side iv th' thracks." on paternal duty. "i'm havin' a time iv it with terence," said mr. hennessy, despondently. "what's th' la-ad been doin'?" asked mr. dooley. "it ain't so much what he's doin'," mr. hennessy explained, "as what he ain't doin.' he ain't stayin' home iv nights, an' he ain't wurrukin'; but he does be out on th' corner with th' cromleys an' th' rest, dancin' jig steps an' whistlin' th' 'rogue's march' whin a polisman goes by. sure, i can do nawthin' with him, f'r he's that kind an' good at home that he'd melt th' heart iv a man iv stone. but it's gray me life is, thinkin' iv what's to become iv him whin he gets to be a man grown. ye're lucky, martin, that ye're childless." "sure, i cudden't be anny other way, an' hold me good name," said mr. dooley. "an', whin i look about me sometimes, it's glad i am. they'se been times, perhaps--but lave that go. is there somethin' in th' air or is it in oursilves that makes th' childher nowadays turn out to curse th' lives iv thim that give thim life? it may be in th' thrainin'. whin i was a kid, they were brought up to love, honor, an' respect th' ol' folks, that their days might be long in th' land. amen. if they didn't, th' best they cud do was to say nawthin' about it. 'twas th' back iv th' hand an' th' sowl iv th' fut to th' la-ad that put his spoon first into th' stirabout. between th' whalin's we got at school h'isted on th' back iv th' big boy that was bein' thrainned to be a christyan brother an' th' thumpin's we got at home, we was kept sore an' sthraight fr'm wan year's end to another. 'twas no mild doses they give us, ayether. i mind wanst, whin i was near as big as i am now, i handed back some onkind re-emarks to me poor father that's dead. may he rest in peace, per dominum! he must iv been a small man, an' bent with wurruk an' worry. but did he take me jaw? he did not. he hauled off, an' give me a r-right hook where th' bad wurruds come fr'm. i put up a pretty fight, f'r me years; but th' man doesn't live that can lick his own father. he rowled me acrost an oat-field, an' i give up. i didn't love him anny too well f'r that lickin', but i respected him; an', if he'd come into this place to-night,--an' he'd be near a hundherd: he was born in th' year ' , an' pikes was hid in his cradle,--if he come in here to-night an' pulled me ear, i'd fear to go again him. i wud so. "'tis th' other way about now. did ye iver know a man be th' name iv ahearn? ye did not? well, maybe he was befure yer time. he was a cobbler be thrade; but he picked up money be livin' off iv leather findings an' wooden pegs, an' bought pieces iv th' prairie, an' starved an' bought more, an' starved an' starved till his heart was shrivelled up like a washerwoman's hand. but he made money. an' th' more he made, th' more he wanted, an', wantin' nawthin' more, it come to him fr'm the divvle, who kept th' curse f'r his own time. this man ahearn, whin he had acres an' acres on halsted sthreet, an' tinants be th' scoor that prayed at nights f'r him that he might live long an' taste sorrow, he marrid a girl. her name was ryan, a little, scared, foolish woman; an' she died whin a boy was bor-rn. ahearn give her a solemn rayqueem high mass an' a monument at calv'ry that ye can see fr'm th' fun'ral thrain. an' he come fr'm th' fun'ral with th' first smile on his face that anny man iver see there, an' th' baby in his ar-rms. "i'll not say ahearn was a changed man. th' love iv money was knitted into his heart; an', afther th' la-ad come, th' way he ground th' people that lived in his house was death an' destruction. 'i must provide f'r me own,' he said. but thim that was kind to th' kid cud break th' crust, an' all th' r-rough, hard-wurrkin' tenants paid f'r th' favors he give to th' ol' frauds an' beguilin' women that petted dan'l o'connell ahearn. nawthin' was too good f'r th' kid. he had nurses an' servants to wait on him. he had clothes that'd stock this ba-ar f'r a year. whin he was old enough, he was sint to saint ignatyous. an' th' ol' man'd take him walkin' on a sundah, an' pint out th' rows an' rows iv houses, with th' childher in front gazin' in awe at th' great man an' their fathers glowerin' fr'm the windows, an' say, 'thim will all be yours whin ye grow up, dan'l o'connell, avick.' "well, it didn't take an eye iv a witch to see that dan'l o'connell was a bor-rn idjet. they was no rale harm in th' poor la-ad, on'y he was lazy an' foolish an' sort iv tired like. to make a long story short, hinnissy, his father thried ivrything f'r him, an' got nawthin.' he didn't dhrink much, he cared little f'r women, he liked to play ca-ards, but not f'r money. he did nawthin' that was bad; an' yet he was no good at all, at all,--just a slow, tired, aisy-goin', shamblin' la-ad,--th' sort that'd wrench th' heart iv a father like ahearn. i dinnaw what he did fin'lly, but wan night he come into my place an' said he'd been turned out be his father an' wanted a place f'r to sleep. 'ye'll sleep at home,' says i. 'ye'er father sh'd take shame to himsilf,--him a rich man.' an' i put on me coat, an' wint over to ahearn's. i was a power in th' wa-ard in thim days, an' feared no man alive. th' ol' la-ad met us at th' dure. whin i started to speak, he blazed up. 'misther dooley,' says he, 'my sorrows are me own. i'll keep thim here. as f'r ye,' he says, an' tur-rned like a tiger on th' boy an' sthruck him with his ol' leathery hand. th' boy stood f'r a minyit, an' thin walked out, me with him. i niver see him since. we left ahearn standin' there, as we used to say iv th' fox in th' ol' counthry, cornered between th' river an' th' wall." "ye're lucky to be alone," said mr. hennessy as he left. "i think so," said mr. dooley. but there was no content upon his face as he watched a lounging oaf of a boy catch up with mr. hennessy, exchange a curtly affectionate greeting, and walk over to where mrs. hennessy could be seen reading the "key of heaven" beside the parlor stove. on criminals. "lord bless my sowl," said mr. dooley, "childher is a gr-reat risponsibility,--agr-reat risponsibility. whin i think iv it, i praise th' saints i niver was married, though i had opporchunities enough whin i was a young man; an' even now i have to wear me hat low whin i go down be cologne sthreet on account iv th' widow grogan. jawn, that woman'll take me dead or alive. i wake up in a col' chill in th' middle iv th' night, dhreamin' iv her havin' me in her clutches. "but that's not here or there, avick. i was r-readin' in th' pa-apers iv a lad be th' name iv scanlan bein' sint down th' short r-road f'r near a lifetime; an' i minded th' first time i iver see him,--a bit iv a curly-haired boy that played tag around me place, an' 'd sing 'blest saint joseph' with a smile on his face like an angel's. who'll tell what makes wan man a thief an' another man a saint? i dinnaw. this here boy's father wur-rked fr'm morn till night in th' mills, was at early mass sundah mornin' befure th' alkalis lit th' candles, an' niver knowed a month whin he failed his jooty. an' his mother was a sweet-faced little woman, though fr'm th' county kerry, that nursed th' sick an' waked th' dead, an' niver had a hard thought in her simple mind f'r anny iv gawd's creatures. poor sowl, she's dead now. may she rest in peace! "he didn't git th' shtreak fr'm his father or fr'm his mother. his brothers an' sisters was as fine a lot as iver lived. but this la-ad petey scanlan growed up fr'm bein' a curly-haired angel f'r to be th' toughest villyun in th' r-road. what was it at all, at all? sometimes i think they'se poison in th' life iv a big city. th' flowers won't grow here no more thin they wud in a tannery, an' th' bur-rds have no song; an' th' childher iv dacint men an' women come up hard in th' mouth an' with their hands raised again their kind. "th' la-ad was th' scoorge iv th' polis. he was as quick as a cat an' as fierce as a tiger, an' i well raymimber him havin' laid out big kelly that used to thravel this post,--'whistlin'' kelly that kep' us awake with imitations iv a mockin' bur-rd,--i well raymimber him scuttlin' up th' alley with a score iv polismin laborin' afther him, thryin' f'r a shot at him as he wint around th' bar-rns or undher th' thrucks. he slep' in th' coal-sheds afther that until th' poor ol' man cud square it with th' loot. but, whin he come out, ye cud see how his face had hardened an' his ways changed. he was as silent as an animal, with a sideways manner that watched ivrything. right here in this place i seen him stand f'r a quarther iv an' hour, not seemin' to hear a dhrunk man abusin' him, an' thin lep out like a snake. we had to pry him loose. "th' ol' folks done th' best they cud with him. they hauled him out iv station an' jail an' bridewell. wanst in a long while they'd dhrag him off to church with his head down: that was always afther he'd been sloughed up f'r wan thing or another. between times th' polis give him his own side iv th' sthreet, an' on'y took him whin his back was tur-rned. thin he'd go in the wagon with a mountain iv thim on top iv him, sway in' an' swearin' an' sthrikin' each other in their hurry to put him to sleep with their clubs. "i mind well th' time he was first took to be settled f'r good. i heerd a noise in th' ya-ard, an' thin he come through th' place with his face dead gray an' his lips just a turn grayer. 'where ar-re ye goin', petey?' says i. 'i was jus' takin' a short cut home,' he says. in three minyits th' r-road was full iv polismin. they'd been a robbery down in halsted sthreet. a man that had a grocery sthore was stuck up, an' whin he fought was clubbed near to death; an' they'd r-run scanlan through th' alleys to his father's house. that was as far as they'd go. they was enough iv thim to've kicked down th' little cottage with their heavy boots, but they knew he was standin' behind th' dure with th' big gun in his hand; an', though they was manny a good lad there, they was none that cared f'r that short odds. "they talked an' palavered outside, an' telephoned th' chief iv polis, an' more pathrol wagons come up. some was f'r settin' fire to th' buildin', but no wan moved ahead. thin th' fr-ront dure opened, an' who shud come out but th' little mother. she was thin an' pale, an' she had her apron in her hands, pluckin' at it. 'gintlemin,' she says, 'what is it ye want iv me?' she says. 'liftinant cassidy,' she says, ''tis sthrange f'r ye that i've knowed so long to make scandal iv me before me neighbors,' she says. 'mrs. scanlan,' says he, 'we want th' boy. i'm sorry, ma'am, but he's mixed up in a bad scrape, an' we must have him,' he says. she made a curtsy to thim, an' wint indures. 'twas less than a minyit before she come out, clingin' to th' la-ad's ar-rm. 'he'll go,' she says. 'thanks be, though he's wild, they'se no crime on his head. is there, dear?' 'no,' says he, like th' game kid he is. wan iv th' polismin stharted to take hold iv him, but th' la-ad pushed him back; an' he wint to th' wagon on his mother's ar-rm." "and was he really innocent?" mr. mckenna asked. "no," said mr. dooley. "but she niver knowed it. th' ol' man come home an' found her: she was settin' in a big chair with her apron in her hands an th' picture iv th' la-ad in her lap." on a plot. "well," said mr. dooley, "th' european situation is becomin' a little gay." "it 'tis so," said mr. hennessy. "if i was conthrollin' anny iv the gr-reat powers, i'd go down to th' phosphorus an' take th' sultan be th' back iv th' neck an' give him wan, two, three. 'tis a shame f'r him to be desthroyin' white people without anny man layin' hands on him. th' man's no frind iv mine. he ought to be impeached an' thrun out." "divvle take th' sultan," said mr. dooley. "it's little i care f'r him or th' likes iv him or th' ar-menyans or th' phosphorus. i was runnin' over in me mind about th' poor lads they have sloughed up beyant f'r attimptin' to blow up queen victorya an' th cza-ar iv rooshia. glory be, but they'se nawthin' in the wide wurruld as aisy to undherstand as a rivoluchonary plot be our own people. you'll see a lad iv th' right sort that'd niver open his head fr'm wan end iv th' year to th'other; but, whin he's picked out to go on a mission to london, he niver laves off talkin' till they put him aboord th' steamer. here was tynan. they say he had a hand in sindin' lord cavendish down th' toboggan, though i'd not thrust his own tellin' as far as th' len'th iv me ar-rm. now he figured out that th' thrue way to free ireland was to go over an' blow th' windows in winzer palace, an' incidentally to hist th' queen an' th' rooshian cza-ar without th' aid iv th' elevator. what this here tynan had again th' rooshian cza-ar i niver heerd. but 'twas something awful, ye may be sure. "well, th' first thing th' la-ads done was to go to madison square garden an' hold a secret meetin', in which thim that was to hand th' package to th' queen and thim that was to toss a piece iv gas pipe to his cza-ars was told off. thin a comity was sint around to th' newspaper offices to tell thim th' expedition was about to start. th' conspirators, heavily disgeesed, was attinded to th' boat be a long procission. first come tynan ridin' on a wagon-load iv nithroglycerine; thin th' other conspirators, with gas-pipe bombs an' picks an' chuvvels f'r tunnellin' undher winzer castle; thin th' ah-o-haitches; thin th' raypoorthers; thin a brigade iv scotland ya-ard spies in th' ga-arb iv polismin. an' so off they wint on their secret mission, with th' band playin' 'th' wearin' iv th' green,' an tynan standin' on th' quarther deck, smilin' an' bowin' an' wavin' a bag iv jint powdher over his head. "no sooner had th' conspirators landed thin th' british gover'mint begun to grow suspicious iv thim. tynan was shadowed be detictives in citizens' clothes; an', whin he was seen out in his backyard practisin' blowin' up a bar'l that he'd dhressed in a shawl an' a little lace cap, th' suspicions growed. ivrywhere that tynan wint he was purshooed be th' minions iv tyranny. whin he visited th' house nex' dure to th' queen's, an' unloaded a dhray full iv explosives an' chuvvels, the fact was rayported to th' polis, who become exthremely vigilant. th' detictives followed him to scotland yard, where he wint to inform th' captain iv th' conspiracy, an' overheard much damming ividence iv th' plot until they become more an' more suspicious that something was on, although what was th' intintions iv th' conspirators it was hard to make out fr'm their peculiar actions. whin tynan gathered his followers in hyde park, an' notified thim iv the positions they was to take and disthributed th' dinnymite among thim, th' detictives become decidedly suspicious. their suspicions was again aroused whin tynan asked permission iv th' common council to build a bay window up close to th' queen's bedroom. but th' time to act had not come, an' they continted thimselves with thrackin' him through th' sthreets an' takin' notes iv such suspicious remarks as 'anny wan that wants mementoes iv th' queen has on'y to be around this neighborhood nex' week with a shovel an' a basket,' an' 'onless ye want ye'er clothes to be spoiled be th' czar, ye'd best carry umbrellas.' on th' followin' day tynan took th' step that was needed f'r to con-vince th' gover'mint that he had designs on the monarchs. he wint to france. it's always been obsarved that, whin a dinnymiter had to blow up annything in london, he laves th' counthry. th' polis, now thoroughly aroused, acted with commindable promptness. they arristed tynan in booloon f'r th' murdher iv cavendish. "thus," said mr. dooley, sadly, "thus is th' vengeance f'r which our beloved counthry has awaited so long delayed be th' hand iv onscrupulious tyranny. sthrive as our heroes may, no secrecy is secure against th' corruption iv british goold. oh, ireland, is this to be thy fate forever? ar-re ye niver to escape th' vigilance iv th' polis, thim cold-eyed sleuths that seem to read th' very thoughts iv ye'er pathriot sons?" "there must have been a spy in th' ranks," said mr. hennessy. "sure thing," said mr. dooley, winking at mr. mckenna. "sure thing, hinnissy. ayether that or th' accomplished detictives at scotland yards keep a close watch iv the newspapers. or it may be--who knows?--that tynan was indiscreet. he may have dhropped a hint of his intintions." on the new woman. "molly donahue have up an' become a new woman! "it's been a good thing f'r ol' man donahue, though, jawn. he shtud ivrything that mortal man cud stand. he seen her appearin' in th' road wearin' clothes that no lady shud wear an' ridin' a bicycle; he was humiliated whin she demanded to vote; he put his pride under his ar-rm an' ma-arched out iv th' house whin she committed assault-an'-batthry on th' piannah. but he's got to th' end iv th' rope now. he was in here las' night, how-come-ye-so, with his hat cocked over his eye an' a look iv risolution on his face; an' whin he left me, he says, says he, 'dooley,' he says, 'i'll conquir, or i'll die,' he says. "it's been comin f'r months, but it on'y bust oh donahue las' week. he'd come home at night tired out, an' afther supper he was pullin' off his boots, whin mollie an' th' mother begun talkin' about th' rights iv females. ''tis th' era iv th' new woman,' says mollie. 'ye're right,' says th' mother. 'what d'ye mean be the new woman?' says donahue, holdin' his boot in his hand. 'th' new woman,' says mollie, ''ll be free fr'm th' opprision iv man,' she says. 'she'll wurruk out her own way, without help or hinderance,' she says. she'll wear what clothes she wants,' she says, 'an' she'll be no man's slave,' she says. 'they'll be no such thing as givin' a girl in marredge to a clown an' makin' her dipindant on his whims,' she says. 'th' women'll earn their own livin',' she says; 'an' mebbe,' she says, 'th' men'll stay at home an' dredge in th' house wurruk,' she says. 'a-ho,' says donahue. 'an' that's th' new woman, is it?' he says. an' he said no more that night. "but th' nex' mornin' mrs. donahue an' mollie come to his dure. 'get up,' says mrs. donahue, 'an' bring in some coal,' she says. 'ye drowsy man, ye'll be late f'r ye'er wurruk.' 'divvle th' bit iv coal i'll fetch,' says donahue. 'go away an' lave me alone,' he says. 'ye're inthruptin' me dreams.' 'what ails ye, man alive?' says mrs. donahue. 'get up.' 'go away,' says donahue, 'an lave me slumber,' he says. 'th' idee iv a couple iv big strong women like you makin' me wurruk f'r ye,' he says. 'mollie 'll bring in th' coal,' he says. 'an' as f'r you, honoria, ye'd best see what there is in th' cupboord an' put it in ye'er dinner-pail,' he says. 'i heerd th' first whistle blow a minyit ago,' he says; 'an' there's a pile iv slag at th' mills that has to be wheeled off befure th' sup'rintindint comes around,' he says. 'ye know ye can't afford to lose ye'er job with me in this dilicate condition,' he says. 'i'm going to sleep now,' he says. 'an', mollie, do ye bring me in a cup iv cocoa an' a pooched igg at tin,' he says. 'i ixpect me music-teacher about that time. we have to take a wallop out iv wagner an' bootoven befure noon.' 'th' lord save us fr'm harm,' says mrs. donahue. 'th' man's clean crazy.' 'divvle's th' bit,' says donahue, wavin' his red flannel undhershirt in th' air. 'i'm the new man,' he says. "well, sir, donahue said it flured thim complete. they didn't know what to say. mollie was game, an' she fetched in th' coal; but mrs. donahue got nervous as eight o'clock come around. 'ye're not goin' to stay in bed all day an' lose ye'er job,' she says. 'th' 'ell with me job,' says donahue. 'i'm not th' man to take wurruk whin they'se industhrees women with nawthin' to do,' he says. 'show me th' pa-apers,' he says. 'i want to see where i can get an eighty-cint bonnet f'r two and a half.' he's that stubborn he'd've stayed in bed all day, but th' good woman weakened. 'come,' she says, 'don't be foolish,' she says. 'ye wudden't have th' ol' woman wurrukin' in th' mills,' she says. ''twas all a joke,' she says. 'oh-ho, th' ol' woman!' he says. 'th' ol' woman! well, that's a horse iv another color,' he says. 'an' i don't mind tellin' ye th' mills is closed down to-day, honoria.' so he dhressed himsilf an' wint out; an' says he to mollie, he says: 'miss newwoman,' says he, 'ye may find wurruk enough around th' house,' he says. 'an', if ye have time, ye might paint th' stoop,' he says. 'th' ol' man is goin' to take th' ol' woman down be halsted sthreet' an' blow himsilf f'r a new shawl f'r her.' "an' he's been that proud iv th' victhry that he's been a reg'lar customer f'r a week." on expert testimony. "annything new?" said mr. hennessy, who had been waiting patiently for mr. dooley to put down his newspaper. "i've been r-readin' th' tistimony iv th' lootgert case," said mr. dooley. "what d'ye think iv it?" "i think so," said mr. dooley. "think what?" "how do i know?" said mr. dooley. "how do i know what i think? i'm no combination iv chemist, doctor, osteologist, polisman, an' sausage-maker, that i can give ye an opinion right off th' bat. a man needs to be all iv thim things to detarmine annything about a murdher trile in these days. this shows how intilligent our methods is, as hogan says. a large german man is charged with puttin' his wife away into a breakfas'-dish, an' he says he didn't do it. th' on'y question, thin, is, did or did not alphonse lootgert stick mrs. l. into a vat, an' rayjooce her to a quick lunch? am i right?" "ye ar-re," said mr. hennessy. "that's simple enough. what th' coort ought to've done was to call him up, an' say: 'lootgert, where's ye'er good woman?' if lootgert cudden't tell, he ought to be hanged on gin'ral principles; f'r a man must keep his wife around th' house, an' whin she isn't there, it shows he's a poor provider. but, if lootgert says, 'i don't know where me wife is,' the coort shud say: 'go out, an' find her. if ye can't projooce her in a week, i'll fix ye.' an' let that be th' end iv it. "but what do they do? they get lootgert into coort an' stand him up befure a gang iv young rayporthers an' th' likes iv thim to make pitchers iv him. thin they summon a jury composed iv poor tired, sleepy expressmen an' tailors an' clerks. thin they call in a profissor from a colledge. 'profissor,' says th' lawyer f'r the state, 'i put it to ye if a wooden vat three hundherd an' sixty feet long, twenty-eight feet deep, an' sivinty-five feet wide, an' if three hundherd pounds iv caustic soda boiled, an' if the leg iv a guinea pig, an' ye said yestherdah about bi-carbonate iv soda, an' if it washes up an' washes over, an' th' slimy, slippery stuff, an' if a false tooth or a lock iv hair or a jawbone or a goluf ball across th' cellar eleven feet nine inches--that is, two inches this way an' five gallons that?' 'i agree with ye intirely,' says th' profissor. 'i made lab'ratory experiments in an' ir'n basin, with bichloride iv gool, which i will call soup-stock, an' coal tar, which i will call ir'n filings. i mixed th' two over a hot fire, an' left in a cool place to harden. i thin packed it in ice, which i will call glue, an' rock-salt, which i will call fried eggs, an' obtained a dark, queer solution that is a cure f'r freckles, which i will call antimony or doughnuts or annything i blamed please.' "'but,' says th' lawyer f'r th' state, 'measurin' th' vat with gas,--an' i lave it to ye whether this is not th' on'y fair test,--an' supposin' that two feet acrost is akel to tin feet sideways, an' supposin' that a thick green an' hard substance, an' i daresay it wud; an' supposin' you may, takin' into account th' measuremints,--twelve be eight,--th' vat bein' wound with twine six inches fr'm th' handle an' a rub iv th' green, thin ar-re not human teeth often found in counthry sausage?' 'in th' winter,' says th' profissor. 'but th' sisymoid bone is sometimes seen in th' fut, sometimes worn as a watch-charm. i took two sisymoid bones, which i will call poker dice, an' shook thim together in a cylinder, which i will call fido, poored in a can iv milk, which i will call gum arabic, took two pounds iv rough-on-rats, which i rayfuse to call; but th' raysult is th' same.' question be th' coort: 'different?' answer: 'yis.' th' coort: 'th' same.' be misther mcewen: 'whose bones?' answer: 'yis.' be misther vincent: 'will ye go to th' divvle?' answer: 'it dissolves th' hair.' "now what i want to know is where th' jury gets off. what has that collection iv pure-minded pathrites to larn fr'm this here polite discussion, where no wan is so crool as to ask what anny wan else means? thank th' lord, whin th' case is all over, the jury'll pitch th' tistimony out iv th' window, an' consider three questions: 'did lootgert look as though he'd kill his wife? did his wife look as though she ought to be kilt? isn't it time we wint to supper?' an', howiver they answer, they'll be right, an' it'll make little difference wan way or th' other. th' german vote is too large an' ignorant, annyhow." on the popularity of firemen. "i knowed a man be th' name iv clancy wanst, jawn. he was fr'm th' county may-o, but a good man f'r all that; an', whin he'd growed to be a big, sthrappin' fellow, he wint on to th' fire departmint. they'se an irishman 'r two on th' fire departmint an' in th' army, too, jawn, though ye'd think be hearin' some talk they was all runnin' prim'ries an' thryin' to be cinthral comitymen. so ye wud. ye niver hear iv thim on'y whin they die; an' thin, murther, what funerals they have! "well, this clancy wint on th' fire departmint, an' they give him a place in thruck twinty-three. all th' r-road was proud iv him, an' faith he was proud iv himsilf. he r-rode free on th' sthreet ca-ars, an' was th' champeen hand-ball player f'r miles around. ye shud see him goin' down th' sthreet, with his blue shirt an' his blue coat with th' buttons on it, an' his cap on his ear. but ne'er a cap or coat'd he wear whin they was a fire. he might be shiv'rin' be th' stove in th' ingine house with a buffalo robe over his head; but, whin th' gong sthruck, 'twas off with coat an' cap an' buffalo robe, an' out come me brave clancy, bare-headed an' bare hand, dhrivin' with wan line an' spillin' th' hose cart on wan wheel at ivry jump iv th' horse. did anny wan iver see a fireman with his coat on or a polisman with his off? why, wanst, whin clancy was standin' up f'r grogan's eighth, his son come runnin' in to tell him they was a fire in vogel's packin' house. he dhropped th' kid at father kelly's feet, an' whipped off his long coat an' wint tearin' f'r th' dure, kickin' over th' poorbox an' buttin' ol' mis' o'neill that'd come in to say th' stations. 'twas lucky 'twas wan iv th' grogans. they're a fine family f'r falls. jawn grogan was wurrukin' on th' top iv metzri an' o'connell's brewery wanst, with a man be th' name iv dorsey. he slipped an' fell wan hundherd feet. whin they come to see if he was dead, he got up, an' says he: 'lave me at him.' 'at who?' says they. 'he's deliryous,' they says. 'at dorsey,' says grogan. 'he thripped me.' so it didn't hurt grogan's eighth to fall four 'r five feet. "well, clancy wint to fires an' fires. whin th' big organ facthry burnt, he carrid th' hose up to th' fourth story an' was squirtin' whin th' walls fell. they dug him out with pick an' shovel, an' he come up fr'm th' brick an' boards an' saluted th' chief. 'clancy,' says th' chief, 'ye betther go over an' get a dhrink.' he did so, jawn. i heerd it. an' clancy was that proud! "whin th' hogan flats on halsted sthreet took fire, they got all th' people out but wan; an' she was a woman asleep on th' fourth flure. 'who'll go up?' says bill musham. 'sure, sir,' says clancy, 'i'll go'; an' up he wint. his captain was a man be th' name iv o'connell, fr'm th' county kerry; an' he had his fut on th' ladder whin clancy started. well, th' good man wint into th' smoke, with his wife faintin' down below. 'he'll be kilt,' says his brother. 'ye don't know him,' says bill musham. an' sure enough, whin ivry wan'd give him up, out comes me brave clancy, as black as a turk, with th' girl in his arms. th' others wint up like monkeys, but he shtud wavin' thim off, an' come down th' ladder face forward. 'where'd ye larn that?' says bill musham. 'i seen a man do it at th' lyceem whin i was a kid,' says clancy. 'was it all right?' 'i'll have ye up before th' ol' man,' says bill musham. 'i'll teach ye to come down a laddher as if ye was in a quadhrille, ye horse-stealin', ham-sthringin' may-o man,' he says. but he didn't. clancy wint over to see his wife. 'o mike,' says she, ''twas fine,' she says. 'but why d'ye take th' risk?' she says. 'did ye see th' captain?' he says with a scowl. 'he wanted to go. did ye think i'd follow a kerry man with all th' ward lukkin' on?' he says. "well, so he wint dhrivin' th' hose-cart on wan wheel, an' jumpin' whin he heerd a man so much as hit a glass to make it ring. all th' people looked up to him, an' th' kids followed him down th' sthreet; an' 'twas th' gr-reatest priv'lige f'r anny wan f'r to play dominos with him near th' joker. but about a year ago he come in to see me, an' says he, 'well, i'm goin' to quit.' 'why,' says i, 'ye'er a young man yet,' i says. 'faith,' he says, 'look at me hair,' he says,--'young heart, ol' head. i've been at it these twinty year, an' th' good woman's wantin' to see more iv me thin blowin' into a saucer iv coffee,' he says. 'i'm goin' to quit,' he says, 'on'y i want to see wan more good fire,' he says. 'a rale good ol' hot wan,' he says, 'with th' win' blowin' f'r it an' a good dhraft in th' ilivator-shaft, an' about two stories, with pitcher-frames an' gasoline an' excelsior, an' to hear th' chief yellin': "play 'way, sivinteen. what th' hell an' damnation are ye standin' aroun' with that pipe f'r? is this a fire 'r a dam livin' pitcher? i'll break ivry man iv eighteen, four, six, an' chem'cal five to-morrah mornin' befure breakfast." oh,' he says, bringin' his fist down, 'wan more, an' i'll quit.' "an' he did, jawn. th' day th' carpenter brothers' box factory burnt. 'twas wan iv thim big, fine-lookin' buildings that pious men built out iv celluloid an' plasther iv paris. an' clancy was wan iv th' men undher whin th' wall fell. i seen thim bringin' him home; an' th' little woman met him at th' dure, rumplin' her apron in her hands." on the game of football. "whin i was a young man," said mr. dooley, "an' that was a long time ago,--but not so long ago as manny iv me inimies'd like to believe, if i had anny inimies,--i played futball, but 'twas not th' futball i see whin th' brothers' school an' th' saint aloysius tigers played las' week on th' pee-raries. "whin i was a la-ad, iv a sundah afthernoon we'd get out in th' field where th' oats'd been cut away, an' we'd choose up sides. wan cap'n'd pick one man, an' th' other another. 'i choose dooley,' 'i choose o'connor,' 'i choose dimpsey,' 'i choose riordan,' an' so on till there was twinty-five or thirty on a side. thin wan cap'n'd kick th' ball, an' all our side'd r-run at it an' kick it back; an' thin wan iv th' other side'd kick it to us, an' afther awhile th' game'd get so timpischous that all th' la-ads iv both sides'd be in wan pile, kickin' away at wan or th' other or at th' ball or at th' impire, who was mos'ly a la-ad that cudden't play an' that come out less able to play thin he was whin he wint in. an', if anny wan laid hands on th' ball, he was kicked be ivry wan else an' be th' impire. we played fr'm noon till dark, an' kicked th' ball all th' way home in the moonlight. "that was futball, an' i was a great wan to play it. i'd think nawthin' iv histin' th' ball two hundherd feet in th' air, an' wanst i give it such a boost that i stove in th' ribs iv th' prowtestant minister--bad luck to him, he was a kind man--that was lookin' on fr'm a hedge. i was th' finest player in th' whole county, i was so. "but this here game that i've been seein' ivry time th' pagan fistival iv thanksgivin' comes ar-round, sure it ain't th' game i played. i seen th' dorgan la-ad comin' up th' sthreet yestherdah in his futball clothes,--a pair iv matthresses on his legs, a pillow behind, a mask over his nose, an' a bushel measure iv hair on his head. he was followed be three men with bottles, dr. ryan, an' th' dorgan fam'ly. i jined thim. they was a big crowd on th' peerary,--a bigger crowd than ye cud get to go f'r to see a prize fight. both sides had their frinds that give th' colledge cries. says wan crowd: 'take an ax, an ax, an ax to thim. hooroo, hooroo, hellabaloo. christyan bro-others!' an' th' other says, 'hit thim, saw thim, gnaw thim, chaw thim, saint aloysius!' well, afther awhile they got down to wurruk. 'sivin, eighteen, two, four,' says a la-ad. i've seen people go mad over figures durin' th' free silver campaign, but i niver see figures make a man want f'r to go out an' kill his fellow-men befure. but these here figures had th' same effect on th' la-ads that a mintion iv lord castlereagh'd have on their fathers. wan la-ad hauled off, an' give a la-ad acrost fr'm him a punch in th' stomach. his frind acrost th' way caught him in th' ear. th' cinter rush iv th' saint aloysiuses took a runnin' jump at th' left lung iv wan iv th' christyan brothers, an' wint to th' grass with him. four christyan brothers leaped most crooly at four saint aloysiuses, an' rolled thim. th' cap'n iv th' saint aloysiuses he took th' cap'n iv th' christyan brothers be th' leg, an' he pounded th' pile with him as i've seen a section hand tamp th' thrack. all this time young dorgan was standin' back, takin' no hand in th' affray. all iv a suddent he give a cry iv rage, an' jumped feet foremost into th' pile. 'down!' says th' impire. 'faith, they are all iv that,' says i, 'will iver they get up?' 'they will,' says ol' man dorgan. 'ye can't stop thim,' says he. "it took some time f'r to pry thim off. near ivry man iv th' saint aloysiuses was tied in a knot around wan iv th' christyan brothers. on'y wan iv them remained on th' field. he was lyin' face down, with his nose in th' mud. 'he's kilt,' says i. 'i think he is,' says dorgan, with a merry smile. 'twas my boy jimmy done it, too,' says he. 'he'll be arrested f'r murdher,' says i. 'he will not,' says he. 'there's on'y wan polisman in town cud take him, an' he's down town doin' th' same f'r somebody,' he says. well, they carried th' corpse to th' side, an' took th' ball out iv his stomach with a monkey wrinch, an' th' game was ray-shumed. 'sivin, sixteen, eight, eleven,' says saint aloysius; an' young dorgan started to run down th' field. they was another young la-ad r-runnin' in fr-front iv dorgan; an', as fast as wan iv th' christyan brothers come up an' got in th' way, this here young saint aloysius grabbed him be th' hair iv th' head an' th' sole iv th' fut, an' thrun him over his shoulder. 'what's that la-ad doin'?' says i. 'interferin',' says he. 'i shud think he was,' says i, 'an' most impudent,' i says. ''tis such interference as this,' i says, 'that breaks up fam'lies'; an' i come away. "'tis a noble sport, an' i'm glad to see us irish ar-re gettin' into it. whin we larn it thruly, we'll teach thim colledge joods fr'm th' pie belt a thrick or two." "we have already," said mr. hennessy. "they'se a team up in wisconsin with a la-ad be th' name iv jeremiah riordan f'r cap'n, an' wan named patsy o'dea behind him. they come down here, an' bate th' la-ads fr'm th' chicawgo colledge down be th' midway." "iv coorse, they did," said mr. dooley. "iv coorse, they did. an' they cud bate anny collection iv baptists that iver come out iv a tank." on the necessity of modesty among the rich. "i wondher," said mr. hennessy, "if thim hadley-markhams that's goin' to give th' ball is anny kin iv th' aldherman?" "i doubt it," said mr. dooley. "i knowed all his folks. they're monaghan people, an' i niver heerd iv thim marryin' into th' hadleys, who come fr'm away beyant near th' joynt's causeway. what med ye think iv thim?" "i was readin' about th' prowtestant minister that give thim such a turnin' over th' other night," said hennessy. then the philistine went on: "it looks to me as though th' man was wr-rong, an' th' hadley-markhams was right. faith, th' more th' poor can get out iv th' r-rich, th' better f'r thim. i seen it put just r-right in th' paper th' other day. if these people didn't let go iv their coin here, they'd take it away with thim to paris or west baden, indiana, an' spind it instid iv puttin' it in circulation amongst th' florists an' dhressmakers an' hackmen they'll have to hire. i believe in encouragin' th' rich to walk away fr'm their change. 'tis gr-reat f'r business." mr. dooley mused over this proposition some time before he said:-- "years ago, whin i was a little bit iv a kid, hardly high enough to look into th' pot iv stirabout on th' peat fire, they was a rich landlord in our part iv ireland; an' he ownded near half th' counthryside. his name was dorsey,--willum edmund fitzgerald dorsey, justice iv th' peace, mimber iv parlymint. "i'll niver tell ye how much land that man had in his own r-right. ye cud walk f'r a day without lavin' it, bog an' oat-field an' pasthure an' game presarves. he was smothered with money, an' he lived in a house as big as th' audjitoroom hotel. manny's th' time i've seen him ride by our place, an' me father'd raise his head from th' kish iv turf an' touch his hat to th' gr-reat man. an' wanst or twict in th' month th' dogs'd come yelpin' acrost our little place, with lads follerin' afther in r-red coats; f'r this dorsey was a gr-reat huntsman, bad scran to his evil face. "he had th' r-reputation iv bein' a good landlord so long as th' crops come regular. he was vilent, it's thrue, an' 'd as lave as not cut a farmer acrost th' face with his whip f'r crossin' th' thrail iv th' fox; but he was liberal with his money, an', hinnissy, that's a thrait that covers a multitude iv sins. he give freely to th' church, an' was as gin'rous to th' priest as to th' parson. he had th' gintry f'r miles around to his big house f'r balls an' dinners an' huntin' meetin's, an' half th' little shopkeepers in th' neighborin' town lived on th' money he spent f'r th' things he didn't bring fr'm dublin or london. i mind wanst a great roar wint up whin he stayed th' whole season in england with his fam'ly. it near broke th' townsfolk, an' they were wild with delight whin he come back an' opened up th' big house. "but wan year there come a flood iv rain, an' th nex' year another flood, an' th' third year there wasn't a lumper turned up that wasn't blue-black to th' hear-rt. we was betther off than most, an' we suffered our share, gawd knows; but thim that was scrapin' th' sod f'r a bare livin' fr'm day to day perished like th' cattle in th' field. "thin come th' writs an' th' evictions. th' bailiffs dhrove out in squads, seizin' cattle an' turnin' people into th' r-road. nawthin' wud soften th' hear-rt iv dorsey. i seen th' priest an' th' 'piscopal ministher dhrivin' over to plead with him wan night; an' th' good man stopped at our house, comin' back, an' spent th' night with us. i heerd him tell me father what dorsey said. 'haven't i been lib'ral with me people?' he says. 'haven't i give freely to ye'er churches? haven't i put up soup-houses an' disthributed blankets whin th' weather was cold? haven't i kept th' shopkeepers iv th' town beyant fr'm starvin' be thradin' with thim an' stayin' in this cur-rsed counthry, whin, if i'd done what me wife wanted, i'd been r-runnin' around europe, enj'yin' life? i'm a risidint landlord. i ain't like kilduff, that laves his estate in th' hands iv an agint. i'm proud iv me station. i was bor-rn here, an' here i'll die; but i'll have me r-rights. these here people owes their rent, an' i'll get th' rent or th' farms if i have to call on ivry rig'mint fr'm bombay to cape clear, an' turn ivry oat-field into a pasture f'r me cattle. i stand on th' law. i'm a just man, an' i ask no more thin what belongs to me.' "ivry night they was a party on th' hill, an' th' people come fr'm miles around; an' th' tinants trudgin' over th' muddy roads with th' peelers behind thim cud see th' light poorin' out fr'm th' big house an' hear devine's band playin' to th' dancers. th' shopkeepers lived in clover, an' thanked th' lord f'r a good landlord, an' wan that lived at home. but one avnin' a black man be th' name iv shaughnessy, that had thramped acrost th' hills fr'm galway just in time to rent f'r th' potato rot, wint and hid himself in a hedge along th' road with a shotgun loaded with hardware under his coat. dorsey'd heerd talk iv the people bein' aggrieved at him givin' big parties while his bailiffs were hustlin' men and women off their hold-in's; but he was a high-handed man, an' foolish in his pride, an' he'd have it no other way but that he'd go about without protection. this night he rode alongside th' carredge iv some iv his frinds goin' to th' other side iv town, an' come back alone in th' moonlight. th' irish ar-re poor marksmen, hinnissy, except whin they fire in platoons; but that big man loomin' up in th' moonlight on a black horse cud no more be missed thin th' r-rock iv cashel. he niver knowed what hit him; an' pether th' packer come down th' followin' month, an' a jury iv shopkeepers hanged shaughnessy so fast it med even th' judge smile." "well," said mr. hennessy, "i suppose he desarved it; but, if i'd been on th' jury, i'd've starved to death before i'd give th' verdict." "thrue," said mr. dooley. "an' dorsey was a fool. he might've evicted twinty thousan' tinants, an' lived to joke about it over his bottle. 'twas th' music iv th' band an' th' dancin' on th' hill an' th' lights th' galway man seen whin he wint up th' muddy road with his babby in his arrums that done th' business f'r dorsey." on the power of love. "'twas this way," said mr. hennessy, sparring at mr. dooley. "fitz led his right light on head, thin he stuck his thumb in corbett's hear-rt, an' that was th' end iv th' fight an' iv pompydour jim. i tol' ye how it wud come out. th' punch over th' hear-rt done th' business." "not at all," said mr. dooley. "not at all. 'twas mrs. fitzsimmons done th' business. did ye see the pitcher iv that lady? did ye? well, 'twud've gone har-rd with th' lad if he'd lost th' fight in th' ring. he'd have to lose another at home. i'll bet five dollars that th' first lady iv th' land licks th' champeen without th' aid iv a stove lid. i know it. "as me good frind, jawn sullivan, says, 'tis a great comfort to have little reminders iv home near by whin ye're fightin'. jawn had none, poor lad; an' that accounts f'r th' way he wint down at last. th' home infloo-ence is felt in ivry walk iv life. whin corbett was poundin' th' first jintleman iv th' land like a man shinglin' a roof, th' first lady iv th' land stood in th' corner, cheerin' on th' bruised an' bleedin' hero. 'darlin'' she says, 'think iv ye'er home, me love. think,' she says, 'iv our little child larnin' his caddychism in rahway, new jersey,' she says. 'think iv th' love i bear ye,' she says, 'an' paste him,' she says, 'in th' slats. don't hit him on th' jaw,' she says. 'he's well thrained there. but tuck ye'er lovin' hooks into his diseased an' achin' ribs,' she says. 'ah, love!' she says, 'recall thim happy goolden days iv our coortship, whin we walked th' counthry lane in th' light iv th' moon,' she says, 'an hurl yer maulies into his hoops,' she says. 'hit him on th' slats!' an' fitz looked over his shoulder an' seen her face, an' strange feelin's iv tendherness come over him; an' thinks he to himself: 'what is so good as th' love iv a pure woman? if i don't nail this large man, she'll prob'ly kick in me head.' an' with this sacred sintimint in his heart he wint over an' jolted corbett wan over th' lathes that retired him to th' home f'r decayed actors. "'twas woman's love that done it, hinnissy. i'll make a bet with ye that, if th' first lady iv th' land had been in th' ring instead iv th' first jintleman, corbett wudden't have lasted wan r-round. i'd like to have such a wife as that. i'd do th' cookin', an' lave th' fightin' to her. there ought to be more like her. th' throuble with th' race we're bringin' up is that th' fair sect, as shakespeare calls thim, lacks inthrest in their jooty to their husbands. it's th' business iv men to fight, an' th' business iv their wives f'r to make thim fight. ye may talk iv th' immyrality iv nailin' a man on th' jaw, but 'tis in this way on'y that th' wurruld increases in happiness an' th' race in strenth. did ye see annywan th' other day that wasn't askin' to know how th' fight come out? they might say that they re-garded th' exhibition as brutal an' disgustin', but divvle a wan iv thim but was waitin' around th' corner f'r th' rayturns, an' prayin' f'r wan or th' other iv th' big lads. father kelly mentioned th' scrap in his sermon last sundah. he said it was a disgraceful an' corruptin' affair, an' he was ashamed to see th' young men iv th' parish takin' such an inthrest in it in lent. but late winsdah afthernoon he came bust-lin' down th' sthreet. 'nice day,' he says. it was poorin' rain. 'fine,' says i. 'they was no parade to-day,' he says. 'no,' says i. 'too bad,' says he; an' he started to go. thin he turned, an' says he: 'be th' way, how did that there foul an' outhrajous affray in carson city come out?' 'fitz,' says i, 'in th' fourteenth.' 'ye don't say,' he says, dancin' around. 'good,' he says. 'i told father doyle this mornin' at breakfuss that if that red-headed man iver got wan punch at th' other lad, i'd bet a new cassock--oh, dear!' he says, 'what am i sayin'?' 'ye're sayin',' says i, 'what nine-tenths iv th' people, laymen an' clargy, are sayin',' i says. 'well,' he says, 'i guess ye're right.' he says. 'afther all,' he says, 'an' undher all, we're mere brutes; an' it on'y takes two lads more brutal than th' rest f'r to expose th' sthreak in th' best iv us. foorce rules th' wurruld, an' th' churches is empty whin th' blood begins to flow.' he says. 'it's too bad, too bad.' he says. 'tell me, was corbett much hurted?' he says." on the victorian era. "ar-re ye goin' to cillybrate th' queen's jubilee?" asked mr. dooley. "what's that?" demanded mr. hennessy, with a violent start. "to-day," said mr. dooley, "her gracious majesty victorya, queen iv great britain an' that part iv ireland north iv sligo, has reigned f'r sixty long and tiresome years." "i don't care if she has snowed f'r sixty years," said mr. hennessy. "i'll not cillybrate it. she may be a good woman f'r all i know, but dam her pollytics." "ye needn't be pro-fane about it," said mr. dooley. "i on'y ast ye a civil question. f'r mesilf, i have no feelin' on th' subject. i am not with th' queen an' i'm not again her. at th' same time i corjally agree with me frind captain finerty, who's put his newspaper in mournin' f'r th' ivint. i won't march in th' parade, an' i won't put anny dinnymite undher thim that does. i don't say th' marchers an' dinnymiters ar-re not both r-right. 'tis purely a question iv taste, an', as the ixicutive says whin both candydates are mimbers iv th' camp, 'pathrites will use their own discreetion.' "th' good woman niver done me no har-rm; an', beyond throwin' a rock or two into an orangey's procission an' subscribin' to tin dollars' worth iv fenian bonds, i've threated her like a lady. anny gredge i iver had again her i burrid long ago. we're both well on in years, an' 'tis no use carrying har-rd feelin's to th' grave. about th' time th' lord chamberlain wint over to tell her she was queen, an' she came out in her nitey to hear th' good news, i was announced into this wurruld iv sin an' sorrow. so ye see we've reigned about th' same lenth iv time, an' i ought to be cillybratin' me di'mon' jubilee. i wud, too, if i had anny di'mon's. do ye r-run down to aldherman o'brien's an' borrow twinty or thirty f'r me. "great happenin's have me an' queen victorya seen in these sixty years. durin' our binificent prisince on earth th' nations have grown r-rich an' prosperous. great britain has ixtinded her domain until th' sun niver sets on it. no more do th' original owners iv th' sile, they bein' kept movin' be th' polis. while she was lookin' on in england, i was lookin' on in this counthry. i have seen america spread out fr'm th' atlantic to th' pacific, with a branch office iv the standard ile comp'ny in ivry hamlet. i've seen th' shackles dropped fr'm th' slave, so's he cud be lynched in ohio. i've seen this gr-reat city desthroyed be fire fr'm de koven sthreet to th' lake view pumpin' station, and thin rise felix-like fr'm its ashes, all but th' west side, which was not burned. i've seen jim mace beat mike mccool, an' tom allen beat jim mace, an' somebody beat tom allen, an' jawn sullivan beat him, an' corbett beat sullivan, an' fitz beat corbett; an', if i live to cillybrate me goold-watch-an'-chain jubilee, i may see some wan put it all over fitz. "oh, what things i've seen in me day an' victorya's! think iv that gran' procission iv lithry men,--tinnyson an' longfellow an' bill nye an' ella wheeler wilcox an' tim scanlan an'--an' i can't name thim all: they're too manny. an' th' brave gin'rals,--von molkey an' bismarck an' u.s. grant an' gallant phil shurdan an' coxey. think iv thim durin' me reign. an' th' invintions,--th' steam-injine an' th' printin'-press an' th' cotton-gin an' the gin sour an' th' bicycle an' th' flyin'-machine an' th' nickel-in-th'-slot machine an' th' croker machine an' th' sody fountain an'--crownin' wurruk iv our civilization--th' cash raygisther. what gr-reat advances has science made in my time an' victorya's! f'r, whin we entered public life, it took three men to watch th' bar-keep, while to-day ye can tell within eight dollars an hour what he's took in. "glory be, whin i look back fr'm this day iv gin'ral rejoicin' in me rhinestone jubilee, an' see what changes has taken place an' how manny people have died an' how much betther off th' wurruld is, i'm proud iv mesilf. war an' pest'lence an' famine have occurred in me time, but i count thim light compared with th' binifits that have fallen to th' race since i come on th' earth." "what ar-re ye talkin' about?" cried mr. hennessy, in deep disgust. "all this time ye've been standin' behind this bar ladlin' out disturbance to th' sixth wa-ard, an' ye haven't been as far east as mitchigan avnoo in twinty years. what have ye had to do with all these things?" "well," said mr. dooley, "i had as much to do with thim as th' queen." on the currency question. "there's some tough knots in this here currency question," said mr. mckenna. "a lot of things i don't quite catch." "cough thim up," said mr. dooley. "i'm a reg'lar caddychism iv coinage. who made ye? gawd made me. why did he make ye? f'r to know him, love him, an' sarve him all me days. that's th' way iv th' caddychism i learned whin i was a la-ad behind a hedge; but now 'tis: who made ye? ladenburg, thalman an' comp'ny made me. why did they make ye? f'r to know thim, love thim, an' sarve thim all me days. o-ho!" "that's all r-right," said mr. thomas larkin, the kerry horseshoer, who was leaning over the cigar-case, reading what mr. lincoln, mr. blaine, mr. edward atkinson, and mr. andrew d. white had to say in a small pamphlet. "that's all r-right, martin. but ye're talkin' like a populist an' an anarchist an' a big bullhead gen'rally. ye bring up two or three jew men, an' think f'r to scare us with thim. but look here. supposin' a man comes into my place an' lays down on th' anvil a silver dollar, an' i give it a wallop with me hammer"-- "thin," said mr. dooley, "ye're knockin' th' gover'mint." "how am i?" said mr. larkin. "niver mind now: i take this here silver dollar, an' i fetch it wan with me hammer. what happens?" "th' man that give ye th' dollar hands ye wan in th' nose," said mr. dooley. "not at all, not at--all," said mr. larkin. "i take this here mutilated an' disfigured an' bum dollar down to th' three-asury, an' i hand it in; an' carlisle says, 'what kind iv an ol' piece iv mud is this ye're flingin' at me?' he says. 'take it away: it's nawthin' to me.'" "true for you, larkin," said mr. mckenna. "you're on the right track. carlisle couldn't take it after you'd smashed it." "but," said mr. dooley, "look here: if ye had th' free an' unlimited coinage iv silver at a ratio iv sixteen to wan, ye cud take this here mass iv silver down to carlisle, an' say, 'here, jawn, give me a dollar'; an' he'd have to give it to ye." "a dollar of what?" said mr. mckenna. "a dollar iv what?" repeated mr. dooley. "a dollar iv what? man alive, don't ye know what a dollar is? carlisle'd hand him out a plunk, a case, a buck. he'd say, 'here, larkin, ye're a dam fool to be malthreatin' th' currincy iv yer adophted counthry, but i have to give ye a dollar because ye're a good fellow an' a frind iv dooley's.'" "he wouldn't say anything of the kind," said mr. mckenna. "he'd give larkin fifty cents." "i'd push his face in if he did," said mr. larkin, warmly. "i'm as good a ma-an as he is anny day. i'll have no man rob me." "but he wouldn't rob you," said mr. mckenna. "think of the purchasing power: you've got to always figure that out. a dollar you'd get then would be worth only half as much as it's worth now. it'd be a dollar like they run through the ringer down in mexico." "how can wan dollar be worth on'y half as much as another dollar, if they're both dollars an' th' man that made thim is at la-arge?" answered mr. dooley. "here's a dollar, an' here's a dollar. wan akels th' other. now you take this here dollar, an' come into my place. 'give me a brandy an' sody,' ye say. thin what do i say?" "you say you're just out of brandy and soda." "so i do, so i do. thin you ask f'r a little liquor with beer f'r a chaser. an' i give it to ye. ye lay down wan iv these here quartz dollars. i return eighty-five cints. larkin comes in later, ordhers th' same thing, an' i give him th' same threatment. i play no fav-rites. entertainmint f'r man an' beast." "but, if we had free silver, you'd charge thirty cents for the drink," said mr. mckenna. "i wud not," said mr. dooley, hotly. "i niver overcharged a man in my life, except durin' a campaign." "no one accuses you of overcharging," explained mr. mckenna. "everybody would charge the same. it'd be the regular price." "if it was," said mr. dooley, "they'd be a rivolution. but i don't believe it, jawn. let me tell ye wan thing. whisky is th' standard iv value. it niver fluctuates; an' that's funny, too, seein' that so much iv it goes down. it was th' same price--fifteen cints a slug, two f'r a quarther--durin' the war; an' it was th' same price afther the war. the day befure th' crime iv sivinty-three it was worth fifteen cints: it was worth th' same th' day afther. goold and silver fluctuates, up wan day, down another; but whisky stands firm an' strong, unchangeable as th' skies, immovable as a rock at fifteen or two f'r a quarther. if they want something solid as a standard iv value, something that niver is rajjooced in price, something ye can exchange f'r food an' other luxuries annywhere in th' civilized wurruld where man has a thirst, they'd move th' mint over to th' internal rivinue office, and lave it stay there." both mr. larkin and mr. mckenna were diverted by this fancy. "there's some good argumints on both sides iv th' quisthion," said the kerry man. "i heerd a man be th' name of doyle, a helper, compare money to th' human lungs." "th' lung argumint is all right," said mr. dooley. "th' whole currency question is a matther iv lungs." on political parades. mr. hennessy, wearing a silver-painted stovepipe hat and a silver cape and carrying a torch, came in, looking much the worse for wear. the hat was dented, the cape was torn, and there were marks on mr. hennessy's face. "where ye been?" asked mr. dooley. "ma-archin,'" said mr. hennessy. "be th' looks iv ye, ye might have been th' line iv ma-arch f'r th' p'rade. who's been doin' things to ye?" "i had a currency debate with a man be th' name iv joyce, a towny iv mine, in th' audjiotoroom hotel," said mr. hennessy. "whin we got as far as th' price iv wheat in th' year iv th' big wind, we pushed each other. give me a high glass iv beer. i'm as dhry as a gravel roof." "well," said mr. dooley, handing over the glass, "ye're an ol' man; an', as th' good book says, an ol' fool is th' worst yet. so i'll not thry to con-vince ye iv th' error iv ye'er ways. but why anny citizen that has things in his head shud dhress himself up like a sandwich-man, put a torch on his shoulder, an' toddle over this blessid town with his poor round feet, is more than i can come at with all me intelligence. "i agree with ye perfectly, hinnissy, that this here is a crisis in our histhry. on wan hand is arrayed th' shylocks an' th' pathrites, an' on th' other side th' pathrites an' th' arnychists. th' constitution must be upheld, th' gover'mint must be maintained, th' down-throdden farmer an' workin'man must get their rights. but do ye think, man alive, that ye're goin' to do this be pourin' lard ile frim ye'er torch down ye'er spine or thrippin' over sthreet-car tracks like a dhray-horse thryin' to play circus? is th' constitution anny safer to-night because ye have to have ye'er leg amputated to get ye'er boot off, or because joyce has made ye'er face look like th' back dure-step iv a german resthrant? "jawnny mack took me down in th' afthernoon f'r to see th' monsthrous p'rade iv th' goold men. it was a gloryous spectacle. th' sthreets were crowded with goold bugs an' women an' polismin an' ambulances. th' procission was miles an' miles long. labor an' capital marched side be side, or annyhow labor was in its usual place, afther th' capitalists. it was a noble sight f'r to see th' employer iv workin'men marchin' ahead iv his band iv sturdy toilers that to rest thimsilves afther th' layboryous occupations iv th' week was reelin' undher banners that dhrilled a hole in their stomachs or carryin' two-be-four joists to show their allegance to th' naytional honor. a man that has to shovel coke into a dhray or shove lumber out iv th' hole iv a barge or elevate his profession be carryin' a hod iv mort to th' top iv a laddher doesn't march with th' grace iv an antelope, be a blamed sight. to march well, a man's feet have to be mates; an', if he has two left feet both runnin' sideways, he ought to have interference boots to keep him fr'm settin' fire to his knees. whin a man walks as if he expected to lave a leg stuck in th' sthreet behind him, he has th' gait proper f'r half-past six o'clock th' avenin' before pay-day. but 'tis not th' prance iv an american citizen makin' a gloryous spectacle iv himsilf." "they were coerced," said mr. hennessy, gloomily. "don't ye believe it," replied the philosopher. "it niver requires coercion to get a man to make a monkey iv himsilf in a prisidintial campaign. he does it as aisily as ye dhrink ye'er liquor, an' that's too aisy. don't ye believe thim lads with lumber ya-ards on their necks an' bar'ls on their feet was coerced. there wasn't wan iv thim that wudden't give his week's wages f'r a chanst to show how many times he cud thrip over a manhole in a mile. no more coerced than ye are whin ye r-run down town an' make an ape iv ye-ersilf. i see ye marchin' away fr'm finucane's with th' willum j. o'briens. th' man nex' to ye had a banner declarin' that he was no slave. 'twas th' la-ad johnson. he was r-right. he is no slave, an' he won't be wan as long as people have washin' to give to his wife. th' man i see ye takin' a dhrink with had a banner that said if th' mines was opened th' mills would be opened, too. he meant be that, that if money was plenty enough f'r him to get some without wurrukin', he'd open a gin mill. an' ye ma-arched afther willum j. o'brien, didn't ye? well, he's a good la-ad. if i didn't think so, i wudden't say it until i got me strenth back or cud buy a gun. but did willum j. o'brien march? not willie. he was on horseback; an', hinnissy, if dollars was made out iv babbit metal, an' horses was worth sixty-sivin cints a dhrove, ye cudden't buy a crupper." "well," said mr. hennessy, "annyhow, i proved me hathred iv capital." "so ye did," said mr. dooley. "so ye did. an' capital this afthernoon showed its hatred iv ye. ye ought to match blisters to see which hates th' worst. capital is at home now with his gams in a tub iv hot wather; an' whin he comes down to-morrah to oppriss labor an' square his protisted notes, he'll have to go on all fours. as f'r you, hinnissy, if 'twill aise ye anny, ye can hang f'r a few minyits fr'm th' gas fixtures. did th' goold dimmycrats have a p'rade?" "no," said mr. hennessy. "but they rayviewed th' day procission fr'm th' pammer house. both iv thim was on th' stand." on charity. "br-r-r!" cried mr. mckenna, entering stiffly and spreading his hands over the potbellied stove. "it's cold." "where?" asked mr. dooley. "not here." "it's cold outside," said mr. mckenna. "it was ten below at shannahan's grocery when i went by, and the wind blowing like all possessed. lord love us, but i pity them that's got to be out to-night." "save ye'er pity," said mr. dooley, comfortably. "it ain't cowld in here. there's frost on th' window, 'tis thrue for ye; an' th' wheels has been singin' th' livelong day. but what's that to us? here i am, an' there ye are, th' stove between us an' th' kettle hummin'. in a minyit it'll bile, an' thin i'll give ye a taste iv what'll make a king iv ye. "well, tubby sure, 'tis thryin' to be dhrivin' a coal wagon or a sthreet-car; but 'tis all in a lifetime. th' diff'rence between me an' th' man that sets up in th' seat thumpin' his chest with his hands is no more thin th' diff'rence between him an' th' poor divvle that walks along behind th' wagon with his shovel on his shoulder, an' 'll thank th' saints f'r th' first chanst to put tin ton iv ha-ard coal into a cellar f'r a quarther iv a dollar. th' lad afoot invies th' dhriver, an' th' dhriver invies me; an' i might invy big cleveland if it wasn't f'r th' hivinly smell iv this here noggin. an' who does cleveland invy? sure, it'd be sacreliege f'r me to say. "me ol' father, who was as full iv sayin's as an almanac, used to sink his spoon into th' stirabout, an' say, 'well, lads, this ain't bacon an' greens an' porther; but it'll be annything ye like if ye'll on'y think iv th' cassidys.' th' cassidys was th' poorest fam'ly in th' parish. they waked th' oldest son in small beer, an' was little thought of. did me father iver ask thim in to share th' stirabout? not him. an' he was the kindest man in th' wurruld. he had a heart in him as big as a lump iv turf, but he'd say, 'whin ye grow up, take no wan's sorrows to ye'ersilf,' he says. ''tis th' wise man that goes through life thinkin' iv himsilf, fills his own stomach, an' takes away what he can't ate in his pocket.' an' he was r-right, jawn. we have throubles enough iv our own. th' wurruld goes on just th' same, an' ye can find fifty men to say th' lit'ny f'r ye to wan that'll give ye what'll relieve a fastin' spit. th' dead ar-re always pop'lar. i knowed a society wanst to vote a monyment to a man an' refuse to help his fam'ly, all in wan night. 'tis cowld outside th' dure, ye say, but 'tis war-rum in here; an' i'm gettin' in me ol' age to think that the diff'rence between hivin an' hell is no broader"-- mr. dooley's remarks were cut short by a cry from the back room. it was unmistakably a baby's cry. mr. mckenna turned suddenly in amazement as mr. dooley bolted. "well, in the name of the saints, what's all this?" he cried, following his friend into the back room. he found the philosopher, with an expression of the utmost sternness, sitting on the side of his bed, with a little girl of two or three in his arms. the philosopher was singing:---- ar-rah rock-a-bye, babby, on th' three top: whin th' wind blo-ows, th' cradle ull r-rock; an', a-whin th' bough breaks, th' cradle ull fa-a-a-ll, an' a-down ull come babby, cradle, an' all. then he sang:---- in th' town iv kilkinny there du-wilt a fair ma-aid, in th' town iv kilkinny there du-wilt a fair ma-aid. she had cheeks like th' roses, an' hair iv th' same, an' a mouth like ripe sthrawburries burrid in crame. he rocked the child to and fro, and its crying ceased while he sang:---- chip, chip, a little horse; chip, chip, again, sir. how manny miles to dublin? threescure an' tin, sir. the little girl went to sleep on mr. dooley's white apron. he lifted her tenderly, and carried her over to his bed. then he tiptoed out with an apprehensive face, and whispered: "it's jawn donahue's kid that wandherd away fr'm home, an' wint to sleep on me dure-step. i sint th' dorsey boy to tell th' mother, but he's a long time gone. do ye run over, jawn, an' lave thim know." on nansen. "i see," said mr. dooley, "that doc nansen has come back." "yes," said mr. mckenna. "it's a wonder he wouldn't stay till winter. if i was setting on an iceberg in latitude umpty-ump north of evanston these days, they couldn't pry me off it with a crowbar. not they." "he had to come back," explained mr. hennessy. "he got as far as he cud, an' thin he was foorced be th' inclimincy iv th' weather to return to his home in feechoold, norway." "to where?" mr. dooley asked contemptuously. "to foocheeld, norway," said mr. hennessy, with some misgivings. "ye don't know what ye're talkin' about," retorted the philosopher. "ye ought to go back to school an' study gee-ography. th' place he come back to was oostoc, norway, between coopenhaagen an'--an' rogers park." "maybe ye're right," said mr. hennessy. "annyhow, he come back, chased be a polar bear. it must iv been a thrillin' experience, leppin' fr'm iceberg to iceberg, with a polar bear grabbin' at th' seat iv his pants, an' now an' thin a walrus swoopin' down fr'm a three an' munchin' his hat." "what ta-alk have ye?" mr. dooley demanded. "a walrus don't fly, foolish man!" "what does he do, thin?" asked mr. hennessy. "go 'round on crutches?" "a walrus," said mr. dooley, "is an animal something like a hor-rse, but more like a balloon. it doesn't walk, swim, or fly. it rowls whin pur-suin' its prey. it whirls 'round an' 'round at a speed akel to a railroad injine, meltin' th' ice in a groove behind it. tame walruses are used be th' eskeemyoos, th' old settlers iv thim parts, as lawnmowers an' to press their clothes. th' wild walrus is a mos' vicious animal, which feeds on snowballs through th' day, an' thin goes out iv nights afther artic explorers, which for-rms its principal diet. theyse a gr-reat demand among walruses f'r artic explorers, swedes preferred; an' on account iv th' scarcity iv this food it isn't more than wanst in twinty years that th' walrus gets a square meal. thin he devours his victim, clothes, collar-buttons, an' all." "well, well," said mr. hennessy. "i had no idee they was that ferocious. i thought they were like bur-rds. don't they lay eggs?" "don't they lay eggs?" mr. dooley replied. "don't they lay eggs? did ye iver hear th' like iv that, jawn? why, ye gaby, ye might as well ask me does a pianny lay eggs. iv coorse not." "i'd like to know what the objict of these here arctic explorations is," interposed mr. mckenna, in the interests of peace. "th' principal objict is to get rid iv an over-supply iv foolish people," said mr. dooley. "in this counthry, whin a man begins f'r to see sthrange things, an' hitch up cockroaches, an' think he's vanderbilt dhrivin' a four-in-hand, we sind him to what me ol' frind sleepy burk calls th' brain college. but in norway an' sweden they sind him to th' north pole, an' feed him to th' polar bears an' th' walruses. a man that scorches on a bicycle or wears a pink shirt or is caught thryin' to fry out a stick iv dinnymite in a kitchen stove is given a boat an' sint off to play with flora an' fauna in th' frozen north." "that's what i'd like to know," said mr. hennessy. "who ar-re these flora an' fauna? i see be th' pa-aper that doc nansen stopped at nootchinchoot islands, an' saw flora an' fauna; an' thin, comin' back on th' ice, he encountherd thim again." "i suppose," said mr. dooley, "ye think flora an' fauna is two little eskeemy girls at skip-rope an' 'london bridge is fallin' down' on th' icebergs an' glaziers. it's a pretty idee ye have iv th' life in thim parts. little flora an' little fauna playin' stoop-tag aroun' a whale or rushin' th' can f'r their poor tired father just home fr'm th' rollin'-mills, where he's been makin' snowballs f'r th' export thrade, or engagin' in some other spoort iv childhood! go wan with ye!" "but who are they, annyhow?" "i make it a rule in me life not to discuss anny woman's charac-ter," replied mr. dooley, sternly. "if doc nansen was off there skylarkin' with flora an' fauna, it's his own business, an' i make no inquiries. a lady's a lady, be she iver so humble; an', as shakespeare says, cursed be th' man that'd raise an ax to her, save in th' way iv a joke. we'll talk no scandal in this house, hinnissy." but, after his friend had gone, mr. dooley leaned over confidentially, and whispered to mr. mckenna, "but who are flora an' fauna, jawn?" "i don't know," said mr. mckenna. "it sounds mighty suspicious, annyhow," said the philosopher. "i hope th' doc'll be able to square it with his wife." on a populist convention. "keep ye'er eye on th' pops, jawn. they're gr-reat people an' a gr-reat pa-arty. what is their principles? anny ol' thing that th' other pa-arties has rijected. some iv thim is in favor iv coining money out iv baled hay an' dhried apples at a ratio iv sixteen to wan, an' some is in favor iv coinin' on'y th' apples. thim are th' inflationists. others want th' gover'mint to divide up the rivinues equally among all la-ads that's too sthrong to wurruk. th' pops is again th' banks an' again the supreme court an again havin' gas that can be blowed out be th' human lungs. a sthrong section is devoted to th' principal iv separatin' mark hanna fr'm his money. "a ma-an be th' name iv cassidy, that thravels f'r a liquor-house, was in to see me this mornin'; an' he come fr'm saint looey. he said it beat all he iver see or heerd tell of. whin th' convintion come to ordher, th' chairman says, 'la-ads, we'll open proceedin's be havin' th' hon'rable rube spike, fr'm th' imperyal territ'ry iv okalahoma, cough up his famous song, "pa-pa cleveland's teeth are filled with goold."' 'mr. chairman,' says a delegate fr'm new mexico, risin' an' wavin' his boots in th' air, 'if th' skate fr'm okalahoma is allowed f'r to belch anny in this here assimblage, th' diligates fr'm th' imperyal territ'ry iv new mex-ico'll lave th' hall. we have,' he says, 'in our mist th' hon'rable lafayette hadley, whose notes,' he says, 'falls as sweetly on th' ear,' he says, 'as th' plunk iv hivin's rain in a bar'l,' he says. 'if annywan has a hemorrhage iv anthems in this hall, it'll be lafe hadley, th' guthrie batsoon,' he says. 'ye shall not,' he says, 'press down upon our bleedin' brows,' he says, 'this cross iv thorns,' he says. 'ye shall not crucify th' diligates fr'm th' imperyal territ'ry iv new mexico on this cross iv a mississippi nigger an' crow injun fr'm okalahoma,' he says. thereupon, says me frind cassidy, th' new mexico diligation left th' hall, pursued be th' diligation from okalahoma. "th' chairman knowed his business. 'in ordher,' he says, 'that there may be no disordher,' he says, 'i will call upon th' imperyal states,' he says, 'an territ'ries,' he says, 'beginnin' with th' imperyal state iv alabama,' he says, 'to each sind wan singer to th' platform,' he says, 'f'r to wring our hear-rts with melodies,' he says. 'meantime,' says he, 'pathrites who have differences iv opinyon on anny questions can pro-cure ex-helves be applyin' to th' sergeant-at-arms,' he says. 'now,' he says, 'if th' gintleman fr'm th' imperyal state of mizzoury'll hand me up a cheek full iv his eatin' tobacco,' he says, 'we'll listen to willyum g. rannycaboo, th' boy melodjun iv th' imperyal state iv alabama,' he says, 'who'll discourse his well-known ballad, 'th' supreme court is full iv standard ile,' he says. "whin th' singin' had con-cluded, so me frind cassidy says, th' chair announced that speakin' would be in ordher, an' th' convintion rose as wan man. afther ordher had been enforced be th' sergeant-at-arms movin' round, an' lammin' diligates with a hoe, a tall man was seen standin' on a chair. f'r some moments th' chairman was onable to call his name, but he fin'lly found a place to spill; an' in a clear voice he says, 'f'r what purpose does th' gintleman fr'm the imperyal state iv texas arise?' 'i arise,' says th' ma-an, 'f'r th' purpose iv warnin' this convintion that we have a goold-bug in our mist,' he says. cries iv 'throw him out!' 'search him!' 'hang him!' arose. 'in wandhrin' through th' hall, i just seen a man with a coat on,' he says. great excitement ensood, says me frind cassidy; an' th' thremblin' victim was brought down th' aisle. 'what have ye to say f'r ye'ersilf?' demands th' chairman in thundhrin' tones. 'on'y this,' says th' goold-bug. 'i wandhered in here, lookin' f'r frinds,' he says. 'i am not a goold-bug,' he says. 'i wear me coat,' he says, 'because i have no shirt,' he says. 'gintlemen,' says th' chairman, 'a mistake has been made,' he says. 'this here person, who bears th' appearance iv a plutocrat, is all right underneath,' he says. 'he's a diligate to th' silver convintion,' he says. 'go in peace,' he says. "be this time 'twas gr-rowin' late, an' th' convintion adjourned. 'befure ye lave,' says th' chairman, 'i have to announce that on account iv th' chairman of the comity havin' been imprisoned in a foldin'-bed an' th' sicrity havin' mistook th' fire extinguisher f'r a shower bath, they'll be no meeting' iv th' comity on rules till to-morrow night. durin' th' interval,' he says, 'th' convintion'll continue ketch-as-ketch can,' he says." "well," said mr. mckenna, "to think of taking this here country out of the hands of william c. whitney and grover cleveland and j. pierpont morgan and ickleheimer thalmann, and putting it in the hands of such men. what do you think about it?" "i think," said mr. dooley, "that cassidy lied." on a family reunion. "why aren't you out attending the reunion of the dooley family?" mr. mckenna asked the philosopher. "thim's no rel-ations to me," mr. dooley answered. "thim's farmer dooleys. no wan iv our fam'ly iver lived in th' counthry. we live in th' city, where they burn gas an' have a polis foorce to get on to. we're no farmers, divvle th' bit. we belong to th' industhreel classes. thim must be th' fermanagh dooleys, a poor lot, jawn, an' always on good terms with th' landlord, bad ciss to thim, says i. we're from roscommon. they'se a dooley family in wixford an' wan near ballybone that belonged to th' constabulary. i met him but wanst. 'twas at an iviction; an', though he didn't know me, i inthrajooced mesilf be landin' him back iv th' ear with a bouldher th' size iv ye'er two fists together. he didn't know me aftherwards, ayether. "we niver had but wan reunion iv th' dooley fam'ly, an' that was tin years ago. me cousin felix's boy aloysius,--him that aftherwards wint to new york an' got a good job dhrivin' a carredge f'r th' captain iv a polis station,--he was full iv pothry an' things; an' he come around wan night, an' says he, 'd'ye know,' he says, ''twud be th' hite iv a good thing f'r th' dooleys to have a reunion,' he says. 'we ought to come together,' he says, 'an' show the people iv this ward,' he says, 'how sthrong we are,' he says. 'ye might do it betther, me buck,' says i, 'shovellin' slag at th' mills,' i says. 'but annyhow, if ye'er mind's set on it, go ahead,' i says, 'an' i'll attind to havin' th' polis there,' i says, 'f'r i have a dhrag at th' station.' "well, he sint out letthers to all th' roscommon dooleys; an' on a saturdah night we come together in a rinted hall an' held th' reunion. 'twas great sport f'r a while. some iv us hadn't spoke frindly to each other f'r twinty years, an' we set around an' tol' stories iv roscommon an' its green fields, an' th' stirabout pot that was niver filled, an' th' blue sky overhead an' th' boggy ground undherfoot. 'which dooley was it that hamsthrung th' cows?' 'mike dooley's pat.' 'naw such thing: 'twas pat dooley's mike. i mane pat dooley's mike's pat.' f'r 'tis with us as with th' rest iv our people. ye take th' dutchman: he has as manny names to give to his childher as they'se nails in his boots, but an irishman has th' pick iv on'y a few. i knowed a man be th' name iv clancy,--a man fr'm kildare. he had fifteen childher; an', whin th' las' come, he says, 'dooley, d'ye happen to know anny saints?' 'none iv thim thrades here,' says i. 'why?' says i. 'they'se a new kid at th' house,' he says; 'an', be me troth, i've run out iv all th' saints i knew, an', if somewan don't come to me assistance, i'll have to turn th' child out on th' wurruld without th' rag iv a name to his back,' he says. "but i was tellin' ye about th' reunion. they was lashins iv dhrink an' story-tellin', an' felix's boy aloysius histed a banner he had made with 'dooley aboo' painted on it. but, afther th' night got along, some iv us begun to raymimber that most iv us hadn't been frinds f'r long. mrs. morgan dooley, she that was molly dooley befure she married morgan, she turns to me, an' says she, ''tis sthrange they let in that hogan woman,' she says,--that hogan woman, jawn, bein' th' wife iv her husband's brother. she heerd her say it, an' she says, 'i'd have ye to undherstand that no wan iver come out iv roscommon that cud hold up their heads with th' hogans,' she says. ''tis not f'r th' likes iv ye to slandher a fam'ly that's iv th' landed gintry iv ireland, an' f'r two pins i'd hit ye a poke in th' eye,' she says. if it hadn't been f'r me bein' between thim, they'd have been trouble; f'r they was good frinds wanst. what is it th' good book says about a woman scorned? faith, i've forgotten. "thin me uncle mike come in, as rough a man as iver laid hands on a polisman. felix dooley was makin' a speech on th' vartues iv th' fam'ly. 'th' dooleys,' says he, 'can stand before all th' wurruld, an' no man can say ought agin ayether their honor or their integrity,' says he. 'th' man that's throwin' that at ye,' says me uncle mike, 'stole a saw fr'm me in th' year sivinty-five.' felix paid no attintion to me uncle mike, but wint on, 'we point proudly to th' motto, "dooley aboo--dooley f'river."' 'th' saw aboo,' says me uncle mike. 'th' dooleys,' says felix, 'stood beside red hugh o'neill; an', whin he cut aff his hand,--' 'he didn't cut it off with anny wan else's saw,' says me uncle mike. 'they'se an old sayin',' wint on felix. 'an' ol' saw,' says me uncle mike. 'but 'twas new whin ye stole it.' "'now look here,' says aloysius, 'this thing has gone far enough. 'tis an outrage that this here man shud come here f'r to insult th' head iv th' fam'ly.' 'th' head iv what fam'ly?' says morgan dooley, jumpin' up as hot as fire. 'i'm th' head iv th' fam'ly,' he says, 'be right iv histhry.' 'ye're an ol' cow,' says me uncle mike. 'th' back iv me hand an' th' sowl iv me fut to all iv ye,' he says. 'i quit ye,' he says. 'ye're all livin' here undher assumed names'; an' he wint out, followed be morgan dooley with a chair in each hand. "well, they wasn't two dooleys in th' hall'd speak whin th' meetin' broke up; an' th' lord knows, but i don't to this day, who's th' head iv th' dooley fam'ly. all i know is that i had wan th' nex' mornin'." on a famous wedding. "ye see, jawn," he said "'twas this way: the jook iv marlburrow is a young lad an' poor. ye can't think of a jook bein' poor, but 'tis a fact that they'se many a wan iv thim that's carryin' th' banner at this minyit. hinnissy, if he had his rights, is jook iv munster; an' ye know what he's got. the jook iv marlburrow, whin he come out iv th' academy where they had him, he hadn't a cint to his name. ne'er a wan. "they ain't manny jobs f'r a young jook. th' thrade is limited; an' this here la-ad wint round night an' day lookin' f'r a sign, 'wanted, a young jook, r-ready an' willin' to do light family jookin',' an' no sign did he see. he was in a bad way; f'r the la-ad's father was dead, th' ol' jook. he was a fine bucko. he had a divorce fr'm his wife, an' marrid another; an', whin he died, she marrid somewan else an' took the roly-boly with her. this was ha-ard on th' lad. "but he come iv a noble race, an' wan that had reed burruds whin their betthers had snowballs. did ye iver read histhry, jawn? ye ought to. 'tis betther thin th' polis gazette, an' near as thrue. well, jawn, this here young man come fr'm a gr-eat gin'ral, a fine-lookin' la-ad that had manny a mash in his day, an' niver lost money be wan iv thim. ye'll find all about him in casey's 'histhry iv english misrule in ireland: th' story iv a crime.' 'tis good readin'. "th' la-ad's father marrid a rich woman. so did his uncle. so ye see he was a natural bor-rn fi-nanceer. an' he begun to luk around him f'r what th' pa-apers calls a 'financee.' "he didn't have far to go. i dinnaw how he done it, whether th' ganderbilks asked him 'r he asked th' ganderbilks. annyhow, 'twas arranged. 'twas horse an' horse between thim. th' ganderbilks had money, an' he was a jook. they was wan divorce on each side. so they imported him over, what they call assisted immygration. he didn't come undher th' head iv skilled workman. they must've classed him as a domestic servant. th' first thing he done was to get himsilf arristed. a man be th' name iv sweeney,--there are some good sweeneys, though it's a name i don't like on account iv wan iv thim stealin' me fa-ather's grin'stone,--a man be th' name iv sweeney, a polisman, r-run him in f'r disordherly conduct. they got him out with a pull. thin he sint f'r lawyers an' f'r his financee's father, an' they settled down to talk business. 'well,' says ganderbilk, 'how much d'ye want?' he says. 'i'll give ye a millyon.' 'goowan,' says th' jook, 'i cud get that much marryin' somewan i knew.' 'thin how much d'ye want?' says ganderbilk. 'well,' says th' jook, th' castle has to be put in repair. th' plumbin' is all gone to th' divvle, an' they'll have to be a new catch-basin put in,' he says. 'thin they'se calciminin' an' paper-hangin',--well, call it tin millyons.' 'but what do i get out iv it?' says ganderbilk. 'have ye a ticket to th' church to see me marrid?' says th' jook. 'no,' says his pappa-in-law. 'well, here's a couple,' says th' jook. 'bring wan iv ye'er frinds with ye.' so ganderbilk he coughed. "they say th' jook was that poor he had to have his coat made out iv what was left over fr'm his pants, they do so. but he was at th' church bright an' early; an' ganderbilk he was there, too, standin' out on th' steps in th' cold, combin' his whiskers--he wears a pair iv sluggers--with his fingers. afther awhile his daughter, the jook's financee, come along; an', seein' the jook, says she, 'pappa,' she says, 'inthrojooce me to ye'er frind.' 'jook,' says ganderbilk, 'shake hands with me daughther. she's your's,' he says. an' so they were marrid. "well, jawn," said mr. dooley, becoming serious, "'tis a dhroll wurruld, an' i suppose we've got to take th' jooks an' th' ganderbilks with the r-rest. i'm goin' to a weddin' mesilf nex' week. th' banns has been called between little dalia hogan an' big tom moran. they've been engaged f'r three year, her wurrkin' in a box facthry an' him doin' overtime at th' blast. they've money enough to start, an' it'll not cost ol' ma-an hogan a cint. but, whin he spoke about it las' night, he cried as if his heart'd break." on a quarrel between england and germany. mr. mckenna was aware that a gentle feud had existed between mr. dooley and mr. schwartzmeister, the german saloon-keeper down archey road, for some years. it was based upon racial differences, but had been accented when mr. schwartzmeister put in a pool table. of course there was no outburst. when the two met on the street, mr. dooley saluted his neighbor cordially, in these terms: "good-nobben, hair schwartzmeister, an' vas magst too yet, me brave bucko!" to which mr. schwartzmeister invariably retorted: "py chapers, tooley, where you haf been all der time, py chapers?" but this was mere etiquette. in the publicity of their own taverns they entertained no great regard for each other. mr. schwartzmeister said a friend of his had been poisoned by mr. dooley's beer, and mr. dooley confessed that he would rather go to a harness-shop for whiskey than to mr. schwartzmeister's. consequently, mr. mckenna was amazed to learn that mr. schwartzmeister had been entertained by the philosopher, and that they had paraded archey road arm-in-arm at a late hour. "tubby sure he was," said mr. dooley. "tubby sure he was. right where ye're standin' at this moment, me dhrinkin' beer an' him callin' f'r hot irish. 'make it hot,' he says. 'make it hot, me frind; an' we'll make it hot f'r th' british between us,' says schwartzmeister. "it come about this way: ye see willum joyce come in, an' says he, 'we've got thim.' 'sure,' says i. 'we've the comityman, haven't we?' 'th' dutch is with us,' he says. 'i mane the germans is our frinds.' 'ye're goin' too far there,' says i. 'stuckart was again reed las' spring.' 'no, no,' says willum joyce, he says. 'th' germans is up in ar-rms again th' sassenach,' he says. 'mind ye,' he says, 'mind ye,' he says, ''tis our jooty to be frindly with th' germans,' he says. 'i'm now on me way f'r to organize a camp iv me dutch frinds down be th' slough,' he says. an' off he goes. "'twas not long afther whin i heerd a man singin' 'th' wearin' iv th' green' down th' sthreet, an' in come schwartzmeister. 'faugh a ballagh,' says he, meanin' to be polite. 'lieb vaterland,' says i. an' we had a dhrink together. "'vell,' says he (ye know th' murdhrin' way he has iv speakin'), 'here we are,' he says, 'frinds at las'.' 'thrue f'r ye,' says i. 'tooley,' he says, f'r he calls me that, 'we're wan to-night, alretty,' he says. 'we are that,' says i. 'but, glory be, who iver thought th' irish'd live to see th' day whin they'd be freed be th' dutch? schwartz, me lieber frind,' i says, 'here's a health to th' imp'ror, hock,' says i. 'slanthu,' says he; an' we had wan. "''twud be a great combination,' says i, 'we'd carry th' wa-ard be th' biggest majority iver heerd iv,' i says. 'we wud so,' says he. 'i'd be aldherman.' 'afther me,' says i. ''tis my turn first,' i says. 'i don't know about that,' says he. 'now,' says i, 'look here, schwartzmeister,' i says. 'this here arrangement between germany an' ireland has got to be brought down to th' sixth wa-ard,' i says. 'do ye f'rgive th' way we done ye in th' beer rites?' i says. 'i do,' says he. 'they was befure me time.' 'well,' says i, 'are ye sure ye can get over th' whalin' ye got whin th' sarsfield fife an' dhrum corpse met th' frederick willum picnic band?' i says. 'i do,' says he. 'an' ye have no har-rd feelin' about th' way th' bridges has been give out?' 'not a thrace,' says he. 'well,' says i, 'schwartz,' i says, 'they'se wan thing more,' i says. 'we're both pathrites,' i says. 'we have a common cause,' i says. 'ye're a dutchman, an' i'm iv' th' other sort,' i says. 'but we're both again th' sassenach,' i says. 'an' in th' inthrests iv th' freedom iv ireland,' i says, 'i f'rgive ye th' pool table.' "well, sir, jawn, he wept like a child. 'tooley,' he says, 'we'll march side be side,' he says. 'both iv us in th' front rank,' he says. 'aldherman tooley an' aldherman schwartzmeister, to free ireland,' he says. 'but where does germany come in?' he says. 'germany!' says i, 'germany! well, we'll take care iv germany, all right. we'll let germans into th' prim'ries,' i says. an' there an' thin we formed th' sarsfield-an'-gatty camp. gatty is a german frind iv schwartzmeister. we shook dice to see which name'd come first. ireland won. they was my dice. "i learned schwartzmeister th' shan-van-voght before we was through; an' i've got th' german naytional chune be heart,--'ich vice nit wauss allus bay doitan'. what'll ye have to drink, jawn?" and, as mr. mckenna went out, he heard his friend muttering: "freed be th' dutch! freed be the dutch! an' we niver give thim so much as a dillygate." on oratory in politics. "i mind th' first time willum j. o'brien r-run f'r office, th' raypublicans an' th' indypindants an' th' socialists an' th' prohybitionist (he's dead now, his name was larkin) nommynated a young man be th' name iv dorgan that was in th' law business in halsted sthreet, near cologne, to r-run again' him. smith o'brien dorgan was his name, an' he was wan iv th' most iloquint young la-ads that iver made a speakin' thrumpet iv his face. he cud holler like th' impire iv a base-ball game; an', whin he delivered th' sintimints iv his hear-rt, ye'd think he was thryin' to confide thim to a man on top iv a high buildin'. he was prisidint iv th' lithry club at th' church; an' father kelly tol' me that, th' day afther he won th' debate on th' pen an' th' soord in favor iv th' pen, they had to hire a carpenter to mend th' windows, they'd sagged so. they called him th' boy or-rator iv healey's slough. "he planned th' campaign himsilf. 'i'll not re-sort,' says he, 'to th' ordin'ry methods,' he says. 'th' thing to do,' he says, 'is to prisint th' issues iv th' day to th' voters,' he says. 'i'll burn up ivry precin't in th' ward with me iloquince,' he says. an' he bought a long black coat, an' wint out to spread th' light. "he talked ivrywhere. th' people jammed finucane's hall, an' he tol' thim th' time had come f'r th' masses to r-rise. 'raymimber,' says he, 'th' idees iv novimb'r,' he says. 'raymimber demosthens an' cicero an' oak park,' he says. 'raymimber th' thraditions iv ye'er fathers, iv washin'ton an' jefferson an' andhrew jackson an' john l. sullivan,' he says. 'ye shall not, billy o'brien,' he says, 'crucify th' voters iv th' sixth ward on th' double cross,' he says. he spoke to a meetin' in deerin' sthreet in th' same wurads. he had th' sthreet-car stopped while he coughed up ree-marks about th' constitution, until th' bar-rn boss sint down an' threatened to discharge mike dwyer that was dhrivin' wan hundherd an' eight in thim days, though thransferred to wintworth avnoo later on. he made speeches to polismin in th' squadroom an' to good la-ads hoistin' mud out iv th' dhraw at th' red bridge. people'd be settin' quite in th' back room playin' forty-fives whin smith o'brien dorgan'd burst in, an' addhress thim on th' issues iv th' day. "now all this time bill o'brien was campaignin' in his own way. he niver med wan speech. no wan knew whether he was f'r a tariff or again wan, or whether he sthud be jefferson or was knockin' him, or whether he had th' inthrests iv th' toilin' masses at hear-rt or whether he wint to mass at all, at all. but he got th' superintindint iv th' rollin'-mills with him; an' he put three or four good faml'ies to wurruk in th' gas-house, where he knew th' main guy, an' he made reg'lar calls on th' bar-rn boss iv th' sthreet-ca-ars. he wint to th' picnics, an' hired th' orchesthry f'r th' dances, an' voted himsilf th' most pop'lar man at th' church fair at an expinse iv at laste five hundherd dollars. no wan that come near him wanted f'r money. he had headquarthers in ivry saloon fr'm wan end iv th' ward to th' other. all th' pa-apers printed his pitcher, an' sthud by him as th' frihd iv th' poor. "well, people liked to hear dorgan at first, but afther a few months they got onaisy. he had a way iv breakin' into festive gatherin's that was enough to thry a saint. he delayed wan prize fight two hours, encouragin' th' voters prisint to stand be their principles, while th' principles sat shiverin' in their cor-rners until th' polis r-run him out. it got so that men'd bound into alleys whin he come up th' sthreet. people in th' liquor business rayfused to let him come into their places. his fam'ly et in th' coal-shed f'r fear iv his speeches at supper. he wint on talkin', and willum j. o'brien wint on handin' out th' dough that he got fr'm th' gas company an' con-ciliatin' th' masses; an', whin iliction day come, th' judges an' clerks was all f'r o'brien, an' dorgan didn't get votes enough to wad a gun. he sat up near all night in his long coat, makin' speeches to himsilf; but tord mornin' he come over to my place where o'brien sat with his la-ads. 'well,' says o'brien, 'how does it suit ye?' he says. 'it's sthrange,' says dorgan. 'not sthrange at all,' says willum j. o'brien. 'whin ye've been in politics as long as i have, ye'll know,' he says, 'that th' roly-boly is th' gr-reatest or-rator on earth,' he says. 'th' american nation in th' sixth ward is a fine people,' he says. 'they love th' eagle,' he says, 'on th' back iv a dollar,' he says. 'well,' says dorgan, 'i can't undherstand it,' he says. 'i med as manny as three thousan' speeches,' he says. 'well,' says willum j. o'brien, 'that was my majority,' he says. 'have a dhrink,' he says." on christmas gifts. the approach of christmas is heralded in archey road by many of the signs that are known to the less civilized and more prosperous parts of the city. the people look poorer, colder, and more hopeful than at other times. the bakeries assume an old country appearance of gayety. the saloons are well filled. also, if you have your eyes about you, you may catch a glimpse, now and then, through a frosted window-pane of a stunted christmas tree, laden slenderly with glass balls and ropes of red popcorn, the work of painful hands after the childher are abed. mr. dooley knew christmas was coming by the calendar, the expiration of his quarterly license, and mr. hennessy coming in with a doll in his pocket and a rocking-chair under his arm. "prisints?" said the philosopher. "yis," said mr. hennessy. "i had to do it. i med up me mind this year that i wudden't buy anny chris'mas prisints or take anny. i can't afford it. times has been fearful ha-ard, an' a look iv pain comes over th' ol' woman's face whin i hold out fifty cints fr'm me salary on saturdah night. i give it out that i didn't want annything, but they'se so much scurryin' ar-round an' hidin' things whin i go in that i know they've got something f'r me. i cudden't stand it no longer, so i wint down town to-night, down be shekel an' whooper's place, an' bought these things. this is a fine doll f'r th' money." "it is," said mr. dooley, taking the doll and examining it with the eye of an art critic. "it closes its eyes,--yis, an', bedad, it cries if ye punch it. they're makin' these things more like human bein's ivry year. an' does it say pap-pah an' mam-mah, i dinnaw?" "no," said mr. hennessy, "th' pap-pah an' mam-mah dolls costs too much." "well," continued mr. dooley, "we can't have ivrything we want in this wurruld. if i had me way, i'd buy goold watches an' chains f'r ivrybody in th' r-road, an' a few iv th' good germans. i feel that gin'rous. but 'tis no use. ye can't give what ye want. ivry little boy ixpects a pony at chris'mas, an' ivry little girl a chain an' locket; an' ivry man thinks he's sure goin' to get th' goold-headed cane he's longed f'r since he come over. but they all fin'lly land on rockin'-horses an' dolls, an' suspindhers that r-run pink flowers into their shirts an' tattoo thim in summer. an' they conceal their grief chris'mas mornin' an' thry to look pleasant with murdher in their hearts. "some wan has always give me a chris'mas prisint, though no wan has anny r-right to. but no wan iver give me annything i cud wear or ate or dhrink or smoke or curl me hair with. i've had flasks iv whisky give me,--me that have lashin's iv whisky at me elbow day an' night; an', whin i opined thim, blue an' yellow flames come out an' some iv th' stuff r-run over on th' flure, an' set fire to th' buildin'. i smoke th' best five-cint see-gar that money can buy; yet, whin a good frind iv mine wants to make me a prisint f'r christmas, he goes to a harness shop an' buys a box iv see-gars with excelsior fillin's an' burlap wrappers, an', if i smoked wan an' lived, i'd be arristed f'r arson. i got a pair iv suspinders wanst fr'm a lady,--niver mind her name,--an' i wurruked hard that day; an' th' decorations moved back into me, an' i had to take thim out with pumice stone. i didn't lose th' taste iv th' paint f'r weeks an' weeks. "wan year i wanted a watch more thin annything in th' wurruld. i talked watches to ivry wan that i thought had designs on me. i made it a pint to ask me frinds what time iv night it was, an' thin say, 'dear me, i ought to get a watch if i cud affoord it.' i used to tout people down to th' jooler's shop, an' stand be th' window with a hungry look in th' eyes iv me, as much as to say, 'if i don't get a watch, i'll perish.' i talked watches an' thought watches an' dhreamed watches. father kelly rebuked me f'r bein' late f'r mass. 'how can i get there befure th' gospil, whin i don't know what time it is?' says i. 'why don't ye luk at ye'er watch?' he says. 'i haven't none,' says i. did he give me a watch? faith, he did not. he sint me a box iv soap that made me smell like a coon goin' to a ball in a state sthreet ca-ar. i got a necktie fr'm wan man; an', if i wore it to a meetin' iv th' young hebrews' char'table society, they'd've thrun me out. that man wanted me to be kilt. another la-ad sint me a silk handkerchief that broke on me poor nose. th' nearest i got to a watch was a hair chain that unravelled, an' made me look as if i'd been curryin' a shetland pony. i niver got what i wanted, an i niver expect to. no wan does." "i'll get ye what ye want," said mr. hennessy, "if ye'll tell me what it is, an' it don't cost too much." "will ye?" said mr. dooley, eagerly. "i will," said mr. hennessy, "if 'tis within me means." "ye're jokin'," said mr. dooley. "i'm not. i mane it." "do ye, honest?" "i do so." "thin," said mr. dooley, "get me th' audjitooroom. i've wanted that to play with f'r manny years." and mr. hennessy went away with the rocking-chair under his arm, the doll in his pocket, and dumb anger in his heart. on anarchists. "'tis ha-ard bein' a king these days," said mr. dooley. "manny's th' man on a throne wishes his father'd brought him up a cooper, what with wages bein' docked be parlymints an' ragin' arnychists r-runnin' wild with dinnymite bombs undher their ar-rms an' carvin'-knives in their pockets. "onaisy, as hogan says, is th' head that wears a crown. they'se other heads that're onaisy, too; but ye don't hear iv thim. but a man gr-rows up in wan iv thim furrin counthries, an' he's thrained f'r to be a king. hivin may've intinded him f'r a dooce or a jack, at th' most; but he has to follow th' same line as his father. 'tis like pawn-brokin' that way. ye niver heerd iv a pawnbroker's son doin' annything else. wanst a king, always a king. other men's sons may pack away a shirt in a thrunk, an' go out into th' wurruld, brakin' on a freight or ladin' indyanny bankers up to a shell game. but a man that's headed f'r a throne can't r-run away. he's got to take th' job. if he kicks, they blindfold him an' back him in. he can't ask f'r his time at th' end iv th' week, an' lave. he pays himsilf. he can't sthrike, because he'd have to ordher out th' polis to subjoo himsilf. he can't go to th' boss, an' say: 'me hours is too long an' th' wurruk is tajious. give me me pay-check.' he has no boss. a man can't be indipindint onless he has a boss. 'tis thrue. so he takes th' place, an' th' chances ar-re he's th' biggest omadhon in th' wurruld, an' knows no more about r-runnin' a counthry thin i know about ladin' an orchesthry. an', if he don't do annything, he's a dummy, an', if he does do annything, he's crazy; an' whin he dies, his foreman says: 'sure, 'tis th' divvle's own time i had savin' that bosthoon fr'm desthroyin' himsilf. if it wasn't f'r me, th' poor thing'd have closed down the wurruks, an' gone to th' far-rm long ago.' an' wan day, whin he's takin' th' air, p'raps, along comes an eyetalyan, an' says he, 'ar-re ye a king?' 'that's my name,' says his majesty. 'betther dead,' says th' eyetalyan; an' they'se a scramble, an' another king goes over th' long r-road. "i don't know much about arnychists. we had thim here--wanst. they wint again polismen, mostly. mebbe that's because polismen's th' nearest things to kings they cud find. but, annyhow, i sometimes think i know why they're arnychists somewhere, an' why they ain't in other places. it minds me iv what happened wanst in me cousin terence's fam'ly. they was livin' down near healey's slough in wan iv thim ol' doherty's houses,--not doherty that ye know, th' j'iner, a good man whin he don't dhrink. no, 'twas an ol' grouch iv a man be th' name iv malachi doherty that used to keep five-day notices in his thrunk, an' ownded his own privit justice iv th' peace. me cousin terence was as dacint a man as iver shoed a hor-rse; an his wife was a good woman, too, though i niver took much to th' dolans. fr'm tipperary, they was, an' too handy throwin' things at ye. an' he had a nice fam'ly growin' up, an' i niver knowed people that lived together more quite an' amyable. 'twas good f'r to see thim settin' ar-roun' th' parlor,--terence spellin' out th' newspaper, an' his good woman mendin' socks, an' honoria playin' th' 'vale iv avoca' on th' pianny, an' th' kids r-rowlin' on th' flure. "but wan day it happened that that whole fam'ly begun to rasp on wan another. honoria'd set down at th' pianny, an' th' ol' man'd growl: 'f'r th' love iv th' saints, close down that hurdy-gurdy, an' lave a man injye his headache!' an' th' good woman scolded terence, an' th' kids pulled th' leg fr'm undher th' stove; an', whin th' big boy mike come home fr'm omaha, he found none iv thim speakin' to th' others. he cud do nawthin', an' he wint f'r father kelly. father kelly sniffed th' air whin he come in; an' says he, 'terence, what's th' matther with ye'er catch basin?' 'i dinnaw,' growled terence. 'well,' says father kelly, 'ye put on ye'er hat this minyit, an' go out f'r a plumber,' he says. 'i'm not needed here,' he says. 'ye'er sowls ar-re all r-right,' he says; 'but ye'er systems ar-re out iv ordher,' he says. 'fetch in a plumber,' he says, 'whilst i goes down to doherty, an' make him think his lease on th' hereafther is defective,' he says." "ye're right," said mr. hennessy, who had followed the argument dimly. "iv coorse i'm right," said mr. dooley. "what they need over there in furrin' counthries is not a priest, but a plumber. 'tis no good prayin' again arnychists, hinnissy. arnychists is sewer gas." on the dreyfus case. "i see be th' pa-apers," said mr. dooley, "that col. hinnery, th' man that sint me frind cap. dhry-fuss to th' cage, has moved on. i suppose they'll give th' cap a new thrile now." "i hope they won't," said mr. hennessy. "i don't know annything about it, but i think he's guilty. he's a jew." "well," said mr. dooley, "ye'er thoughts on this subject is inthrestin', but not conclusive, as dorsey said to th' pollack that thought he cud lick him. ye have a r-right to ye'er opinyon, an' ye'll hold it annyhow, whether ye have a r-right to it or not. like most iv ye'er fellow-citizens, ye start impartial. ye don't know annything about th' case. if ye knew annything, ye'd not have an opinyon wan way or th' other. they'se niver been a matther come up in my time that th' american people was so sure about as they ar-re about th' dhryfliss case. th' frinch ar-re not so sure, but they'se not a polisman in this counthry that can't tell ye jus' where dhry-russ was whin th' remains iv th' poor girl was found. that's because th' thrile was secret. if 'twas an open thrile, an' ye heerd th' tistimony, an' knew th' language, an' saw th' safe afther 'twas blown open, ye'd be puzzled, an' not care a rush whether dhry-fuss was naked in a cage or takin' tay with his uncle at th' benny brith club. "i haven't made up me mind whether th' cap done th' shootin' or not. he was certainly in th' neighborhood whin th' fire started, an' th' polis dug up quite a lot iv lead pipe in his back yard. but it's wan thing to sus-pect a man iv doin' a job an' another thing to prove that he didn't. me frind zola thinks he's innocint, an' he raised th' divvle at th' thrile. whin th' judge come up on th' bench an' opined th' coort, zola was settin' down below with th' lawyers. 'let us pro-ceed,' says th' impartial an' fair-minded judge, 'to th' thrile iv th' haynious monsther cap dhry-fuss,' he says. up jumps zola, an' says he in frinch: 'jackuse,' he says, which is a hell of a mane thing to say to anny man. an' they thrun him out. 'judge,' says th' attorney f'r th' difinse, 'an' gintlemen iv th' jury,' he says. 'ye're a liar,' says th' judge. 'cap, ye're guilty, an' ye know it,' he says. 'th' decision iv th' coort is that ye be put in a cage, an' sint to th' divvle's own island f'r th' r-rest iv ye'er life,' he says. 'let us pro-ceed to hearin' th' tistimony,' he says. 'call all th' witnesses at wanst,' he says, 'an' lave thim have it out on th' flure,' he says. be this time zola has come back; an' he jumps up, an', says he, 'jackuse,' he says. an' they thrun him out. "'befure we go anny farther,' says th' lawyer f'r th' difinse, 'i wish to sarve notice that, whin this thrile is over, i intind,' he says, 'to wait outside,' he says, 'an' hammer th' hon'rable coort into an omelet,' he says. 'with these few remarks i will close,' he says. 'th' coort,' says th' judge, 'is always r-ready to defind th' honor iv france,' he says; 'an', if th' larned counsel will con-sint,' he says, 'to step up here f'r a minyit,' he says, 'th' coort'll put a sthrangle hold on him that'll not do him a bit iv good,' he says. 'ah!' he says. 'here's me ol' frind pat th' clam,' he says. 'pat, what d'ye know about this case?' he says. 'none iv ye'er business,' says pat. 'answered like a man an' a sojer,' says th' coort. 'jackuse,' says zola fr'm th' dureway. an' they thrun him out. 'call col. hinnery,' says th' coort. 'he ray-fuses to answer.' 'good. th' case is clear. cap forged th' will. th' coort will now adjourn f'r dools, an' all ladin' officers iv th' ar-rmy not in disgrace already will assimble in jail, an' com-mit suicide,' he says. 'jackuse,' says zola, an' started f'r th' woods, pursued be his fellow-editors. he's off somewhere in a three now hollerin' 'jackuse' at ivry wan that passes, sufferin' martyrdom f'r his counthry an' writin' now an' thin about it all. "that's all i know about cap dhry-fuss' case, an' that's all anny man knows. ye didn't know as much, hinnissy, till i told ye. i don't know whether cap stole th' dog or not." "what's he charged with?" mr. hennessy asked, in bewilderment. "i'll niver tell ye," said mr. dooley. "it's too much to ask." "well, annyhow," said mr. hennessy, "he's guilty, ye can bet on that." on the decadence of greece. "that young hogan is a smart la-ad," said mr. dooley. "a smart la-ad an' a good wan, too." "none betther," said mr. hennessy. "none betther in th' ward," said mr. dooley, which was a high appreciation. "but there ar-re things about human nature an' histhry that ain't taught at saint ignateeus'. i tell thim to hogan's la-ad. "he was walkin' be th' store wan day las' week, an' i ast him how th' wa-ar wint. 'tis sthrange, with churches two in a block, an' public schools as thick as lamp-posts, that, whin a man stops ye on th' sthreet, he'll ayether ast ye th' scoor iv th' base-ball game or talk iv th' greek war with ye. i ain't seen annything that happened since parnell's day that's aroused so much enthusyasm on th' ar-rchey road as th' greek war. 'how goes th' war?' says i to young hogan, 'how goes the war between th' ac-cursed infidel an' th' dog iv a christian?' i says. 'it goes bad,' he says. 'th' greeks won a thremenjous battle, killin' manny millions iv th' moslem murdherers, but was obliged to retreat thirty-two miles in a gallop.' 'is that so?' says i. 'sure that seems to be their luck,' i says. 'whin-iver they win, they lose; an', whin they lose, they lose,' i says. 'what ails thim?' i says. 'is th' riferee again thim?' 'i can't make it out,' he says, while a tear sthud in his eye. 'whin i think iv leonidas at th' pass iv thermometer,' he says, 'an' so-an'-so on th' field iv marathon an' this-or-that th' spartan hero,' he says, 'i cannot undherstand f'r th' life iv me why th' greeks shud have been dhruv fr'm pillar to post be an ar-rmy iv slaves. didn't leonidas, with hardly as manny men as there are raypublicans in this precint, hold th' pass again a savage horde?' he says. 'he did,' says i. 'he did.' 'an' didn't what's-his-name on th' field iv marathon overcome an' desthroy th' ravagin' armies iv persia?' he says. 'thrue f'r ye,' says i. 'there's no doubt in th' wurruld about it,' i says. 'an' look at alexander th' great,' he says. 'aleck was a turror, an' no mistake,' says i. 'an' miltiades,' he says. 'i on'y know what i hear iv him,' says i. 'but fr'm all accounts he must have been consid'rable iv a fellow,' says i. 'an' in later days marco boozaris,' he says. 'he was th' man that come in con-sumption's dreaded form,' says i, 'an' he was afraid iv no man.' 'well, thin,' says he, 'how ar-re we to account f'r this disgrace?' he says. "'well,' says i, 'd'ye raymimber th' fightin' tenth precint? ye must've heerd ye'er father tell about it. it was famous f'r th' quality an' quantity iv th' warfare put up in it. ivry man in th' tenth precint cud fight his weight in scrap-iron. most iv thim come fr'm th' ancient hellenic province iv may-o; but they was a fair sprinklin' iv greek heroes fr'm roscommon an' tipperary, an' a few from th' historic spot where th' head iv kinsale looks out on th' sea, an' th' sea looks up at th' head iv kinsale. th' little boys cud box befure they was out iv skirts. far an' wide, th' tenth precint was th' turror iv its inimies. ye talk about leonidas an' th' pass iv thermometer. ye ought to've seen mike riordan an' his fam'ly defindin' th' pollin'-place whin eddie burke's brigade charged it wan fine day. that hero sthud f'r four hours in th' dureway, ar-rmed on'y with a monkey-wrinch, an' built a wall iv invaders in frint iv him till th' judges cud dig their way out through th' cellar, an' escape to th' polis station. "'f'r manny years th' tenth precint was th' banner precint iv th' sixth wa-ard, an' its gallant heroes repelled all attacks by land or healey's slough. but, as time wint by, changes come over it. th' hannigans an' leonidases an' caseys moved out, havin' made their pile. some iv th' grandest iv th' heroes died, an' their fam'lies were broke up. polish jews an' swedes an' germans an' hollanders swarmed in, settlin' down on th' sacred sites,' i says. 'wan night three years ago, a band iv rovin' bohemians fr'm th' eighth ward come acrost th' river, kickin' over bar'ls an' ash-boxes, an' swooped down on th' tenth precint. mike riordan, him that kept th' pollin'-place in th' good days iv old, was th' on'y wan iv th' race iv ancient heroes on earth. he thried to rally th' ingloryous descindants iv a proud people. f'r a while they made a stand in halsted sthreet, an' shouted bad but difficult names at th' infidel hordes, an' threw bricks that laid out their own people. but it was on'y f'r a moment. in another they tur-rned an' r-run, lavin' mike riordan standin' alone in th' mist iv th' fray. if it wasn't f'r th' intervintion iv th' powers in th' shape iv th' loot an' a wagon-load iv polismin, th' bohemians'd have devastated as far as th' ruins iv th' gas-house, which is th' same as that there acropulist ye talk about,' says i. "'no, my son,' says i. 'on account iv th' fluctuations in rint an' throuble with th' landlord it's not safe to presoom that th' same fam'ly always lives in th' wan house. th' very thing happened to greece that has happened to th' tenth precint iv th' sixth ward. th' greeks have moved out, an' th' swedes come in. ye yet may live to see th' day,' says i, 'whin what is thrue iv athens an' th' tenth precint will be thrue iv th' whole sixth wa-ard.'" "ye don't mean that," said mr. hennessy, gasping. "i do," said mr. dooley, with solemnity. "'tis histhry." on the indian war. "gin'ral sherman was wan iv th' smartest men we iver had," said mr. dooley. "he said so manny bright things. 'twas him said, 'war is hell'; an' that's wan iv th' finest sayin's i know annything about. 'war is hell': 'tis a thrue wurrud an' a fine sintiment. an' gin'ral sherman says, 'th' on'y good indyun is a dead indyun.' an' that's a good sayin', too. so, be th' powers, we've started in again to improve th' race; an', if we can get in gatlin' guns enough befure th' winter's snows, we'll tur-rn thim chippeways into a cimitry branch iv th' young men's christyan association. we will so. "ye see, hinnissy, th' indyun is bound f'r to give way to th' onward march iv white civilization. you an' me, hinnissy, is th' white civilization. i come along, an' i find ol' snakes-in-his-gaiters livin' quite an' dacint in a new frame house. thinks i, ''tis a shame f'r to lave this savage man in possession iv this fine abode, an' him not able f'r to vote an' without a frind on th' polis foorce.' so says i: 'snakes,' i says, 'get along,' says i. 'i want ye'er house, an' ye best move out west iv th' thracks, an' dig a hole f'r ye'ersilf,' i says. 'divvle th' fut i will step out iv this house,' says snakes. 'i built it, an' i have th' law on me side,' he says. 'f'r why should i take mary ann, an' terence, an' honoria, an' robert immitt snakes, an' all me little snakeses, an' rustle out west iv th' thracks,' he says, 'far fr'm th' bones iv me ancestors,' he says, 'an beyond th' water-pipe extinsion,' he says. 'because,' says i, 'i am th' walkin' dilygate iv white civilization,' i says. 'i'm jus' as civilized as you,' says snakes. 'i wear pants,' he says, 'an' a plug hat,' he says. 'ye might wear tin pair,' says i, 'an' all at wanst,' i says, 'an' ye'd still be a savage,' says i; 'an' i'd be civilized,' i says, 'if i hadn't on so much as a bangle bracelet,' i says. 'so get out,' says i. 'so get out,' says i, 'f'r th' pianny movers is outside, r-ready to go to wurruk,' i says. "well, snakes he fires a stove lid at me; an' i go down to th' polis station, an' says i, 'loot,' i says, 'they'se a dhrunken indyun not votin' up near th' mills, an he's carryin' on outrageous, an' he won't let me hang me pitchers on his wall,' says i. 'vile savage,' says th' loot, 'i'll tache him to rayspict th' rules iv civilization,' he says. an' he takes out a wagon load, an' goes afther snakes. well, me frind snakes gives him battle, an', knowin' th' premises well, he's able to put up a gr-reat fight; but afther a while they rip him away, an' have him in th' pathrol wagon, with a man settin' on his head. an' thin he's put undher bonds to keep the peace, an' they sind him out west iv th' thracks; an' i move into th' house, an' tear out th' front an' start a faro bank. some day, whin i get tired or th' swedes dhrive me out or schwartzmeister makes his lunch too sthrong f'r competition, i'll go afther snakes again. "th' on'y hope f'r th indyun is to put his house on rollers, an' keep a team hitched to it, an', whin he sees a white man, to start f'r th' settin' sun. he's rooned whin he has a cellar. he ought to put all th' plugged dollars that he gets from th' agent an' be pickin' blueberries into rowlin' stock. if he knew annything about balloons, he'd have a chanst; but we white men, hinnissy, has all th' balloons. but, annyhow, he's doomed, as hogan says. th' onward march iv th' white civilization, with morgedges an' other modhern improvements, is slowly but surely, as hogan says, chasin' him out; an' th' last iv him'll be livin' in a divin'-bell somewhere out in th' pacific ocean." "well," said mr. hennessy, the stout philanthropist, "i think so, an' thin again i dinnaw. i don't think we threat thim r-right. if i was th' gover'mint, i'd take what they got, but i'd say, 'here, take this tin-dollar bill an' go out an' dhrink ye'ersilf to death,' i'd say. they ought to have some show." "well," said mr. dooley, "if ye feel that way, ye ought to go an' inlist as an indyun." on golf. "an' what's this game iv goluf like, i dinnaw?" said mr. hennessy, lighting his pipe with much unnecessary noise. "ye're a good deal iv a spoort, jawnny: did ye iver thry it?" "no," said mr. mckenna. "i used to roll a hoop onct upon a time, but i'm out of condition now." "it ain't like base-ball," said mr. hennessy, "an' it ain't like shinny, an' it ain't like lawn-teenis, an' it ain't like forty-fives, an' it ain't"-- "like canvas-back duck or anny other game ye know," said mr. dooley. "thin what is it like?" said mr. hennessy. "i see be th' pa-aper that hobart what-d'ye-call-him is wan iv th' best at it. th' other day he made a scoor iv wan hundherd an' sixty-eight, but whether 'twas miles or stitches i cudden't make out fr'm th' raypoorts." "'tis little ye know," said mr. dooley. "th' game iv goluf is as old as th' hills. me father had goluf links all over his place, an', whin i was a kid, 'twas wan iv th' principal spoorts iv me life, afther i'd dug the turf f'r th' avenin', to go out and putt"-- "poot, ye mean," said mr. hennessy. "they'se no such wurrud in th' english language as putt. belinda called me down ha-ard on it no more thin las' night." "there ye go!" said mr. dooley, angrily. "there ye go! d'ye think this here game iv goluf is a spellin' match? 'tis like ye, hinnissy, to be refereein' a twinty-round glove contest be th' rule iv three. i tell ye i used to go out in th' avenin' an' putt me mashie like hell-an'-all, till i was knowed fr'm wan end iv th' county to th' other as th' champeen putter. i putted two men fr'm roscommon in wan day, an' they had to be took home on a dure. "in america th' ga-ame is played more ginteel, an' is more like cigareet-smokin', though less unhealthy f'r th' lungs. 'tis a good game to play in a hammick whin ye're all tired out fr'm social duties or shovellin' coke. out-iv-dure golf is played be th' followin' rules. if ye bring ye'er wife f'r to see th' game, an' she has her name in th' paper, that counts ye wan. so th' first thing ye do is to find th' raypoorter, an' tell him ye're there. thin ye ordher a bottle iv brown pop, an' have ye'er second fan ye with a towel. afther this ye'd dhress, an' here ye've got to be dam particklar or ye'll be stuck f'r th' dhrinks. if ye'er necktie is not on sthraight, that counts ye'er opponent wan. if both ye an' ye'er opponent have ye'er neckties on crooked, th' first man that sees it gets th' stakes. thin ye ordher a carredge"-- "order what?" demanded mr. mckenna. "a carredge." "what for?" "f'r to take ye 'round th' links. ye have a little boy followin' ye, carryin' ye'er clubs. th' man that has th' smallest little boy it counts him two. if th' little boy has th' rickets, it counts th' man in th' carredge three. the little boys is called caddies; but clarence heaney that tol' me all this--he belongs to th' foorth wa-ard goluf an' mckinley club--said what th' little boys calls th' players'd not be fit f'r to repeat. "well, whin ye dhrive up to th' tea grounds"-- "th' what?" demanded mr. hennessy. "th' tea grounds, that's like th' homeplate in base-ball or ordherin' a piece iv chalk in a game iv spoil five. its th' beginnin' iv ivrything. whin ye get to th' tea grounds, ye step out, an' have ye're hat irned be th' caddie. thin ye'er man that ye're goin' aginst comes up, an' he asks ye, 'do you know potther pammer?' well, if ye don't know potther pammer, it's all up with ye: ye lose two points. but ye come right back at him with an' upper cut: 'do ye live on th' lake shore dhrive?' if he doesn't, ye have him in th' nine hole. ye needn't play with him anny more. but, if ye do play with him, he has to spot three balls. if he's a good man an' shifty on his feet, he'll counter be askin' ye where ye spend th' summer. now ye can't tell him that ye spent th' summer with wan hook on th' free lunch an' another on th' ticker tape, an' so ye go back three. that needn't discourage ye at all, at all. here's yer chance to mix up, an' ye ask him if he was iver in scotland. if he wasn't, it counts ye five. thin ye tell him that ye had an aunt wanst that heerd th' jook iv argyle talk in a phonograph; an' onless he comes back an' shoots it into ye that he was wanst run over be th' prince iv wales, ye have him groggy. i don't know whether th' jook iv argyle or th' prince iv wales counts f'r most. they're like th' right an' left bower iv thrumps. th' best players is called scratch-men." "what's that f'r?" mr. hennessy asked. "it's a scotch game," said mr. dooley, with a wave of his hand. "i wonder how it come out to-day. here's th' pa-aper. let me see. mckinley at canton. still there. he niver cared to wandher fr'm his own fireside. collar-button men f'r th' goold standard. statues iv heidelback, ickleheimer an' company to be erected in washington. another vanderbilt weddin'. that sounds like goluf, but it ain't. newport society livin' in mrs. potther pammer's cellar. green-goods men declare f'r honest money. anson in foorth place some more. pianny tuners f'r mckinley. li hung chang smells a rat. abner mckinley supports th' goold standard. wait a minyit. here it is: 'goluf in gay attire.' let me see. h'm. 'foozled his aproach,'--nasty thing. 'topped th' ball.' 'three up an' two to play.' ah, here's the scoor. 'among those prisint were messrs. an' mesdames"-- "hol' on!" cried mr. hennessy, grabbing the paper out of his friend's hands. "that's thim that was there." "well," said mr. dooley, decisively, "that's th' goluf scoor." on the french character. "th' fr-rinch," said mr. dooley, "ar-re a tumulchuse people." "like as not," said mr. hennessy, "there's some of our blood in thim. a good manny iv our people wint over wanst. they cudden't all've been kilt at fontenoy." "no," said mr. dooley, "'tis another kind iv tumulchuse. whin an irishman rages, 'tis with wan idee in his mind. he's goin' for'ard again a single inimy, an' not stone walls or irne chains'll stop him. he may pause f'r a dhrink or to take a shy at a polisman,--f'r a polisman's always in th' way,--but he's as thrue as th' needle in th' camel's eye, as hogan says, to th' objec' iv his hathred. so he's been f'r four hundherd years, an' so he'll always be while they'se an england on th' map. whin england purrishes, th' irish'll die iv what hogan calls ongwee, which is havin' no wan in the weary wurruld ye don't love. "but with th' fr-rinch 'tis diff'rent. i say 'tis diffrent with th' fr-rinch. they're an onaisy an' a thrubbled people. they start out down th' street, loaded up with obscenthe an' cigareets, pavin' blocks an' walkin' sthicks an' shtove lids in their hands, cryin', 'a base cap dhry-fuss!' th' cap bein' far off in a cage, by dad. so far, so good. 'a base cap dhry-fuss!' says i; 'an' the same to all thraitors, an' manny iv thim, whether they ar-re or not.' but along comes a man with a poor hat. 'where did he get th' hat?' demands th' mob. down with th' bad tile!' they say. 'a base th' lid!' an' they desthroy th' hat, an' th' man undher it succumbs to th' rule iv th' majority an' jines th' mob. on they go till they come to a restaurant. 'ha,' says they, 'th' re-sort iv th' infamious duclose.' 'his char-rges ar-re high,' says wan. 'i found a fish-bone in his soup,' says another. 'he's a thraitor,' says a third. 'a base th' soup kitchen! a base th' caafe!' says they; an' they seize th' unfortunate duclose, an' bate him an' upset his kettles iv broth. manetime where's cap dhry-fuss? off in his comfortable cage, swingin' on th' perch an' atin' seed out iv a small bottle stuck in th' wire. be th' time th' mob has desthroyed what they see on th' way, they've f'rgot th' cap intirely; an' he's safe f'r another day. "'tis unforch'nit, but 'tis thrue. th' fr-rinch ar-re not steady ayether in their politics or their morals. that's where they get done be th' hated british. th' diff'rence in furrin' policies is the diff'rence between a second-rate safe blower an' a first-class boonco steerer. th' fr-rinch buy a ton iv dinnymite, spind five years in dhrillin' a hole through a steel dure, blow open th' safe, lose a leg or an ar-rm, an' get away with th' li'bilities iv th' firm. th' english dhress up f'r a methodist preacher, stick a piece iv lead pipe in th' tails iv their coat in case iv emargency, an' get all th' money there is in th' line. "in th' fr-ront dure comes th' englishman with a coon king on ayether ar-rm that's jus' loaned him their kingdoms on a prom'ssory note, and discovers th' fr-rinchman emargin' frim th' roons iv th' safe. 'what ar-re ye doin' here?' says th' englishman. 'robbin' th' naygurs,' says th' fr-rinchman, bein' thruthful as well as polite. 'wicked man,' says th' englishman. 'what ar-re ye doin' here?' says the fr-rinchman. 'improvin' the morals iv th' inhabitants,' says th' englishman. 'is it not so, rastus?' he says. 'it is,' says wan iv th' kings. 'i'm a poorer but a betther man since ye came,' he says. 'yes,' says th' englishman, 'i pro-pose f'r to thruly rayform this onhappy counthry,' he says. 'this benighted haythen on me exthreme left has been injooced to cut out a good dale iv his wife's business,' he says, 'an' go through life torminted be on'y wan spouse,' he says. 'th' r-rest will go to wurruk f'r me,' he says. 'all crap games bein' particular ongodly'll be undher th' con-throl iv th' gover'mint, which,' he says, 'is me. policy shops'll be r-run carefully, an' i've appinted rastus here writer-in-waitin' to her majesty,' he says. "'th' r-rum they dhrink in these par-rts,' he says, 'is fearful,' he says. 'what shall we do to stop th' ac-cursed thraffic? sell thim gin,' says i. ''tis shameful they shud go out with nawthin' to hide their nakedness,' he says. 'i'll fetch thim clothes; but,' he says, cas th' weather's too war-rum f'r clothes, i'll not sell thim annything that'll last long,' he says. 'if it wasn't f'r relligion,' he says, 'i don't know what th' 'ell th' wurruld wud come to,' he says. 'who's relligion?' says th' fr-rinchman. 'my relligion,' says th' englishman. 'these pore, benighted savidges,' he says, ''ll not be left to yer odjious morals an' yer hootchy-kootchy school iv thought,' he says, 'but,' he says, 'undher th' binif'cint r-rule iv a wise an' thrue gover'mint,' he says, ''ll be thurly prepared f'r hivin,' he says, 'whin their time comes to go,' he says, 'which i thrust will not be long,' he says. 'so i'll thank ye to be off,' he says, 'or i'll take th' thick end iv the slung-shot to ye,' he says. "th' fr-rinchman is a br-rave man, an' he'd stay an' have it out on th' flure; but some wan calls, 'a base th' chinnyman!' an' off he goes on another thrack. an', whin he gets to th' chinnymen, he finds th' english've abased thim already. an' so he dances fr'm wan par-rt th' wurruld to another like a riochous an' happy flea, an' divvle th' bit iv progress he makes, on'y thrubble f'r others an' a merry life f'r himsilf." "if england wint to war with france," said mr. hennessy, suddenly, "i'd be f'r france." "so ye wud, hinnissy. so ye wud," said mr. dooley. "an' i'm not sayin' that i wudden't f'aget that i'm an anglo-saxon long enough to take wan crack at th' prince iv wales with a coupli' pin mesilf." note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustrations. see -h.htm or -h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/ / / / / / -h/ -h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/ / / / / / -h.zip) odd numbers being further chronicles of shorty mccabe by sewell ford author of trying out torchy, etc. illustrations by f. vaux wilson [illustration: "'sisters? do we look it?' says maisie"] new york grosset & dunlap publishers copyright, , , , , by sewell ford copyright, , by edward j. clode contents chapter page i. goliah and the purple lid ii. how maizie came through iii. where spotty fitted in iv. a grandmother who got going v. a long shot on delancey vi. playing harold both ways vii. cornelia shows some class viii. doping out an odd one ix. handing bobby a blank x. marmaduke slips one over xi. a look in on the goat game xii. mrs. truckles' broad jump xiii. heiney takes the gloom cure xiv. a try-out for toodleism xv. the case of the tiscotts xvi. classing tutwater right xvii. how hermy put it over xviii. joy riding with aunty xix. turning a trick for beany odd numbers chapter i goliah and the purple lid one of my highbrow reg'lars at the physical culture studio, a gent that mixes up in charity works, like organizin' debatin' societies in the deaf and dumb asylums, was tellin' me awhile back of a great scheme of his to help out the stranger in our fair village. he wants to open public information bureaus, where a jay might go and find out anything he wanted to know, from how to locate a new thought church, to the nearest place where he could buy a fresh celluloid collar. "get the idea?" says he. "a public bureau where strangers in new york would be given courteous attention, friendly advice, and that sort of thing." "what's the use?" says i. "ain't i here?" course, i was just gettin' over a josh. but say, it ain't all a funny dream, either. don't a lot of 'em come my way? maybe it's because i'm so apt to lay myself open to the confidential tackle. but somehow, when i see one of these tourist freaks sizin' me up, and lookin' kind of dazed and lonesome, i can't chuck him back the frosty stare. i've been a stray in a strange town myself. so i gen'rally tries to seem halfway human, and if he opens up with some shot on the weather, i let him get in the follow-up questions and take the chances. here the other day, though, i wa'n't lookin' for anything of the kind. i was just joltin' down my luncheon with a little promenade up the sunny side of avenue v, taking in the exhibits--things in the show windows and folks on the sidewalks--as keen as if i'd paid in my dollar at some ticket office. and say, where can you beat it? i see it 'most every day in the year, and it's always new. there's different flowers in the florists' displays, new flags hung out on the big hotels, and even the chorus ladies in the limousines are changed now and then. i can't figure out just what it was landed me in front of this millinery window. gen'rally i hurry by them exhibits with a shudder; for once i got gay and told sadie to take her pick, as this one was on me; and it was months before i got over the shock of payin' that bill. but there i finds myself, close up to the plate glass, gawpin' at a sample of what can be done in the hat line when the bureau of obstructions has been bought off and nobody's thought of applyin' the statute of limitations. it's a heliotrope lid, and the foundation must have used up enough straw to bed down a circus. it has the dimensions and general outlines of a summerhouse. the scheme of decoration is simple enough, though. the top of this heliotrope summerhouse has been caught in a heliotrope fog, that's all. there's yards and yards of this gauzy stuff draped and puffed and looped around it, with only a wide purple ribbon showin' here and there and keepin' the fog in place. well, all that is restin' careless in a box, the size of a quarter-mile runnin' track, with the cover half off. and it's a work of art in itself, that box,--all looey cans pictures, and a thick purple silk cord to tie it up with. why, one glimpse of that combination was enough to make me clap my hand over my roll and back away from the spot! just then, though, i notices another gent steppin' up for a squint at the monstrosity, and i can't help lingerin' to see if he gets the same kind of a shock. he's sort of a queer party, too,--short, stoop shouldered, thin faced, wrinkled old chap, with a sandy mustache mixed some with gray, and a pair of shrewd little eyes peerin' out under bushy brows. anybody could spot him as a rutabaga delegate by the high crowned soft hat and the back number ulster that he's still stickin' to, though the thermometer is way up in the eighties. but he don't seem to shy any at the purple lid. he sticks his head out first this way and then that, like a turtle, and then all of a sudden he shoots over kind of a quizzin' glance at me. i can't help but give him the grin. at that his mouth corners wrinkle up and the little gray eyes begin to twinkle. "quite a hat, eh?" he chuckles. "it's goin' some in the lid line," says i. "i expect that's a mighty stylish article, though," says he. "that's the bluff the store people are makin'," says i, "and there's no law against it." "what would be your guess on the price of that there, now?" says he, edging up. "ah, let's leave such harrowin' details to the man that has to pay for it," says i. "no use in our gettin' the chilly spine over what's marked on the price ticket; that is, unless you're thinking of investin'," and as i tips him the humorous wink i starts to move off. but this wa'n't a case where i was to get out so easy. he comes right after me. "excuse me, neighbor," says he; "but--but that's exactly what i was thinking of doing, if it wasn't too infernally expensive." "what!" says i, gazin' at him; for he ain't the kind of citizen you'd expect to find indulgin' in such foolishness. "oh, well, don't mind my remarks. go ahead and blow yourself. you want it for the missus, eh?" "ye-e-es," he drawls; "for--for my wife. ah--er--would it be asking too much of a stranger if i should get you to step in there with me while i find out the price?" "why," says i, lookin' him over careful,--"why, i don't know as i'd want to go as far as---- well, what's the object?" "you see," says he, "i'm sort of a bashful person,--always have been,--and i don't just like to go in there alone amongst all them women folks. but the fact is, i've kind of got my mind set on having that hat, and----" "wife ain't in town, then?" says i. "no," says he, "she's--she isn't." "ain't you runnin' some risks," says i, "loadin' up with a lid that may not fit her partic'lar style of beauty?" "that's so, that's so," says he. "ought to be something that would kind of jibe with her complexion and the color of her hair, hadn't it?" "you've surrounded the idea," says i. "maybe it would be safer to send for her to come on." "no," says he; "couldn't be done. but see here," and he takes my arm and steers me up the avenue, "if you don't mind talking this over, i'd like to tell you a plan i've just thought out." well, he'd got me some int'rested in him by that time. i could see he wa'n't no common rube, and them twinklin' little eyes of his kind of got me. so i tells him to reel it off. "maybe you never heard of me," he goes on; "but i'm goliah daggett, from south forks, iowy." "guess i've missed hearin' of you," says i. "i suppose so," says he, kind of disappointed, though. "the boys out there call me gol daggett." "sounds most like a cussword," says i. "yes," says he; "that's one reason i'm pretty well known in the state. and there may be other reasons, too." he lets out a little chuckle at that; not loud, you know, but just as though he was swallowin' some joke or other. it was a specialty of his, this smothered chuckle business. "of course," he goes on, "you needn't tell me your name, unless----" "it's a fair swap," says i. "mine's mccabe; shorty for short." "yes?" says he. "i knew a mccabe once. he--er--well, he----" "never mind," says i. "it's a big fam'ly, and there's only a few of us that's real credits to the name. but about this scheme of yours, mr. daggett?" "certainly," says he. "it's just this: if i could find a woman who looked a good deal like my wife, i could try the hat on her, couldn't i? she'd do as well, eh?" "i don't know why not," says i. "well," says he, "i know of just such a woman; saw her this morning in my hotel barber shop, where i dropped in for a haircut. she was one of these--what do you call 'em now?" "manicure artists?" says i. "that's it," says he. "asked me if i didn't want my fingers manicured; and, by jinks! i let her do it, just to see what it was like. never felt so blamed foolish in my life! look at them fingernails, will you? been parin' 'em with a jackknife for fifty-seven years; and she soaks 'em out in a bowl of perfumery, jabs under 'em with a little stick wrapped in cotton, cuts off all the hang nails, files 'em round at the ends, and polishes 'em up so they shine as if they were varnished! he, he! guess the boys would laugh if they could have seen me." "it's one experience you've got on me," says i. "and this manicure lady is a ringer for mrs. daggett, eh?" "well, now," says he, scratchin' his chin, "maybe i ought to put it that she looks a good deal as mrs. daggett might have looked ten or fifteen years ago if she'd been got up that way,--same shade of red hair, only not such a thunderin' lot of it; same kind of blue eyes, only not so wide open and starry; and a nose and chin that i couldn't help remarking. course, now, you understand this young woman was fixed up considerable smarter than mrs. daggett ever was in her life." "if she's a manicure artist in one of them broadway hotels," says i, "i could guess that; specially if mrs. daggett's always stuck to iowa." "yes, that's right; she has," says daggett. "but if she'd had the same chance to know what to wear and how to wear it----well, i wish she'd had it, that's all. and she wanted it. my, my! how she did hanker for such things, mr. mccabe!" "well, better late than never," says i. "no, no!" says he, his voice kind of breakin' up. "that's what i want to forget, how--how late it is!" and hanged if he don't have to fish out a handkerchief and swab off his eyes. "you see," he goes on, "marthy's gone." "eh?" says i. "you mean she's----" he nods. "four years ago this spring," says he. "typhoid." "but," says i, "how about this hat?" "one of my notions," says he,--"just a foolish idea of mine. i'll tell you. when she was lying there, all white and thin, and not caring whether she ever got up again or not, a new spring hat was the only thing i could get her to take an interest in. she'd never had what you might call a real, bang-up, stylish hat. always wanted one, too. and it wasn't because i was such a mean critter that she couldn't have had the money. but you know how it is in a little place like south forks. they don't have 'em in stock, not the kind she wanted, and maybe we couldn't have found one nearer than omaha or chicago; and someway there never was a spring when i could seem to fix things so we could take the trip. looked kind of foolish, too, traveling so far just to get a hat. so she went without, and put up with what miss simmons could trim for her. they looked all right, too, and i used to tell marthy they were mighty becoming; but all the time i knew they weren't just--well, you know." say, i never saw any specimens of miss simmons' art works; but i could make a guess. and i nods my head. "well," says daggett, "when i saw that marthy was kind of giving up, i used to coax her to get well. 'you just get on your feet once, marthy,' says i, 'and we'll go down to chicago and buy you the finest and stylishest hat we can find in the whole city. more than that, you shall have a new one every spring, the very best.' she'd almost smile at that, and half promise she'd try. but it wasn't any use. the fever hadn't left her strength enough. and the first thing i knew she'd slipped away." odd sort of yarn to be hearin' there on fifth-ave. on a sunshiny afternoon, wa'n't it? and us dodgin' over crossin's, and duckin' under awnin's, and sidesteppin' the foot traffic! but he keeps right close to my elbow and gives me the whole story, even to how they'd agreed to use the little knoll just back of the farmhouse as a burial plot, and how she marked the hymns she wanted sung, and how she wanted him to find someone else as soon as the year was out. "which was the only thing i couldn't say yes to," says daggett. "'no, marthy,' says i, 'not unless i can find another just like you.'--'you'll be mighty lonesome, goliah,' says she, 'and you'll be wanting to change your flannels too early.'--'maybe so,' says i; 'but i guess i'll worry along for the rest of the time alone.' yes, sir, mr. mccabe, she was a fine woman, and a patient one. no one ever knew how bad she wanted lots of things that she might of had, and gave up. you see, i was pretty deep in the wheat business, and every dollar i could get hold of went to buying more reapers and interests in elevator companies and crop options. i was bound to be a rich man, and they say i got there. yes, i guess i am fairly well fixed." it wa'n't any chesty crow, but more like a sigh, and as we stops on a crossing to let a lady plutess roll by in her brougham, mr. daggett he sizes up the costume she wore and shakes his head kind of regretful. "that's the way marthy should have been dressed," says he. "she'd have liked it. and she'd liked a hat such as that one we saw back there; that is, if it's the right kind. i've been buying 'em kind of careless, maybe." "how's that?" says i. "oh!" says he, "i didn't finish telling you about my fool idea. i've been getting one every spring, the best i could pick out in chicago, and carrying it up there on the knoll where marthy is--and just leaving it. go on now, mr. mccabe; laugh if you want to. i won't mind. i can almost laugh at myself. of course, marthy's beyond caring for hats now. still, i like to leave 'em there; and i like to think perhaps she does know, after all. so--so i want to get that purple one, providing it would be the right shade. what do you say?" talk about your nutty propositions, eh? but honest, i didn't feel even like crackin' a smile. "daggett," says i, "you're a true sport, even if you have got a few bats in the loft. let's go back and get quotations on the lid." "i wish," says he, "i could see it tried on that manicure young woman first. suppose we go down and bring her up?" "what makes you think she'll come?" says i. "oh, i guess she will," says he, quiet and thoughtful. "we'll try, anyway." and say, right there i got a new line on him. i could almost frame up how it was he'd started in as a bacon borrowin' homesteader, and got to be the john d. of his county. but i could see he was up against a new deal this trip. and as it was time for me to be gettin' down towards d-st. anyway, i goes along. as we strikes the hotel barber shop i hangs up on the end of the cigar counter while daggett looks around for the young woman who'd put the chappy polish on his nails. "that's her," says he, pointing out a heavyweight titian blonde in the far corner, and over he pikes. i couldn't help admirin' the nerve of him; for of all the l'ongoline queens i ever saw, she's about the haughtiest. maybe you can throw on the screen a picture of a female party with a lillian russell shape, hair like mrs. leslie carter's, and an air like a twelve-dollar cloak model showin' off a five hundred-dollar lace dress to a bookmaker's bride. just as daggett tiptoes up she's pattin' down some of the red puffs that makes the back of her head look like a burnin' oil tank, and she swings around languid and scornful to see who it is that dares butt in on her presence. all the way she recognizes him is by a little lift of the eyebrows. i don't need to hear the dialogue. i can tell by her expression what daggett is saying. first there's a kind of condescendin' curiosity as he begins, then she looks bored and turns back to the mirror, and pretty soon she sings out, "what's that?" so you could hear her all over the shop. then daggett springs his proposition flat. "sir!" says she, jumpin' up and glarin' at him. daggett tries to soothe her down; but it's no go. "mr. heinmuller!" she calls out, and the boss barber comes steppin' over, leavin' a customer with his face muffled in a hot towel. "this person," she goes on, "is insulting!" "hey?" says heinmuller, puffin' out his cheeks. "vos iss dot?" and for a minute it looked like i'd have to jump in and save daggett from being chucked through the window. i was just preparin' to grab the boss by the collar, too, when daggett gets in his fine work. slippin' a ten off his roll, he passes it to heinmuller, while he explains that all he asked of the lady was to try on a hat he was thinkin' of gettin' for his wife. "that's all," says he. "no insult intended. and of course i expect to make it worth while for the young lady." i don't know whether it was the smooth "young lady" business, or the sight of the fat roll that turned the trick; but the tragedy is declared off. inside of three minutes the boss tells daggett that miss rooney accepts his apology and consents to go if he'll call a cab. "why, surely," says he. "you'll come along, too, won't you, mccabe? honest, now, i wouldn't dare do this alone." "too bad about that shy, retirin' disposition of yours!" says i. "afraid she'll steal you, eh?" but he hangs onto my sleeve and coaxes me until i give in. and we sure made a fine trio ridin' up fifth-ave. in a taxi! but you should have seen 'em in the millinery shop as we sails in with miss rooney, and daggett says how he'd like a view of that heliotrope lid in the window. we had 'em guessin', all right. then they gets miss rooney in a chair before the mirror, and fits the monstrosity on top of her red hair. well, say, what a diff'rence it does make in them freak bonnets whether they're in a box or on the right head! for miss rooney has got just the right kind of a face that hat was built to go with. it's a bit giddy, i'll admit; but she's a stunner in it. and does she notice it any herself? well, some! "a triumph!" gurgles the saleslady, lookin' from one to the other of us, tryin' to figure out who she ought to play to. "it's a game combination, all right," says i, lookin' wise. "i only wish----" begins daggett, and then swallows the rest of it. in a minute he steps up and says it'll do, and that the young lady is to pick out one for herself now. "oh, how perfectly sweet of you!" says miss rooney, slippin' him a smile that should have had him clear through the ropes. "but if i am to have any, why not this?" and she balances the heliotrope lid on her fingers, lookin' it over yearnin' and tender. "it just suits me, doesn't it?" then there's more of the coy business, aimed straight at daggett. but miss rooney don't quite put it across. "that's going out to iowy with me," says he, prompt and decided. "oh!" says miss rooney, and she proceeds to pick out a white straw with a green ostrich feather a yard long. she was still lookin' puzzled, though, as we put her into the cab and started her back to the barber shop. "must have set you back near a hundred, didn't they?" says i, as daggett and i parts on the corner. "almost," says he. "but it's worth it. marthy would have looked mighty stylish in that purple one. yes, yes! and when i get back to south forks, the first thing i do will be to carry it up on the knoll, box and all, and leave it there. i wonder if she'll know, eh?" there wa'n't any use in my tellin' him what i thought, though. he wa'n't talkin' to me, anyway. there was a kind of a far off, batty look in his eyes as he stood there on the corner, and a drop of brine was tricklin' down one side of his nose. so we never says a word, but just shakes hands, him goin' his way, and me mine. "chee!" says swifty joe, when i shows up, along about three o'clock, "you must have been puttin' away a hearty lunch!" "it wa'n't that kept me," says i. "i was helpin' hand a late one to marthy." chapter ii how maizie came through then again, there's other kinds from other states, and no two of 'em alike. they float in from all quarters, some on ten-day excursions, and some with no return ticket. and, of course, they're all jokes to us at first, while we never suspicion that all along we may be jokes to them. and say, between you and me, we're apt to think, ain't we, that all the rapid motion in the world gets its start right here in new york? well, that's the wrong dope. for instance, once i got next to a super-energized specimen that come in from the north end of nowhere, and before i was through the experience had left me out of breath. it was while sadie and me was livin' at the perzazzer hotel, before we moved out to rockhurst-on-the-sound. early one evenin' we was sittin', as quiet and domestic as you please, in our twelve by fourteen cabinet finished dinin' room on the seventh floor. we was gazin' out of the open windows watchin' a thunder storm meander over towards long island, and tidson was just servin' the demitasses, when there's a ring on the 'phone. tidson, he puts down the tray and answers the call. "it's from the office, sir," says he. "some one to see you, sir." "me?" says i. "get a description, tidson, so i'll know what to expect." at that he asks the room clerk for details, and reports that it's two young ladies by the name of blickens. "what!" says sadie, prickin' up her ears. "you don't know any young women of that name; do you, shorty?" "why not?" says i. "how can i tell until i've looked 'em over?" "humph!" says she. "blickens!" "sounds nice, don't it?" says i. "kind of snappy and interestin'. maybe i'd better go down and----" "tidson," says sadie, "tell them to send those young persons up here!" "that's right, tidson," says i. "don't mind anything i say." "blickens, indeed!" says sadie, eyin' me sharp, to see if i'm blushin' or gettin' nervous. "i never heard you mention any such name." "there's a few points about my past life," says i, "that i've had sense enough to keep to myself. maybe this is one. course, if your curiosity----" "i'm not a bit curious, shorty mccabe," she snaps out, "and you know it! but when it comes to----" "the misses blickens," says tidson, holdin' back the draperies with one hand, and smotherin' a grin with the other. say, you couldn't blame him. what steps in is a couple of drippy females that look like they'd just been fished out of a tank. and bein' wet wa'n't the worst of it. even if they'd been dry, they must have looked bad enough; but in the soggy state they was the limit. they wa'n't mates. one is tall and willowy, while the other is short and dumpy. and the fat one has the most peaceful face i ever saw outside of a pasture, with a reg'lar holstein-friesian set of eyes,--the round, calm, thoughtless kind. the fact that she's chewin' gum helps out the dairy impression, too. it's plain she's been caught in the shower and has sopped up her full share of the rainfall; but it don't seem to trouble her any. there ain't anything pastoral about the tall one, though. she's alive all the way from her runover heels to the wiggly end of the limp feather that flops careless like over one ear. she's the long-waisted, giraffe-necked kind; but not such a bad looker if you can forget the depressin' costume. it had been a blue cheviot once, i guess; the sort that takes on seven shades of purple about the second season. and it fits her like a damp tablecloth hung on a chair. her runnin' mate is all in black, and you could tell by the puckered seams and the twisted sleeves that it was an outfit the village dressmaker had done her worst on. not that they gives us much chance for a close size-up. the lengthy one pikes right into the middle of the room, brushes a stringy lock of hair off her face, and unlimbers her conversation works. "gosh!" says she, openin' her eyes wide and lookin' round at the rugs and furniture. "hope we haven't pulled up at the wrong ranch. are you shorty mccabe?" "among old friends, i am," says i, "now if you come under----" "it's all right, phemey," says she, motionin' to the short one. "sit down." "sure!" says i. "don't mind the furniture. take a couple of chairs." "not for me!" says the tall one. "i'll stand in one spot and drip, and then you can mop up afterwards. but phemey, she's plumb tuckered." "it's sweet of you to run in," says i. "been wadin' in the park lake, or enjoyin' the shower?" "enjoying the shower is good," says she; "but i hadn't thought of describing it that way. i reckon, though, you'd like to hear who we are." "oh, any time when you get to that," says i. "that's a joke, is it?" says she. "if it is, ha, ha! excuse me if i don't laugh real hearty. i can do better when i don't feel so much like a sponge. maizie may blickens is my name, and this is euphemia blickens." "ah!" says i. "sisters?" "do we look it?" says maizie. "no! first cousins on the whiskered side. ever hear that name blickens before?" "why--er--why----" says i, scratchin' my head. "don't dig too deep," says maizie. "how about blickens' skating rink in kansas city?" "oh!" says i. "was it run by a gent they called sport blickens?" "it was," says she. "why, sure," i goes on. "and the night i had my match there with the pedlar, when i'd spent my last bean on a month's trainin' expenses, and the pedlar's backer was wavin' a thousand-dollar side bet under my nose, this mr. blickens chucked me his roll and told me to call the bluff." "yes, that was dad, all right," says maizie. "it was?" says i. "well, well! now if there's anything i can do for----" "whoa up!" says maizie. "this is no grubstake touch. let's get that off our minds first, though i'm just as much obliged. it's come out as dad said. says he, 'if you're ever up against it, and can locate shorty mccabe, you go to him and say who you are.' but this isn't exactly that kind of a case. phemey and i may look a bit rocky and---- say, how do we look, anyway? have you got such a thing as a----" "tidson," says sadie, breakin' in, "you may roll in the pier glass for the young lady." course, that reminds me i ain't done the honors. "excuse me," says i. "miss blickens, this is mrs. mccabe." "howdy," says maizie. "i was wondering if it wasn't about due. goshety gosh! but you're all to the peaches, eh? and me----" here she turns and takes a full length view of herself. "suffering scarecrows! say, why didn't you put up the bars on us? don't you look, phemey; you'd swallow your gum!" but euphemia ain't got any idea of turnin' her head. she has them peaceful eyes of hers glued to sadie's copper hair, and she's contented to yank away at her cud. for a consistent and perseverin' masticator, she has our friend fletcher chewed to a standstill. maizie is soon satisfied with her survey. "that'll do, take it away," says she. "if i ever get real stuck on myself, i'll have something to remember. but, as i was sayin', this is no case of an escape from the poor farm. we wore these hetty green togs when we left dobie." "dobie?" says i. "go on, laugh!" says maizie. "dobie's the biggest joke and the slowest four corners in the state of minnesota, and that's putting it strong. look at phemey; she's a native." well, we looked at phemey. couldn't help it. euphemia don't seem to mind. she don't even grin; but just goes on workin' her jaws and lookin' placid. "out in dobie that would pass for hysterics," says maizie. "the only way they could account for me was by saying that i was born crazy in another state. i've had a good many kinds of hard luck; but being born in dobie wasn't one of the varieties. now can you stand the story of my life?" "miss blickens," says i, "i'm willin' to pay you by the hour." "it isn't so bad as all that," says she, "because precious little has ever happened to me. it's what's going to happen that i'm living for. but, to take a fair start, we'll begin with dad. when they called him sport blickens, they didn't stretch their imaginations. he was all that--and not much else. all i know about maw is that she was one of three, and that i was born in the back room of a denver dance hall. i've got a picture of her, wearing tights and a tin helmet, and dad says she was a hummer. he ought to know; he was a pretty good judge. "as i wasn't much over two days old when they had the funeral, i can't add anything more about maw. and the history i could write of dad would make a mighty slim book. running roller skating rinks was the most genteel business he ever got into, i guess. his regular profession was faro. it's an unhealthy game, especially in those gold camps where they shoot so impetuous. he got over the effects of two . 's dealt him by a halfbreed sioux; but when a real bad man from taunton, massachusetts, opened up on him across the table with a . , he just naturally got discouraged. good old dad! he meant well when he left me in dobie and had me adopted by uncle hen. phemey, you needn't listen to this next chapter." euphemia, she misses two jaw strokes in succession, rolls her eyes at maizie may for a second, and then strikes her reg'lar gait again. "excuse her getting excited like that," says maizie; "but uncle hen--that was her old man, of course--hasn't been planted long. he lasted until three weeks ago. he was an awful good man, uncle hen was--to himself. he had the worst case of ingrowing religion you ever saw. why, he had a thumb felon once, and when the doctor came to lance it uncle hen made him wait until he could call in the minister, so it could be opened with prayer. "sundays he made us go to church twice, and the rest of the day he talked to us about our souls. between times he ran the palace emporium; that is, he and i and a half baked swede by the name of jens torkil did. to look at jens you wouldn't have thought he could have been taught the difference between a can of salmon and a patent corn planter; but say, uncle hen had him trained to make short change and weigh his hand with every piece of salt pork, almost as slick as he could do it himself. "all i had to do was to tend the drygoods, candy, and drug counters, look after the post-office window, keep the books, and manage the telephone exchange. euphemia had the softest snap, though. she did the housework, planted the garden, raised chickens, fed the hogs, and scrubbed the floors. have i got the catalogue right, phemey?" euphemia blinks twice, kind of reminiscent; but nothin' in the shape of words gets through the gum. "she has such an emotional nature!" says maizie. "uncle hen was like that too. but let's not linger over him. he's gone. the last thing he did was to let go of a dollar fifty in cash that i held him up for so phemey and i could go into duluth and see a show. the end came early next day, and whether it was from shock or enlargement of the heart, no one will ever know. "it was an awful blow to us all. we went around in a daze for nearly a week, hardly daring to believe that it could be so. jens broke the spell for us. one morning i caught him helping himself to a cigar out of the two-fer box. 'why not?' says he. next phemey walks in, swipes a package of wintergreen gum, and feeds it all in at once. she says, 'why not?' too. then i woke up. 'you're right,' says i. 'enjoy yourself. it's time.' next i hints to her that there are bigger and brighter spots on this earth than dobie, and asks her what she says to selling the emporium and hunting them up. 'i don't care,' says she, and that was a good deal of a speech for her to make. 'do you leave it to me?' says i. 'uh-huh,' says she. 'we-e-e-ough!' says i," and with that maizie lets out one of them backwoods college cries that brings tidson up on his toes. "i take it," says i, "that you did." "did i?" says she. "inside of three days i'd hustled up four different parties that wanted to invest in a going concern, and before the week was over i'd buncoed one of 'em out of nine thousand in cash. most of it's in a certified check, sewed inside of phemey, and that's why we walked all the way up here in the rain. do you suppose you could take me to some bank to-morrow where i could leave that and get a handful of green bills on account? is that asking too much?" "considering the way you've brushed up my memory of sport blickens," says i, "it's real modest. couldn't you think of something else?" "if that had come from mrs. mccabe," says she, eyin' sadie kind of longin', "i reckon i could." "why," says sadie, "i should be delighted." "you wouldn't go so far as to lead two such freaks as us around to the stores and help us pick out some new york clothes, would you?" says she. "my dear girl!" says sadie, grabbin' both her hands. "we'll do it to-morrow." "honest?" says maizie, beamin' on her. "well, that's what i call right down decent. phemey, do you hear that? oh, swallow it, phemey, swallow it! this is where we bloom out!" and say, you should have heard them talkin' over the kind of trousseaus that would best help a girl to forget she ever came from dobie. "you will need a neat cloth street dress, for afternoons," says sadie. "not for me!" says maizie. "that'll do all right for phemey; but when it comes to me, i'll take something that rustles. i've worn back number cast-offs for twenty-two years; now i'm ready for the other kind. i've been traveling so far behind the procession i couldn't tell which way it was going. now i'm going to give the drum major a view of my back hair. the sort of costumes i want are the kind that are designed this afternoon for day after to-morrow. if it's checks, i'll take two to the piece; if it's stripes, i want to make a circus zebra look like a clipped mule. and i want a change for every day in the week." "but, my dear girl," says sadie, "can you afford to----" "you bet i can!" says maizie. "my share of uncle hen's pile is forty-five hundred dollars, and while it lasts i'm going to have the lilies of the field looking like the flowers you see on attic wall paper. i don't care what i have to eat, or where i stay; but when it comes to clothes, show me the limit! but say, i guess it's time we were getting back to our boarding-house. wake up, phemey!" well, i pilots 'em out to fifth-ave., stows 'em into a motor stage, and heads 'em down town. "whew!" says sadie, when i gets back. "i suppose that is a sample of western breeziness." "it's more'n a sample," says i. "but i can see her finish, though. inside of three months all she'll have left to show for her wad will be a trunk full of fancy regalia and a board bill. then it will be maizie hunting a job in some beanery." "oh, i shall talk her out of that nonsense," says sadie. "what she ought to do is to take a course in stenography and shorthand." yes, we laid out a full programme for maizie, and had her earnin' her little twenty a week, with phemey keepin' house for both of 'em in a nice little four-room flat. and in the mornin' i helps her deposit the certified check, and then turns the pair over to sadie for an assault on the department stores, with a call at a business college as a finish for the day, as we'd planned. when i gets home that night i finds sadie all fagged out and drinkin' bromo seltzer for a headache. "what's wrong?" says i. "nothing," says sadie; "only i've been having the time of my life." "buying tailor made uniforms for the misses blickens?" says i. "tailor made nothing!" says sadie. "it was no use, shorty, i had to give in. maizie wanted the other things so badly. and then euphemia declared she must have the same kind. so i spent the whole day fitting them out." "got 'em something sudden and noisy, eh?" says i. "just wait until you see them," says sadie. "but what's the idea?" says i. "how long do they think they can keep up that pace? and when they've blown themselves short of breath, what then?" "heaven knows!" says sadie. "but maizie has plans of her own. when i mentioned the business college, she just laughed, and said if she couldn't do something better than pound a typewriter, she'd go back to dobie." "huh!" says i. "sentiments like that has got lots of folks into trouble." "and yet," says sadie, "maizie's a nice girl in her way. we'll see how she comes out." we did, too. it was a couple of weeks before we heard a word from either of 'em, and then the other day sadie gets a call over the 'phone from a perfect stranger. she says she's a mrs. herman zorn, of west end-ave., and that she's givin' a little roof garden theater party that evenin', in honor of miss maizie blickens, an old friend of hers that she used to know when she lived in st. paul and spent her summers near dobie. also she understood we were friends of miss blickens too, and she'd be pleased to have us join. "west end-ave.!" says i. "gee! but it looks like maizie had been able to butt in. do we go, sadie?" "i said we'd be charmed," says she. "i'm dying to see how maizie will look." i didn't admit it, but i was some curious that way myself; so about eight-fifteen we shows up at the roof garden and has an usher lead us to the bunch. there's half a dozen of 'em on hand; but the only thing worth lookin' at was maizie may. and say, i thought i could make a guess as to somewhere near how she would frame up. the picture i had in mind was a sort of cross between a grand-st. rebecca and an eighth-ave. lizzie maud,--you know, one of the near style girls, that's got on all the novelties from ten bargain counters. but, gee! the view i gets has me gaspin'. maizie wa'n't near; she was two jumps ahead. and it wa'n't any grand-st. fashion plate that she was a livin' model of. it was fifth-ave. and upper broadway. talk about your down-to-the-minute costumes! say, maybe they'll be wearin' dresses like that a year from now. and that hat! it wa'n't a dream; it was a forecast. "we saw it unpacked from the paris case," whispers sadie. all i know about it is that it was the widest, featheriest lid i ever saw in captivity, and it's balanced on more hair puffs than you could put in a barrel. but what added the swell, artistic touch was the collar. it's a chin supporter and ear embracer. i thought i'd seen high ones, but this twelve-inch picket fence around maizie's neck was the loftiest choker i ever saw anyone survive. to watch her wear it gave you the same sensations as bein' a witness at a hanging. how she could do it and keep on breathin', i couldn't make out; but it don't seem to interfere with her talkin'. sittin' close up beside her, and listenin' with both ears stretched and his mouth open, was a blond young gent with a bristly bat nelson pompadour. he's rigged out in a silk faced tuxedo, a smoke colored, open face vest, and he has a big yellow orchid in his buttonhole. by the way he's gazin' at maizie, you could tell he approved of her from the ground up. she don't hesitate any on droppin' him, though, when we arrives. "hello!" says she. "ripping good of you to come. well, what do you think? i've got some of 'em on, you see. what's the effect?" "stunning!" says sadie. "thanks," says maizie. "i laid out to get somewhere near that. and, gosh! but it feels good! these are the kind of togs i was born to wear. phemey? oh, she's laid up with arnica bandages around her throat. i told her she mustn't try to chew gum with one of these collars on." "say, maizie," says i, "who's the sir lionel budweiser, and where did you pick him up?" "oh, oscar!" says she. "why, he found me. he's from st. paul, nephew of mrs. zorn, who's visiting her. brewer's son, you know. money? they've got bales of it. hey, oscar!" says she, snappin' her finger. "come over here and show yourself!" and say, he was trained, all right. he trots right over. "would you take him, if you was me?" says maizie, turnin' him round for us to make an inspection. "i told him i wouldn't say positive until i had shown him to you, mrs. mccabe. he's a little under height, and i don't like the way his hair grows; but his habits are good, and his allowance is thirty thousand a year. how about him? will he do?" "why--why----" says sadie, and it's one of the few times i ever saw her rattled. "just flash that ring again, oscar," says maizie. "o-o-oh!" says sadie, when oscar has pulled out the white satin box and snapped back the cover. "what a beauty! yes, maizie, i should say that, if you like oscar, he would do nicely." "that goes!" says maizie. "here, occie dear, slide it on. but remember: phemey has got to live with us until i can pick out some victim of nervous prostration that needs a wife like her. and for goodness' sake, occie, give that waiter an order for something wet!" "well!" says sadie afterwards, lettin' out a long breath. "to think that we ever worried about her!" "she's a little bit of all right, eh?" says i. "but say, i'm glad i ain't occie, the heir to the brewery. i wouldn't know whether i was engaged to maizie, or caught in a belt." chapter iii where spotty fitted in also we have a few home-grown varieties that ain't listed frequent. and the pavement products are apt to have most as queer kinks to 'em as those from the plowed fields. now take spotty. "gee! what a merry look!" says i to pinckney as he floats into the studio here the other day. he's holdin' his chin high, and he's got his stick tucked up under his arm, and them black eyes of his is just sparklin'. "what's it all about?" i goes on. "is it a good one you've just remembered, or has something humorous happened to one of your best friends?" "i have a new idea," says he, "that's all." "all!" says i. "why, that's excuse enough for declarin' a gen'ral holiday. did you go after it, or was it delivered by mistake? can't you give us a scenario of it?" "why, i've thought of something new for spotty cahill," says he, beamin'. "g'wan!" says i. "i might have known it was a false alarm. spotty cahill! say, do you want to know what i'd advise you to do for spotty next?" no, pinckney don't want my views on the subject. it's a topic we've threshed out between us before; also it's one of the few dozen that we could debate from now until there's skatin' on the panama canal, without gettin' anywhere. i've always held that spotty cahill was about the most useless and undeservin' human being that ever managed to exist without work; but to hear pinckney talk you'd think that long-legged, carroty-haired young loafer was the original party that philanthropy was invented for. now, doing things for other folks ain't one of pinckney's strong points, as a rule. not that he wouldn't if he thought of it and could find the time; but gen'rally he has too many other things on his schedule to indulge much in the little deeds of kindness game. when he does start out to do good, though, he makes a job of it. but look who he picks out! course, i knew why. he's explained all that to me more'n once. seems there was an old waiter at the club, a quiet, soft-spoken, bald-headed relic, who had served him with more lobster newburg than you could load on a scow, and enough highballs to float the _mauretania_ in. in fact, he'd been waitin' there as long as pinckney had been a member. they'd been kind of chummy, in a way, too. it had always been "good morning, peter," and "hope i see you well, sir," between them, and pinckney never had to bother about whether he liked a dash of bitters in this, or if that ought to be served frappe or plain. peter knew, and peter never forgot. then one day when pinckney's just squarin' off to his lunch he notices that he's been given plain, ordinary salt butter instead of the sweet kind he always has; so he puts up a finger to call peter over and have a swap made. when he glances up, though, he finds peter ain't there at all. "oh, i say," says he, "but where is peter?" "peter, sir?" says the new man. "very sorry, sir, but peter's dead." "dead!" says pinckney. "why--why--how long has that been?" "over a month, sir," says he. "anything wrong, sir?" to be sure, pinckney hadn't been there reg'lar; but he'd been in off and on, and when he comes to think how this old chap, that knew all his whims, and kept track of 'em so faithful, had dropped out without his ever having heard a word about it--why, he felt kind of broke up. you see, he'd always meant to do something nice for old peter; but he'd never got round to it, and here the first thing he knows peter's been under the sod for more'n a month. that's what set pinckney to inquirin' if peter hadn't left a fam'ly or anything, which results in his diggin' up this spotty youth. i forgot just what his first name was, it being something outlandish that don't go with cahill at all; but it seems he was born over in india, where old peter was soldierin' at the time, and they'd picked up one of the native names. maybe that's what ailed the boy from the start. anyway, peter had come back from there a widower, drifted to new york with the youngster, and got into the waiter business. meantime the boy grows up in east side boardin'-houses, without much lookin' after, and when pinckney finds him he's an int'restin' product. he's twenty-odd, about five feet eleven high, weighs under one hundred and thirty, has a shock of wavy, brick-red hair that almost hides his ears, and his chief accomplishments are playin' kelly pool and consumin' cigarettes. by way of ornament he has the most complete collection of freckles i ever see on a human face, or else it was they stood out more prominent because the skin was so white between the splotches. we didn't invent the name spotty for him. he'd already been tagged that. well, pinckney discovers that spotty has been livin' on the few dollars that was left after payin' old peter's plantin' expenses; that he didn't know what he was goin' to do after that was gone, and didn't seem to care. so pinckney jumps in, works his pull with the steward, and has spotty put on reg'lar in the club billiard room as an attendant. all he has to do is help with the cleanin', keep the tables brushed, and set up the balls when there are games goin' on. he gets his meals free, and six dollars a week. now that should have been a soft enough snap for anybody, even the born tired kind. there wa'n't work enough in it to raise a palm callous on a baby. but spotty, he improves on that. his idea of earnin' wages is to curl up in a sunny windowseat and commune with his soul. wherever you found the sun streamin' in, there was a good place to look for spotty. he just seemed to soak it up, like a blotter does ink, and it didn't disturb him any who was doin' his work. durin' the first six months spotty was fired eight times, only to have pinckney get him reinstated, and it wa'n't until the steward went to the board of governors with the row that mr. cahill was given his permanent release. you might think pinckney would have called it quits then; but not him! he'd started out to godfather spotty, and he stays right with the game. everybody he knew was invited to help along the good work of givin' spotty a lift. he got him into brokers' offices, tried him out as bellhop in four diff'rent hotels, and even jammed him by main strength into a bank; but spotty's sun absorbin' habits couldn't seem to be made useful anywhere. for one while he got chummy with swifty joe and took to sunnin' himself in the studio front windows, until i had to veto that. "i don't mind your friends droppin' in now and then, swifty," says i; "but there ain't any room here for statuary. i don't care how gentle you break it to him, only run him out." so that's why i don't enthuse much when pinckney says he's thought up some new scheme for spotty. "goin' to have him probed for hookworms?" says i. no, that ain't it. pinckney, he's had a talk with spotty and discovered that old peter had a brother aloysius, who's settled somewhere up in canada and is superintendent of a big wheat farm. pinckney's had his lawyers trace out this uncle aloysius, and then he's written him all about spotty, suggestin' that he send for him by return mail. "fine!" says i. "he'd be a lot of use on a wheat farm. what does aloysius have to say to the proposition?" "well, the fact is," says pinckney, "he doesn't appear at all enthusiastic. he writes that if the boy is anything like peter when he knew him he's not anxious to see him. however, he says that if spotty comes on he will do what he can for him." "it'll be a long walk," says i. "there's where my idea comes in," says pinckney. "i am going to finance the trip." "if it don't cost too much," says i, "it'll be a good investment." pinckney wants to do the thing right away, too. first off, though, he has to locate spotty. the youth has been at large for a week or more now, since he was last handed the fresh air, and pinckney ain't heard a word from him. "maybe swifty knows where he roosts," says i. it was a good guess. swifty gives us a number on fourth-ave. where he'd seen spotty hangin' around lately, and he thinks likely he's there yet. so me and pinckney starts out on the trail. it leads us to one of them turkish auction joints where they sell genuine silk oriental prayer rugs, made in paterson, n. j., with hammered brass bowls and antique guns as a side line. and, sure enough, camped down in front on a sample rug, with his hat off and the sun full on him, is our friend spotty. "well, well!" says pinckney. "regularly employed here, are you, spotty?" "me? nah!" says spotty, lookin' disgusted at the thought. "i'm only stayin' around." "ain't you afraid the sun will fade them curly locks of yours?" says i. "ah, quit your kiddin'!" says spotty, startin' to roll a fresh cigarette. "don't mind shorty," says pinckney. "i have some good news for you." that don't excite spotty a bit. "not another job!" he groans. "no, no," says pinckney, and then he explains about finding uncle aloysius, windin' up by askin' spotty how he'd like to go up there and live. "i don't know," says spotty. "good ways off, ain't it!" "it is, rather," admits pinckney; "but that need not trouble you. what do you think i am going to do for you, spotty?" "give it up," says he, calmly lightin' a match and proceedin' with the smoke. "well," says pinckney, "because of the long and faithful service of your father, and the many little personal attentions he paid me, i am going to give you---- wait! here it is now," and hanged if pinckney don't fork over ten new twenty-dollar bills. "there!" says he. "that ought to be enough to fit you out well and take you there in good shape. here's the address too." does spotty jump up and crack his heels together and sputter out how thankful he is? nothin' so strenuous. he fumbles the bills over curious for a minute, then wads 'em up and jams 'em into his pocket. "much obliged," says he. "come around to shorty's with your new clothes on to-morrow afternoon about four o'clock," says pinckney, "and let us see how you look. and--er--by the way, spotty, is that a friend of yours?" i'd been noticin' her too, standin' just inside the doorway pipin' us off. she's a slim, big-eyed, black-haired young woman, dressed in the height of grand-st. fashion, and wearin' a lot of odd, cheap lookin' jewelry. if it hadn't been for the straight nose and the thin lips you might have guessed that her first name was rebecca. "oh, her?" says spotty, turnin' languid to see who he meant. "that's mareena. her father runs the shop." "armenian?" says i. "no, syrian," says he. "quite some of a looker, eh?" says i, tryin' to sound him. "not so bad," says spotty, hunchin' his shoulders. "but--er--do i understand," says pinckney, "that there is--ah--some attachment between you and--er--the young lady?" "blamed if i know," says spotty. "better ask her." course, we couldn't very well do that, and as spotty don't seem bubblin' over with information he has to chop it off there. pinckney, though, is more or less int'rested in the situation. he wonders if he's done just right, handin' over all that money to spotty in a place like that. "it wa'n't what you'd call a shrewd move," says i. "seems to me i'd bought his ticket, anyway." "yes; but i wanted to get it off my mind, you know," says he. "odd, though, his being there. i wonder what sort of persons those syrians are!" "you never can tell," says i. the more pinckney thinks of it, the more uneasy he gets, and when four o'clock comes next day, with no spotty showin' up, he begins to have furrows in his brow. "if he's been done away with, it's my fault," says pinckney. "ah, don't start worryin' yet," says i. "give him time." by five o'clock, though, pinckney has imagined all sorts of things,--spotty bein' found carved up and sewed in a sack, and him called into court to testify as to where he saw him last. "and all because i gave him that money!" he groans. "say, can it!" says i. "them sensation pictures of yours are makin' me nervous. here, i'll go down and see if they've finished wipin' off the daggers, while you send swifty out after something soothin'." with that off i hikes as a rescue expedition. i finds the red flag still out, the sample rug still in place; but there's no spotty in evidence. neither is there any sign of the girl. so i walks into the store, gazin' around sharp for any stains on the floor. out from behind a curtain at the far end of the shop comes a fat, wicked lookin' old pirate, with a dark greasy face and shiny little eyes like a pair of needles. he's wearin' a dinky gold-braided cap, baggy trousers, and he carries a long pipe in one hand. if he didn't look like he'd do extemporaneous surgery for the sake of a dollar bill, then i'm no judge. i've got in too far to look up a cop, so i takes a chance on a strong bluff. "say, you!" i sings out. "what's happened to spotty?" "spot-tee?" says he. "spot-tee?" he shrugs his shoulders and pretends to look dazed. "yes, spotty," says i, "red-headed, freckle-faced young gent. you know him." "ah!" says he, tappin' his head. "the golden crowned! el sareef ka-heel?" "that's the name, cahill," says i. "he's a friend of a friend of mine, and you might as well get it through your nut right now that if anything's happened to him----" "you are a friend of sareef ka-heel?" he breaks in, eyin' me suspicious. "once removed," says i; "but it amounts to the same thing. now where is he?" "for a friend--well, i know not," says the old boy, kind of hesitatin'. then, with another shrug, he makes up his mind. "so it shall be. come. you shall see the sareef." at that he beckons me to follow and starts towards the back. i went through one dark room, expectin' to feel a knife in my ribs every minute, and then we goes through another. next thing i knew we're out in a little back yard, half full of empty cases and crates. in the middle of a clear space is a big brown tent, with the flap pinned back. "here," says the old gent, "your friend, the sareef ka-heel!" say, for a minute i thought it was a trap he's springin' on me; but after i'd looked long enough i see who he's pointin' at. the party inside is squattin' cross-legged on a rug, holdin' the business end of one of these water bottle pipes in his mouth. he's wearin' some kind of a long bath robe, and most of his red hair is concealed by yards of white cloth twisted round his head; but it's spotty all right, alive, uncarved, and lookin' happy and contented. "well, for the love of soup!" says i. "what is it, a masquerade?" "that you, mccabe?" says he. "come in and--and sit on the floor." "say," says i, steppin' inside, "this ain't the costume you're going to start for canada in, is it?" "ah, forget canada!" says he. "i've got that proposition beat a mile. hey, hazzam," and he calls to the old pirate outside, "tell mrs. cahill to come down and be introduced!" "what's that?" says i. "you--you ain't been gettin' married, have you?" "yep," says spotty, grinnin' foolish. "nine o'clock last night. we're goin' to start on our weddin' trip tuesday, me and mareena." "mareena!" i gasps. "not the--the one we saw out front? where you going, niagara?" "nah! syria, wherever that is," says he. "mareena knows. we're goin' to live over there and buy rugs. that two hundred was just what we needed to set us up in business." "think you'll like it?" says i. "sure!" says he. "she says it's fine. there's deserts over there, and you travel for days and days, ridin' on bloomin' camels. here's the tent we're goin' to live in. i'm practisin' up. gee! but this pipe is somethin' fierce, though! oh, here she is! say, mareena, this is mr. mccabe, that i was tellin' you about." well, honest, i wouldn't have known her for the same girl. she's changed that grand-st. uniform for a native outfit, and while it's a little gaudy in color, hanged if it ain't becomin'! for a desert bride i should say she had some class. "well," says i, "so you and spotty are goin' to leave us, eh?" "ah, yes!" says she, them big black eyes of hers lightin' up. "we go where the sky is high and blue and the sun is big and hot. we go back to the wide white desert where i was born. all day we shall ride toward the purple hills, and sleep at night under the still stars. he knows. i have told him." "that's right," says spotty. "it'll be all to the good, that. mareena can cook too." to prove it, she makes coffee and hands it around in little brass cups. also there's cakes, and the old man comes in, smilin' and rubbin' his hands, and we has a real sociable time. and these was the folks i'd suspected of wantin' to carve up spotty! why, by the looks i saw thrown at him by them two, i knew they thought him the finest thing that ever happened. just by the way mareena reached out sly to pat his hair when she passed, you could see how it was. so i wished 'em luck and hurried back to report before pinckney sent a squad of reserves after me. "well!" says he, the minute i gets in. "let me know the worst at once." "i will," says i. "he's married." it was all i could do, too, to make him believe the yarn. "by jove!" says he. "think of a chap like spotty cahill tumbling into a romance like that! and on fourth-ave!" "it ain't so well advertised as some other lanes in this town," says i; "but it's a great street. say, what puzzled me most about the whole business, though, was the new name they had for spotty. sareef! what in blazes does that mean?" "probably a title of some sort," says pinckney. "like sheik, i suppose." "but what does a sareef have to do?" says i. "do!" says pinckney. "why, he's boss of the caravan. he--he sits around in the sun and looks picturesque." "then that settles it," says i. "spotty's qualified. i never thought there was any place where he'd fit in; but, if your description's correct, he's found the job he was born for." chapter iv a grandmother who got going ever go on a grandmother hunt through the red ink district? well, it ain't a reg'lar amusement of mine, but it has its good points. maybe i wouldn't have tackled it at all if i hadn't begun by lettin' myself get int'rested in vincent's domestic affairs. now what i knew about this vincent chap before we starts out on the grandmother trail wouldn't take long to tell. he wa'n't any special friend of mine. for one thing, he wears his hair cut plush. course, it's his hair, and if he wants to train it to stand up on top like a clothes brush or a blacking dauber, who am i that should curl the lip of scorn? just the same, i never could feel real chummy towards anyone that sported one of them self raisin' crests. vincent wa'n't one of the chummy kind, though. he's one of these stiff backed, black haired, brown eyed, quick motioned, sharp spoken ducks, that wants what he wants when he wants it. you know. he comes to the studio reg'lar, does his forty-five minutes' work, and gets out without swappin' any more conversation than is strictly necessary. all the information i had picked up about him was that he hailed from up the state somewhere, and that soon after he struck new york he married one of the chetwood girls. and that takes more or less capital to start with. guess vincent had it; for i hear his old man left him quite a wad and that now he's the main guy of a threshin' machine trust, or something like that. anyway, vincent belongs in the four-cylinder plute class, and he's beginnin' to be heard of among the alimony aristocracy. but this ain't got anything to do with the way he happened to get confidential all so sudden. he'd been havin' a kid pillow mix-up with swifty joe, just as lively as if the thermometer was down to thirty instead of up to ninety, and he's just had his rub down and got into his featherweight serge, when in drifts this rodney kipp that's figurin' so strong on the defense side of them pipe line cases. "ah, vincent!" says he. "hello, rodney!" says vincent as they passes each other in the front office, one goin' out and the other comin' in. i'd never happened to see 'em meet before, and i'm some surprised that they're so well acquainted. don't know why, either, unless it is that they're so different. rodney, you know, is one of these light complected heavyweights, and a swell because he was born so. i was wonderin' if rodney was one of vincent's lawyers, or if they just belonged to the same clubs; when mr. kipp swings on his heel and says: "oh, by the way, vincent, how is grammy?" "why!" says vincent, "isn't she out with you and nellie?" "no," says rodney, "she stayed with us only for a couple of days. nellie said she hadn't heard from her for nearly two months, and told me to ask you about her. so long. i'm due for some medicine ball work," and with that he drifts into the gym. and shuts the door. vincent, he stands lookin' after him with a kind of worried look on his face that was comical to see on such a cocksure chap as him. "lost somebody, have you?" says i. "why--er--i don't know," says vincent, runnin' his fingers through the bristles that waves above his noble brow. "it's grandmother. i can't imagine where she can be." "you must have grandmothers to burn," says i, "if they're so plenty with you that you can mislay one now and then without missin' her." "eh?" says he. "no, no! she is really my mother, you know. i've got into the way of calling her grammy only during the last three or four years." "oh, i see!" says i. "the grandmother habit is something she's contracted comparative recent, eh? ain't gone to her head, has it?" vincent couldn't say; but by the time he's quit tryin' to explain what has happened i've got the whole story. first off he points out that rodney kipp, havin' married his sister nellie, is his brother-in-law, and, as they both have a couple of youngsters, it makes vincent's mother a grammy in both families. "sure," says i. "i know how that works out. she stays part of the time with you, and makes herself mighty popular with your kids; then she takes her trunk over to rodney's and goes through the same performance there. and when she goes visitin' other places there's a great howl all round. that's it, ain't it?" it wa'n't, not within a mile, and i'd showed up my low, common breedin' by suggesting such a thing. as gently as he could without hurtin' my feelin's too much, vincent explains that while my programme might be strictly camel's foot for ordinary people, the domestic arrangements of the upper classes was run on different lines. for instance, his little algernon chetwood could speak nothing but french, that bein' the brand of governess he'd always had, and so he naturally couldn't be very thick with a grandmother that didn't understand a word of his lingo. "besides," says vincent, "mother and my wife, i regret to say, have never found each other very congenial." i might have guessed it if i'd stopped to think of how an old lady from the country would hitch with one of them high flyin' chetwood girls. "then she hangs out with your sister, eh, and does her grandmother act there?" says i. "well, hardly," says vincent, colorin' up a little. "you see, rodney has never been very intimate with the rest of our family. he's a kipp, and---- well, you can't blame him; for mother is rather old-fashioned. of course, she's good and kind-hearted and all that; but--but there isn't much style about her." "still sticks to the polonaise of ' , and wears a straw lid she bought durin' the centennial, eh?" says i. vincent says that about tells the story. "and where is it she's been livin' all this time that you've been gettin' on so well in new york?" says i. "in our old home, tonawanda," says he, shudderin' some as he lets go of the name. "it's where she should have stayed, too!" "so-o-o-o?" says i. i'd been listenin' just out of politeness up to that point; but from then on i got int'rested, and i don't let up until i've pumped out of him all the details about just how much of a nuisance an old, back number mother could be to a couple of ambitious young folks that had grown up and married into the swell mob. it was a case that ought to be held up as a warnin' to lots of superfluous old mothers that ain't got any better taste than to keep on livin' long after there's any use for 'em. mother vincent hadn't made much trouble at first, for she'd had an old maid sister to take care of; but when a bad case of the grip got aunt sophrony durin' the previous winter, mother was left sort of floatin' around. she tried visitin' back and forth between vincent and nellie just one consecutive trip, and the experiment was such a frost that it caused ructions in both families. in her tonawanda regalia mother wa'n't an exhibit that any english butler could be expected to pass the soup to and still keep a straight face. so vincent thinks it's time to anchor her permanent somewhere. accordin' to his notion, he did the handsome thing too. he buys her a nice little farm about a mile outside of tonawanda, a place with a fine view of the railroad tracks on the west and a row of brick yards to the east, and he lands mother there with a toothless old german housekeeper for company. he tells her he's settled a good comfortable income on her for life, and leaves her to enjoy herself. but look at the ingratitude a parent can work up! she ain't been there more'n a couple of months before she begins complainin' about bein' lonesome. she don't see much of the tonawanda folks now, the housekeeper ain't very sociable, the smoke from the brick yards yellows her monday wash, and the people she sees goin' by in the cars is all strangers. couldn't vincent swap the farm for one near new york? she liked the looks of the place when she was there, and wouldn't mind being closer. "of course," says he, "that was out of the question!" "oh, sure!" says i. "how absurd! but what's the contents of this late bulletin about her being a stray?" it was nothing more or less than that the old girl had sold up the farm a couple of months back, fired the housekeeper, and quietly skipped for new york. vincent had looked for her to show up at his house, and when she didn't he figured she must have gone to nellie's. it was only when rodney kipp fires the grammy question at him that he sees he's made a wrong calculation and begins havin' cold feet. "if she's here, alone in new york, there's no knowing what may be happening to her," says he. "why, she knows nothing about the city, nothing at all! she might get run over, or fall in with disreputable people, or----" the other pictures was so horrible he passes 'em up. "mothers must be a great care," says i. "i ain't had one for so long i can't say on my own hook; but i judge that you and sister has had a hard time of it with yours. excuse me, though, if i don't shed any tears of sympathy, vincent." he looks at me kind of sharp at that; but he's too busy with disturbin' thoughts to ask what i mean. maybe he'd found out if he had. it's just as well he didn't; for i was some curious to see what would be his next move. from his talk it's plain vincent is most worried about the chances of the old lady's doin' something that would get her name into the papers, and he says right off that he won't rest easy until he's found her and shooed her back to the fields. "but where am i to look first?" says he. "how am i to begin?" "it's a big town to haul a dragnet through, that's a fact," says i. "why don't you call in brother-in-law rodney, for a starter?" "no, no," says vincent, glancin' uneasy at the gym. door. "i don't care to have him know anything about it." "maybe sister might have some information," says i. "there's the 'phone." "thanks," says he. "if you don't mind, i will call her up at the kipp country place." he does; but nellie ain't heard a word from mother; thought she must be with vincent all this time; and has been too busy givin' house parties to find out. "have her cross examine the maids," says i. "the old lady may have left some orders about forwardin' her mail." that was the clew. inside of ten minutes nellie 'phones back and gives a number on west st-st. "gee!" says i. "a hamfatters' boardin'-house, i'll bet a bag of beans! grandmother has sure picked out a lively lodgin'-place." "horrible!" says vincent. "i must get her away from there at once. but i wish there was someone who----shorty, could i get you to go along with me and----" "rescuin' grandmothers ain't my long suit," says i; "but i'll admit i'm some int'rested in this case. come on." by the time our clockwork cab fetches up in front of the prunery it's after six o'clock. there's no mistakin' the sort of histrionic asylum it was, either. a hungry lookin' bunch of actorets was lined up on the front steps, everyone of 'em with an ear stretched out for the dinner bell. in the window of the first floor front was a beauty doctor's sign, a bull fiddle-artist was sawin' out his soul distress in the hall bedroom above, and up under the cornice the chicini sisters was leanin' on the ledge and wishin' the folks back in saginaw would send on that grubstake letter before the landlady got any worse. but maybe you've seen samples of real dogday tragedy among the profesh, when the summer snaps have busted and the fall rehearsals have just begun. what, mabel? "it's a sure enough double-in-brass roost," says i. "don't say anything that sounds like contract, or you'll be mobbed." but they sizes vincent up for a real estate broker, and gives him the chilly stare, until he mentions the old lady's name. then they thaws out sudden. "oh, the duchess!" squeals a couple in chorus. "why, she always dines out, you know. you'll find her around at doughretti's, on th-st." "duchess!" says vincent. "i--i'm afraid there's some mistake." "not at all," says one of the crowd. "we all call her that. she's got little spring water with her to-night. doughretti's, just in from the avenue, is the place." and vincent is the worst puzzled gent you ever saw as he climbs back into the cab. "it can't be mother they mean," says he. "no one would ever think of calling her duchess." "there's no accountin' for what them actorines would do," says i. "anyway, all you got to do is take a peek at the party, and if it's a wrong steer we can go back and take a fresh start." you know doughretti's, if you don't you know a dozen just like it. it's one of these sixty-cent table dotty joints, with an electric name sign, a striped stoop awnin', and a seven-course menu manifolded in pale purple ink. you begin the agony with an imitation soup that looks like rockaway beach water when the tide's comin' in, and you end with a choice of petrified cheese rinds that might pass for souvenirs from the palisades. if you don't want to taste what you eat, you let 'em hand you a free bottle of pure california claret, vatted on east houston-st. it's a mixture of filtered croton, extra quality aniline dyes, and two kinds of wood alcohol, and after you've had a pint of it you don't care whether the milk fed philadelphia chicken was put in cold storage last winter, or back in the year of the big wind. madam doughretti had just fed the punk lady waltz into the pianola for the fourth time as we pulls up at the curb. "it's no use," says vincent. "she wouldn't be here. i will wait, though, while you take a look around; if you will, shorty." on the way over he's given me a description of his missin' parent; so i pikes up the steps, pushes past the garlic smells, and proceeds to inspect the groups around the little tables. what i'm lookin' for is a squatty old party with gray hair pasted down over her ears, and a waist like a bag of hay tied in the middle. she's supposed to be wearin' a string bonnet about the size of a saucer, with a bunch of faded velvet violets on top, a coral brooch at her neck, and either a black alpaca or a lavender sprigged grenadine. most likely, too, she'll be doin' the shovel act with her knife. well, there was a good many kinds of females scattered around the coffee stained tablecloths, but none that answers to these specifications. i was just gettin' ready to call off the search, when i gets my eye on a couple over in one corner. the gent was one of these studio indians, with his hair tucked inside his collar. the old girl facin' him didn't have any tonawanda look about her, though. she was what you might call a frosted pippin, a reg'lar dowager dazzler, like the pictures you see on fans. her gray hair has been spliced out with store puffs until it looks like a weddin' cake; her hat is one of the new wash basin models, covered with pink roses that just matches the color of her cheeks; and her peek-a-poo lace dress fits her like it had been put onto her with a shoe horn. sure, i wa'n't lookin' for any such party as this; but i can't help takin' a second squint. i notices what fine, gentle old eyes she has, and while i was doin' that i spots something else. just under her chin is one of them antique coral pins. course, it looked like a long shot, but i steps out to the door and motions vincent to come in. "i expect we're way off the track," says i; "but i'd like to have you take a careless glance at the giddy old party over under the kummel sign in the corner; the one facin' this way--there." vincent gives a jump at the first look. then he starts for her full tilt, me trailin' along and whisperin' to him not to make any fool break unless he's dead sure. but there's no holdin' him back. she's so busy chattin' with the reformed sioux in store clothes that she don't notice vincent until he's right alongside, and just as she looks up he lets loose his indignation. "why, grandmother!" says he. she don't seem so much jarred as you might think. she don't even drop the fork that she's usin' to twist up a gob of spaghetti on. all she does is to lift her eyebrows in a kind of annoyed way, and shoot a quick look at the copper tinted gent across the table. "there, there, vincent?" says she. "please don't grandmother me; at least, not in public." "but," says he, "you know that you are a----" "i admit nothing of the kind," says she. "i may be your mother; but as for being anybody's grandmother, that is an experience i know nothing about. now please run along, vincent, and don't bother." that leaves vincent up in the air for keeps. he don't know what to make of this reception, or of the change that happened to her; but he feels he ought to register some sort of a kick. "but, mother," says he, "what does this mean? such clothes! and such--such"--here he throws a meanin' look at the indian gent. "allow me," says grandmother, breakin' in real dignified, "to introduce mr. john little bear, son of chief won-go-plunki. i am very sorry to interrupt our talk on art, john; but i suppose i must say a few words to vincent. would you mind taking your coffee on the back veranda?" he was a well-trained red man, john was, and he understands the back out sign; so inside of a minute the crockery has been pushed away and i'm attendin' a family reunion that appears to be cast on new lines. vincent begins again by askin' what it all means. "it means, vincent," says she, "that i have caught up with the procession. i tried being the old-fashioned kind of grandmother, and i wasn't a success. now i'm learning the new way, and i like it first rate." "but your--your clothes!" gasps vincent. "well, what of them?" says she. "you made fun of the ones i used to wear; but these, i would have you know, were selected for me by a committee of six chorus ladies who know what is what. i am quite satisfied with my clothes, vincent." "possibly they're all right," says he; "but how--how long have you been wearing your hair that way?" "ever since madam montrosini started on my improvement course," says she. "i am told it is quite becoming. and have you noticed my new waist line, vincent?" vincent hadn't; but he did then, and he had nothin' to say, for she has an hourglass lookin' like a hitchin' post. not bein' able to carry on the debate under them headings, he switches and comes out strong on what an awful thing it was for her to be livin' among such dreadful people. "why," says grandmother, "they're real nice, i'm sure. they have been just as good to me as they could be. they take turns going out to dinner with me and showing me around the town." "good heavens!" says vincent. "and this--this bear person, does he----" "he is an educated, full blooded sioux," says grandmother. "he has toured europe with buffalo bill, and just now he is an artists' model. he is very entertaining company, johnny is." "johnny!" gasps vincent under his breath. that's the last straw. he lays down the law then and there to grandmother. if she ever expects him to recognize her again, she must shake this whole crowd and come with him. "where to, vincent?" says she. "why, to my home, of course," says he. "and have your wife's maid speak of me as a dumpy old scarecrow? no, thank you!" and she calls the waiter to bring a demitasse with cognac. "but no one could call you that now, mother," says vincent. "you--you're different, quite different." "oh, am i?" says she. "to be sure you are," says he. "julia and i would be glad to have you with us. really, we would." she was a good natured old girl, grandmother was. she says she'll try it; but only on one condition. it was a corker, too. if she's going to give all her good friends at the actors' boardin' house the shake, she thinks it ought to be done at a farewell dinner at the swellest place in town. vincent groans; but he has to give in. and that's how it happens the other night that about two dozen liberty people walked up from appetite row and fed themselves off sherry's gold plates until the waiters was weak in the knees watchin' 'em. "is the old lady still leadin' the band wagon, vincent!" says i to him yesterday. "she is," says he, "and it is wonderful how young she has grown." "new york is a great place for rejuvenatin' grandmothers," says i, "specially around in the red ink zone." chapter v a long shot on delancey well, i've been slummin' up again. it happens like this: i was just preparin', here the other noontime, to rush around the corner and destroy a plate of lunch counter hash decorated with parsley and a dropped egg, when i gets this 'phone call from duke borden, who says he wants to see me the worst way. "well," says i, "the studio's still here on d-st., and if your eyesight ain't failed you----" "oh, chop it, can't you, shorty?" says he. "this is really important. come right up, can't you!" "that depends," says i. "any partic'lar place?" "of course," says he. "here at the club. i'm to meet chick sommers here in half an hour. we'll have luncheon together and----" "i'm on," says i. "i don't know chick; but i'm a mixer, and i'll stand for anything in the food line but cold egg. scratch the chilled hen fruit and i'm with you." know about duke, don't you? it ain't much to tell. he's just one of these big, handsome, overfed chappies that help the mounted traffic cops to make fifth-ave. look different from other main-sts. he don't do any special good, or any partic'lar harm. duke's got just enough sense, though, to have spasms of thinkin' he wants to do something useful now and then, and all i can dope out of this emergency call of his is that this is a new thought. that's the answer, too. he begins tellin' me about it while the head waiter's leadin' us over to a corner table. oh, yes, he's going in for business in dead earnest now, y'know,--suite of offices, his name on the letterheads, and all that sort of thing, bah jove! all of which means that mr. chick sommers, who was a star quarterback in ' , when duke was makin' his college bluff on the gold coast, has rung him into a south jersey land boomin' scheme. a few others, friends of chick's, are in it. they're all rippin' good fellows, too, and awfully clever at planning out things. chick himself, of course, is a corker. it was him that insisted on duke's bein' treasurer. "and really," says duke, "about all i have to do is drop around once or twice a week and sign a few checks." "i see," says i. "they let you supply the funds, eh?" "why, yes," says duke. "i'm the only one who can, y'know. but they depend a great deal on my judgment, too. for instance, take this new deal that's on; it has all been left to me. there are one hundred and eighteen acres, and we don't buy a foot unless i say so. that's where you come in, shorty." "oh, do i?" says i. "you see," duke goes on, "i'm supposed to inspect it and make a decision before the option expires, which will be day after to-morrow. the fact is, i've been putting off going down there, and now i find i've a winter house party on, up in lenox, and---- well, you see the box i'm in." "sure!" says i. "you want me to sub for you at lenox?" "deuce take it, no!" says duke. "i want you to go down and look at that land for me." "huh!" says i. "what i know about real estate wouldn't----" "oh, that's all right," says duke. "it's only a matter of form. the boys say they want it, and i'm going to buy it for them anyway; but, just to have it all straight and businesslike, either i ought to see the land myself, or have it inspected by my personal representative. understand?" "duke," says i, "you're a reg'lar real estate napoleon. i wouldn't have believed it was in you." "i know," says he. "i'm really surprised at myself." next he explains how he happened to think of sendin' me, and casually he wants to know if a couple of hundred and expenses will be about right for spoilin' two days of my valuable time. how could i tell how much it would lose me? but i said i'd run the chances. then chick shows up, and they begin to talk over the details of this new bungalow boom town that's to be located on the jersey side. "i tell you," says chick, "it'll be a winner from the start. why, there's every advantage anyone could wish for,--ocean breezes mingled with pine scented zephyrs, magnificent views, and a railroad running right through the property! the nearest station now is clam creek; but we'll have one of our own, with a new name. clam creek! ugh! how does pinemere strike you?" "perfectly ripping, by jove!" says duke, so excited over it that he lights the cork end of his cigarette. "shorty, you must go right down there for me. can't you start as soon as you've had your coffee?" oh, but it was thrillin', listenin' to them two amateur real estaters layin' plans that was to make a seashore wilderness blossom with surveyors' stakes and fresh painted signs like belvidere-ave., ozone boulevard, and so on. it struck me, though, that they was discussin' their scheme kind of free and public. i spots one white haired, dignified old boy, doing the solitaire feed at the table back of duke, who seems more or less int'rested. and i notices that every time clam creek is mentioned he pricks up his ears. sure enough, too, just as we're finishing, he steps over and taps duke on the shoulder. "why, howdy do, mr. cathaway?" says duke. "charmed to see you, by jove!" and it turns out he's delancey cathaway, the big noise in the philanthropy game, him that gets up societies for suppressin' the poor and has his name on hospitals and iron drinkin' fountains. after he's been introduced all around he admits that he's caught one or two remarks, and says he wants to congratulate duke on givin' up his idle ways and breakin' into an active career. oh, he's a smooth old party, mr. cathaway is! he don't let on to be more'n moderately int'rested, and the next thing i know he's sidled away from duke and is walkin' out alongside of me. "going down town?" says he. "then perhaps you will allow me to give you a lift?" and he motions to his town car waiting at the curb. "gee!" thinks i. "i'm makin' a hit with the nobility, me and my winnin' ways!" that don't exactly state the case, though; for as soon as we're alone delancey comes right to cases. "i understand, mr. mccabe," says he, "that you are to visit clam creek." "yep," says i. "sounds enticin', don't it?" "doubtless you will spend a day or so there?" he goes on. "over night, anyway," says i. "hum!" says he. "then you will hardly fail to meet my brother. he is living at clam creek." "what!" says i. "not broadway bob?" "yes," says he, "robert and his wife have been there for nearly two years. at least, that is where i have been sending his allowance." "mrs. bob too!" says i. "why--why, say, you don't mean the one that----" "the same," he cuts in. "i know they're supposed to be abroad; but they're not, they are at clam creek." maybe you've heard about the bob cathaways, and maybe you ain't. there's so many new near-plutes nowadays that the old families ain't getting the advertisin' they've been used to. anyway, it's been sometime since broadway bob had his share of the limelight. you see, bob sort of had his day when he was along in his thirties, and they say he was a real old-time sport and rounder, which was why he was let in so bad when old man cathaway's will was probated. all bob pulls out is a couple of thousand a year, even that being handled first by brother delancey, who cops all the rest of the pile as a reward for always having gone in strong for charity and the perfectly good life. it's a case where virtue shows up strong from the first tap of the bell. course, bob can look back on some years of vivid joy, when he was makin' a record as a quart opener, buyin' stacks of blues at daly's, or over at monte carlo bettin' where the ball would stop. but all this ends mighty abrupt. in the meantime bob has married a lively young lady that nobody knew much about except that she was almost as good a sport as he was, and they were doin' some great teamwork in the way of livenin' up society, when the crash came. then it was the noble hearted delancey to the rescue. he don't exactly take them right into the fam'ly; but he sends mr. and mrs. bob over to his big long island country place, assigns 'em quarters in the north wing, and advises 'em to be as happy as they can. now to most folks that would look like landin' on velveteen-st.,--free eats, no room rent, and a forty-acre park to roam around in, with the use of a couple of safe horses and a libr'y full of improvin' books, such as the rollo series and the works of dr. van dyke. brother bob don't squeal or whine. he starts in to make the best of it by riggin' himself out like an english squire and makin' a stagger at the country gentleman act. he takes a real int'rest in keepin' up the grounds and managin' the help, which delancey had never been able to do himself. it's as dull as dishwater, though, for mrs. robert cathaway, and as there ain't anyone else handy she takes it out on bob. accordin' to all accounts, they must have done the anvil chorus good and plenty. you can just see how it would be, with them two dumped down so far from broadway and only now and then comp'ny to break the monotony. when people did come, too, they was delancey's kind. i can picture bob tryin' to get chummy with a bunch of prison reformers or delegates to a sunday school union. i don't wonder his disposition curdled up. if it hadn't been for mrs. bob, though, they'd been there yet. she got so used to rowin' with bob that she kept it up even when brother delancey and his friends came down. delancey stands for it until one morning at breakfast, when he was entertainin' an english bishop he'd corraled at some conference. him and the bishop was exchangin' views on whether free soup and free salvation was a good workin' combination or not, when some little thing sets mr. and mrs. bob to naggin' each other on the side. i forgot just what it was bob shot over; but after standin' her jabs for quite some time without gettin' real personal he comes back with some stage whisper remark that cut in deep. mrs. bob was right in the act of helpin' herself to the jelly omelet, usin' a swell silver servin' shovel about half the size of a brick layer's trowel. she's so stirred up that she absentmindedly scoops up a double portion, and just as bob springs his remark what does she do but up and let fly at him, right across the table. maybe she'd have winged him too,--and served him right for saying what no gentleman should to a lady, even if she is his wife,--but, what with her not stoppin' to take good aim, and the maid's gettin' her tray against her elbow, she misses bob by about three feet and plasters the english bishop square between the eyes. now of course that wa'n't any way to serve hot omelet to a stranger, no matter how annoyed you was. delancey told her as much while he was helpin' swab off the reverend guest. afterwards he added other observations more or less definite. inside of two hours mr. and mrs. bob found their baggage waitin' under the porte cochère, and the wagonette ready to take 'em to the noon train. they went. it was given out that they was travelin' abroad, and if it hadn't been for the omelet part of the incident they'd been forgotten long ago. that was a stunt that stuck, though. as i looks at delancey there in the limousine i has to grin. "say," says i, "was it a fact that the bishop broke loose and cussed?" "that humiliating affair, mr. mccabe," says he, "i would much prefer not to talk about. i refer to my brother now because, knowing that you are going to clam creek, you will probably meet him there." "oh!" says i. "like to have me give him your best regards!" "no," says delancey. "i should like, however, to hear how you found him." "another report, eh!" says i. "all right, mr. cathaway, i'll size him up for you." "but chiefly," he goes on, "i shall depend upon your discretion not to mention my brother's whereabouts to anyone else. as an aid to that discretion," says he, digging up his roll and sortin' out some tens, "i am prepared to----" "ah, button 'em back!" says i. "who do you think you're dealin' with, anyway?" "why," says he, flushin' up, "i merely intended----" "well, forget it!" says i. "i ain't runnin' any opposition to the black hand, and as for whether i leak out where your brother is or not, that's something you got to take chances on. pull up there, mr. chauffeur! this is where i start to walk." and say, you could put his name on all the hospitals and orphan asylums in the country; but i never could see it again without growin' warm under the collar. bah! some of these perfectly good folks have a habit of gettin' on my nerves. all the way down to clam creek i kept tryin' to wipe him off the slate, and i'd made up my mind to dodge brother bob, if i had to sleep in the woods. so as soon as i hops off the train i gets my directions and starts to tramp over this tract that duke borden was plannin' on blowin' some of his surplus cash against. and say, if anybody wants an imitation desert, dotted with scrub pine and fringed with salt marshes, that's the place to go lookin' for it. there's hundreds of square miles of it down there that nobody's usin', or threatenin' to. also i walked up an appetite like a fresh landed hired girl. i was so hungry that i pikes straight for the only hotel and begs 'em to lead me to a knife and fork. for a wonder, too, they brings on some real food, plain and hearty, and i don't worry about the way it's thrown at me. yon know how it is out in the kerosene district. i finds myself face to face with a hunk of corned beef as big as my two fists, boiled murphies, cabbage and canned corn on the side, bread sliced an inch thick, and spring freshet coffee in a cup you couldn't break with an ax. lizzie, the waitress, was chewin' gum and watchin' to see if i was one of them fresh travelin' gents that would try any funny cracks on her. i'd waded through the food programme as far as makin' a choice between tapioca puddin' and canned peaches, when in drifts a couple that i knew, the minute i gets my eyes on 'em, must be mr. and mrs. bob cathaway. who else in that little one-horse town would be sportin' a pair of puttee leggin's and doeskin ridin' breeches? that was bob's makeup, includin' a flap-pocketed cutaway of harris tweed and a corduroy vest. they fit him a little snug, showin' he's laid on some flesh since he had 'em built. also he's a lot grayer than i expected, knowin' him to be younger than delancey. as for mrs. bob--well, if you can remember how the women was dressin' as far back as two years ago, and can throw on the screen a picture of a woman who has only the reminders of her good looks left, you'll have her framed up. a pair of seedy thoroughbreds, they was, seedy and down and out. [illustration: "i knew it must be mr. and mrs. bob cathaway"] i was wonderin' if they still indulged in them lively fam'ly debates, and how soon i'd have to begin dodgin' dishes; but they sits down across the table from me and hardly swaps a word. all i notices is the scornful way lizzie asks if they'll have soup, and the tremble to bob cathaway's hand as he lifts his water tumbler. as there was only us three in the room, and as none of us seemed to have anything to say, it wa'n't what you might call a boisterous assemblage. while i was waitin' for dessert i put in the time gazin' around at the scenery, from the moldy pickle jars at either end of the table, over to the walnut sideboard where they kept the plated cake basket and the ketchup bottles, across to the framed fruit piece that had seen so many hard fly seasons, and up to the smoky ceilin'. i looked everywhere except at the pair opposite. lizzie was balancin' the soup plates on her left arm and singsongin' the bill of fare to 'em. "col'-pork-col'-ham-an'-corn-beef-'n'-cabbage," says she. if bob cathaway didn't shudder at that, i did for him. "you may bring me--er--some of the latter," says he. i tested the canned peaches and then took a sneak. on one side of the front hall was the hotel parlor, full of plush furniture and stuffed birds. the office and bar was on the other. i strolls in where half a dozen clam creekers was sittin' around a big sawdust box indulgin' in target practice; but after a couple of sniffs i concludes that the breathin' air is all outside. after half an hour's stroll i goes in, takes a lamp off the hall table, and climbs up to no. . it's as warm and cheerful as an underground beer vault. also i finds the window nailed down. huntin' for someone to fetch me a hammer was what sent me roamin' through the hall and took me past no. , where the door was part way open. and in there, with an oil-stove to keep 'em from freezin', i see mr. and mrs. bob cathaway sittin' at a little marble topped table playin' double dummy bridge. say, do you know, that unexpected glimpse of this little private hard luck proposition of theirs kind of got me in the short ribs. and next thing i knew i had my head in the door. "for the love of mike," says i, "how do you stand it?" "eh?" says bob, droppin' his cards and starin' at me. "i--i beg pardon?" well, with that i steps in, tells him who i am, and how i'd just had a talk with brother delancey. do i get the glad hand? why, you'd thought i was a blooming he angel come straight from the pearly gates. bob drags me in, pushes me into the only rocker in the room, shoves a cigar box at me, and begins to haul decanters from under the washstand. they both asks questions at once. how is everybody, and who's married who, and are so and so still living together? i reels off society gossip for an hour before i gets a chance to do some pumpin' on my own hook. what i wants to know is why in blazes they're hidin' in a hole like clam creek. bob only shrugs his shoulders. "why not here as well as anywhere?" says he. "when you can't afford to live among your friends, why--you live in clam creek." "but two years of it!" says i. "what do you find to do?" "oh, we manage," says he, wavin' at the double dummy outfit. "babe and i have our little game. it's only for a dime a point; but it helps pass away the time. you see, when our monthly allowance comes in we divide it equally and take a fresh start. the winner has the privilege of paying our bills." how was that for excitement? and bob whispers to me, as we starts out for a little walk before turnin' in, "i generally fix it so babe--er, mrs. cathaway--can win, you know." from other little hints i gathers that their stay in clam creek has done one thing for 'em, anyway. it had put 'em wise to the great fact that the best way for two parties to get along together is to cut out the hammer music. "so you had a talk with delancey?" says bob on the way back. "i suppose he--er--sent no message?" it had taken bob cathaway all this while to work up to that question, and he can't steady down his voice as he puts it. and that quaver tells me the whole story of how he's been hoping all along that brother delancey would sometime or other get over his grouch. which puts it up to me to tell him what a human iceberg he's related to. did i? honest, there's times when i ain't got much use for the truth. "message?" says i, prompt and cheerful. "now what in blazes was it he did say to tell you? something about asking how long before you and mrs. cathaway was goin' to run up and make him a visit, i guess." "a visit!" gasps bob. "did--did delancey say that? then thank heaven it's over! come on! hurry!" and he grabs me by the arm, tows me to the hotel, and makes a dash up the stairs towards their room. "what do you think, babe?" says he, pantin'. "delancey wants to know when we're coming back!" for a minute mrs. bob don't say a word, but just stands there, her hands gripped in bob's, and the dew startin' out of her eye corners. then she asks, sort of husky, "isn't there a night train, bob?" there wa'n't; but there was one at six-thirty-eight in the mornin'. we all caught it, too, both of 'em as chipper as a pair of kids, and me wonderin' how it was all goin' to turn out. for three days after that i never went to the 'phone without expectin' to hear from bob cathaway, expressin' his opinion about my qualifications for the ananias class. and then here the other afternoon i runs into brother delancey on the avenue, not seein' him quick enough to beat it up a side street. "ah, mccabe," he sings out, "just a moment! that little affair about my brother robert, you know." "sure, i know," says i, bracin' myself. "where is he now?" "why," says delancey, with never an eyelash flutterin', "he and his wife are living at green oaks again. just returned from an extended trip abroad, you know." then he winks. say, who was it sent out that bulletin about how all men was liars? i ain't puttin' in any not guilty plea; but i'd like to add that some has got it down finer than others. chapter vi playing harold both ways anyway, they came bunched, and that was some comfort. eh? well, first off there was the lovers, then there was harold; and it was only the combination that saved me from developin' an ingrowin' grouch. you can guess who it was accumulated the lovers. why, when sadie comes back from bar harbor and begins tellin' me about 'em, you'd thought she'd been left something in a will, she's so pleased. seems there was these two young ladies, friends of some friends of hers, that was bein' just as miserable as they could be up there. one was visitin' the other, and, as i made out from sadie's description, they must have been havin' an awful time, livin' in one of them eighteen-room cottages built on a point juttin' a mile or so out into the ocean, with nothin' but yachts and motor boats and saddle horses and tennis courts and so on to amuse themselves with. i inspected some of them places when i was up that way not long ago,--joints where they get their only information about hot waves by readin' the papers,--and i can just imagine how i could suffer puttin' in a summer there. say, some folks don't know when they're well off, do they? and what do you suppose the trouble with 'em was? why, bobbie and charlie was missin'. honest, that's all the place lacked to make it a suburb of paradise. but that was enough for the young ladies; for each of 'em was sportin' a diamond ring on the proper finger, and, as they confides to sadie, what was the use of havin' summer at all, if one's fiancé couldn't be there? bobbie and charlie, it appears, was slavin' away in the city; one tryin' to convince papa that he'd be a real addition to wall street, and the other trainin' with uncle for a job as vice president of a life insurance company. so what did helen and marjorie care about sea breezes and picture postal scenery? once a day they climbed out to separate perches on the rocks to read letters from bobbie and charlie; and the rest of the time they put in comparin' notes and helpin' each other be miserable. "ah, quit it, sadie!" says i, interruptin' the sad tale. "do you want to make me cry?" "well, they were wretched, even if you don't believe it," says she; "so i just told them to come right down here for the rest of the season." "wha-a-at!" says i. "not here?" "why not?" says sadie. "the boys can run up every afternoon and have dinner with us and stay over sunday, and--and it will be just lovely. you know how much i like to have young people around. so do you, too." "yes, that's all right," says i; "but----" "oh, i know," says she. "this isn't matchmaking, though. they're already engaged, and it will be just delightful to have them with us. now won't it?" "maybe it will," says i. "we ain't ever done this wholesale before; so i ain't sure." someway, i had a hunch that two pair of lovers knockin' around the premises at once might be most too much of a good thing; but, as long as i couldn't quote any authorities, i didn't feel like keepin' on with the debate. i couldn't object any to the style of the young ladies when they showed up; for they was both in the queen class, tall and willowy and sweet faced. one could tease opera airs out of the piano in great shape, and the other had quite some of a voice; so the prospects were for a few weeks of lively and entertainin' evenin's at the mccabe mansion. i had the programme all framed up too,--me out on the veranda with my heels on the rail, the windows open, and inside the young folks strikin' up the melodies and makin' merry gen'rally. bobbie and charles made more or less of a hit with me too when they first called,--good, husky, clean built young gents that passed out the cordial grip and remarked real hearty how much they appreciated our great kindness askin' 'em up. "don't mention it," says i. "it's a fad of mine." anyway, it looked like a good game to be in on, seein' there wa'n't any objections from any of the fam'lies. made me feel bright and chirky, just to see 'em there, so that night at dinner i cut loose with some real cute joshes for the benefit of the young people. you know how easy it is to be humorous on them occasions. honest, i must have come across with some of the snappiest i had in stock, and i was watchin' for the girls to pink up and accuse me of bein' an awful kidder, when all of a sudden i tumbles to the fact that i ain't holdin' my audience. say, they'd started up a couple of conversations on their own hook--kind of side issue, soft pedal dialogues--and they wa'n't takin' the slightest notice of my brilliant efforts. at the other end of the table sadie is havin' more or less the same experience; for every time she tries to cut in with some cheerful observation she finds she's addressin' either marjorie's left shoulder or bobbie's right. "eh, sadie?" says i across the centerpiece. "what was that last of yours?" "it doesn't matter," says she. "shall we have coffee in the library, girls, or outside! i say, helen, shall we have---- i beg pardon, helen, but would you prefer----" "what we seem to need most, sadie," says i as she gives it up, "is a table megaphone." nobody hears this suggestion, though, not even sadie. i was lookin' for the fun to begin after dinner,--the duets and the solos and the quartets,--but the first thing sadie and i know we are occupyin' the libr'y all by ourselves, with nothing doing in the merry music line. "of course," says she, "they want a little time by themselves." "sure!" says i. "half-hour out for the reunion." it lasts some longer, though. at the end of an hour i thinks i'll put in the rest of the wait watchin' the moon come up out of long island sound from my fav'rite corner of the veranda; but when i gets there i finds it's occupied. "excuse me," says i, and beats it around to the other side, where there's a double rocker that i can gen'rally be comfortable in. hanged if i didn't come near sittin' slam down on the second pair, that was snuggled up close there in the dark! "aha!" says i in my best comic vein. "so here's where you are, eh? fine night, ain't it?" there's a snicker from the young lady, a grunt from the young gent; but nothing else happens in the way of a glad response. so i chases back into the house. "it's lovely out, isn't it?" says sadie. "yes," says i; "but more or less mushy in spots." with that we starts in to sit up for 'em. sadie says we got to because we're doin' the chaperon act. and, say, i've seen more excitin' games. i read three evenin' papers clear through from the weather forecast to the bond quotations, and i finished by goin' sound asleep in my chair. i don't know whether bobbie and charlie caught the milk train back to town or not; but they got away sometime before breakfast. "oh, well," says sadie, chokin' off a yawn as she pours the coffee, "this was their first evening together, you know. i suppose they had a lot to say to each other." "must have had," says i. "i shouldn't think they'd have to repeat that performance for a month." next night, though, it's the same thing, and the next, and the next. "poor things!" thinks i. "i expect they're afraid of being guyed." so, just to show how sociable and friendly i could be, i tries buttin' in on these lonely teeter-tates. first i'd hunt up one couple and submit some samples of my best chatter--gettin' about as much reply as if i was ringin' central with the wire down. then i locates the other pair, drags a rocker over near 'em, and tries to make the dialogue three handed. they stands it for a minute or so before decidin' to move to another spot. honest, i never expected to feel lonesome right at home entertainin' guests! but i was gettin' acquainted with the sensation. there's no musical doings, no happy groups and gay laughter about the house; nothing but now and then a whisper from dark corners, or the creak of the porch swings. "gee! but they're takin' their spoonin' serious, ain't they?" says i to sadie. "and how popular we are with 'em! makes me feel almost like i ought to put on a gag and sit down cellar in the coalbin." "pooh!" says sadie, makin' a bluff she didn't mind. "do let them enjoy themselves in their own way." "sure i will," says i. "only this chaperon business is gettin' on my nerves. i don't feel like a host here; i feel more like a second story man dodgin' the night watchman." there wa'n't any signs of a change, either. when they had to be around where we was they had hardly a word to say and acted bored to death; and it must have taxed their brains, workin' up all them cute little schemes for leavin' us on a siding so they could pair off. course, i've seen engaged couples before; but i never met any that had the disease quite so hard. and this bein' shunned like i had somethin' catchin' was new to me. i begun to feel like i was about ninety years old and in the way. sunday forenoon was the limit, though. sadie had planned to take 'em all for a motor trip; but they declines with thanks. would they rather go out on the water? no, they didn't care for that, either. all they seems to want to do is wander round, two by two, where we ain't. and at that sadie loses some of her enthusiasm for havin' bunches of lovers around. "humph!" i hears her remark as she watches bobbie and marjorie sidestep her and go meanderin' off down a path to the rocks. a little while later i happens to stroll down to the summerhouse with the sunday paper, and as i steps in one door charlie and helen slip out by the other. they'd seen me first. "well, well!" says i. "i never knew before how unentertainin' i could be." and i was just wonderin' how i could relieve my feelin's without eatin' a fuzzy worm, like the small boy that nobody loved, when i hears footsteps approachin' through the shrubb'ry. i looks up, to find myself bein' inspected by a weedy, long legged youth. he's an odd lookin' kid, with dull reddish hair, so many freckles that his face looks rusty, and a pair of big purple black eyes that gazes at me serious. "well, son," says i, "where did you drop from?" "my name is harold burbank fitzmorris," says he, "and i am visiting with my mother on the adjoining estate." "that sounds like a full description, harold," says i. "did you stray off, or was you sent?" "i trust you don't mind," says he; "but i am exploring." "explore away then," says i, "so long as you don't tramp through the flowerbeds." "oh, i wouldn't think of injuring them," says he. "i am passionately fond of flowers." "you don't say!" says i. "yes," says harold, droppin' down easy on the bench alongside of me. "i love nature in all her moods. i am a poet, you know." "eh!" says i. "ain't you beginning sort of young?" "nearly all the really great men of literature," comes back harold as prompt as if he was speakin' a piece, "have begun their careers by writing verse. i presume mine might be considered somewhat immature; but i am impelled from within to do it. all that will pass, however, when i enter on my serious work." "oh, then you've got a job on the hook, have you!" says i. "i expect," says harold, smilin' sort of indulgent and runnin' his fingers careless through his thick coppery hair, "to produce my first novel when i am twenty. it will have a somber theme, something after the manner of turgenieff. do you not find turgenieff very stimulating?" "harold," says i, "all them hungarian wines are more or less heady, and a kid like you shouldn't monkey with any of 'em." he looks almost pained at that. "you're chaffing me now, i suppose," says he. "that sort of thing, though, i never indulge in. humor, you know, is but froth on the deep seas of thought. it has never seemed to me quite worth one's while. you will pardon my frankness, i know." "harold," says i, "you're a wizard. so it's nix on the josh, eh?" "what singular metaphors you employ!" says he. "do you know, i can hardly follow you. however, colloquial language does not offend my ear. it is only when i see it in print that i shudder." "me too," says i. "i'm just as sore on these foreign languages as anyone. so you're visitin' next door, eh? enjoyin' yourself?" that was a plain cue for harold burbank to launch out on the story of his life; but, say, he didn't need any such encouragement. he was a willin' and ready converser, harold was; and--my!--what a lot of classy words he did have on tap! first off i wondered how it was a youngster like him could dig up so many; but when i'd heard a little more about him i could account for it all. he'd cut his teeth, as you might say, on the encyclopedia. harold's father had been a professor of dead languages, and i guess he must have died of it. anyway, mother was a widow, and from things harold dropped i judged she was more or less frisky, spendin' her time at bridge and chasin' teas and dinner parties. it was clear she wa'n't any highbrow, such as father must have been. all of which was disappointin' to harold. he made no bones of sayin' so. "why pretend to approve of one's parent," says he, "when approval is undeserved?" there was a lot of other folks that harold disapproved of too. in fact, he was a mighty critical youth, only bein' able to entertain a good opinion of but one certain party. at any other time i expect he'd have given me an earache; but i'd been handed so much silence by our double romeo-juliet bunch that most any kind of conversation was welcome just then. so i lets him spiel away. and, say, he acts like he was hungry for the chance. why, he gives me his ideas on every subject you could think of, from the way napoleon got himself started on the toboggan, to the folly of eatin' fried ham for breakfast. he sure was a wonder, that kid! two solid hours we chinned there in the summerhouse, and it was almost by main strength i broke away for a one o'clock dinner. then, just as i'd got settled comf'table on the veranda in the afternoon, he shows up and begins again. there was nothin' diffident or backward about harold. he didn't have any doubts about whether he was welcome or not, and his confidence about bein' able to entertain was amazin'. it didn't do any good to throw out hints that perhaps he was bein' missed at home, or to yawn and pretend you was sleepy. he was as persistent as a mosquito singin' its evenin' song, and most as irritatin'. twice i gets up and pikes off, tryin' to shake him; but harold trails right along too. maybe i'd yearned for conversation. well, i was gettin' it. at last i grows desp'rate, and in about two minutes more he would have been led home to mother with the request that she tether him on her side of the fence, when i sees two of the lovers strollin' off to find a nook that wa'n't preempted by the other pair. and all of a sudden i has this rosy thought. "harold," says i, "it's most too bad, your wastin' all this flossy talk on me, who can't appreciate its fine points as i should, when there go some young people who might be tickled to death to have you join 'em. suppose you try cheerin' 'em up?" "why," says harold, "i had not observed them before. thank you for the suggestion. i will join them at once." does he? say, for the next couple of hours i had the time of my life watchin' the maneuvers. first off i expect they must have thought him kind of cute, same as i did; but it wa'n't long before they begun tryin' to lose him. if they shifted positions once, they did a dozen times, from the summerhouse to the rocks, then up to the veranda and back again, with harold burbank taggin' right along and spoutin' his best. he tackles first one pair, and then the other, until fin'lly they all retreats into the house. harold hesitates a little about walkin' through the door after 'em, until i waves my hand cordial. "make yourself right to home, harold," says i. "keep 'em cheered up." not until he drives the girls off to their rooms and has bobbie and charles glarin' murderous at him, does he quit the sport and retire for supper. "come over again this evenin'," says i. "you're makin' a hit." harold thanks me some more and says he will. he's a great one to keep his word too. bobbie and marjorie have hardly snuggled up in one end of a hammock to watch the moon do things to the wavelets before here is harold, with a fresh line of talk that he's bent on deliverin' while the mood is on. gettin' no answer from his audience didn't bother him a bit; for passin' out the monologue is his strong suit. not to seem partial, he trails down charlie and helen and converses with them too. course, all this occurrin' outside, i couldn't watch everything that took place; but i sits in the lib'ry with sadie a lot more contented than i'd been before that week. and when marjorie drifts in alone, along about nine o'clock, and goes to drummin' on the piano, i smiles. ten minutes later helen appears too; and it's only when neither of the boys show up that i begins wonderin'. i asks no questions; but goes out on a scoutin' trip. there's nobody on the veranda at all. down by the waterfront, though, i could hear voices, and i goes sleuthin' in that direction. "yes," i could hear harold sayin' as i got most to the boat landin', "the phosphorescence that ignorant sailors attribute to electricity in the air is really a minute marine animal which----" i expect i'll never know the rest; for just then there's a break in the lecture. "one, two, three--now!" comes from bobbie, and before harold can let out a single squeal they've grabbed him firm and secure, one by the heels and the other by the collar, and they've begun sousin' him up and down off the edge of the float. it was high tide too. "uggle-guggle! wow!" remarks harold between splashes. "that's right," observes charles through, his teeth. "swallow a lot of it, you windbag! it'll do you good." course, these young gents was guests of mine, and i hadn't interfered before with their partic'lar way of enjoyin' themselves; so i couldn't begin now. but after they was through, and a draggled, chokin', splutterin' youth had gone beatin' it up the path and over towards the next place, i strolls down to meet 'em as they are comin' up to the house. "hope you didn't see what happened down there just now, professor," says bobbie. "me?" says i. "well, if i did i can forget it quick." "thanks, old man!" says both of 'em, pattin' me friendly on the shoulder. "the little beast!" adds charles. "he had the nerve to say you had put him up to it. that's what finally earned him his ducking, you know." "well, well!" says i. "such a nice spoken youngster too!" "huh!" says bobbie. "i suppose there'll be no end of a row about this when he gets home with his tale; but we'll stand for it. meanwhile let's go up and get the girls to give us some music." say, i don't believe harold ever mentioned it to a soul. it's a funny thing too, but he hasn't been over here since. and someway, gettin' better acquainted with the boys in that fashion, made it pleasanter all round. but no more entertainin' lovers for us! harolds ain't common enough. chapter vii cornelia shows some class "oh, by the way, shorty," says sadie to me the other mornin', just as i'm makin' an early get-away for town. "another postscript, eh?" says i. "well, let it come over speedy." "it's something for mrs. purdy-pell," says she. "i'd almost forgotten." "is it orderin' some fancy groceries, or sendin' out a new laundry artist?" says i. "if it is, why i guess i can----" "no, no," says sadie, givin' my tie an extra pat and brushin' some imaginary dust off my coat collar; "it's about cousin cornelia. she's in town, you know, and neither of the purdy-pells can get in to see her before next week on account of their garden party, and cornelia is staying at a hotel alone, and they're a little anxious about her. so look her up, won't you? i told them you would. you don't mind, do you?" "me?" says i. "why, i've been waitin' for this. makin' afternoon calls on weepy old maids is my specialty." "there, there!" says sadie, followin' me out on the veranda. "don't play the martyr! perhaps cornelia isn't the most entertaining person in the world, for she certainly has had her share of trouble; but it isn't going to hurt you merely to find out how she is situated and ask if you can be of any help to her. you know, if there was anything she could do for us, she would----" "oh, sure!" says i. "if i'm ever brought home on a shutter, i shall look for cornelia to be waitin' on the mat with a needle and thread, ready to sew mournin' bands on the help." that seems to be cousin cornelia's steady job in life, tendin' out on the sick and being in at the obsequies. anyway, she's been at it ever since we knew her. she's a cousin of mr. purdy-pell's, and his branch of the fam'ly, being composed mainly of antiques and chronic invalids, has been shufflin' off in one way or another for the last three or four years at the rate of about one every six months. course, it was kind of sad to see a fam'ly peter out that way; but, as a matter of fact, most of 'em was better off. at first the purdy-pells started in to chop all their social dates for three months after each sorrowful event; but when they saw they was being let in for a continuous performance, they sort of detailed cousin cornelia to do their heavy mournin' and had a black edge put on their stationery. maybe cornelia didn't exactly yearn for the portfolio; but she didn't have much choice about taking it. she was kind of a hanger-on, cornelia was, you see, and she was used to going where she was sent. so when word would come that aunt mehitabel's rheumatism was worse and was threatenin' her heart, that meant a hurry call for cousin cornelia. she'd pack a couple of suit cases full of black skirts and white shirtwaists, and off she'd go, not showin' up again at the purdy-pells' town house until aunty had been safely planted and the headstone ordered. you couldn't say but what she did it thorough, too; for she'd come back wearin' a long crape veil and lookin' pasty faced and wore out. don't know as i ever saw her when she wa'n't either just comin' from where there'd been a funeral, or just startin' for where there was likely to be one. so she didn't cut much of a figure in all the gay doin's the purdy-pells was always mixed up in. and yet she wasn't such a kiln dried prune as you might expect, after all. rather a well built party, cornelia was, with a face that would pass in a crowd, and a sort of longin' twist to her mouth corners as if she wanted to crack a smile now and then, providin' the chance would only come her way. and it wa'n't hardly a square deal to list her with the u.b.'s as soon as we did; for all this time she was doing the chief mourner act she was engaged to young durgin. first off it was understood that she was waitin' for him to settle on whether he was goin' to be a minister or a doctor, him fiddlin' round at college, now takin' one course and then another; but at last he makes up his mind to chuck both propositions and take a hack at the law. durgin got there, too, which was more or less of a surprise to all hands, and actually broke in as partner in a good firm. then it was a case of durgin waitin' for cornelia; for about that time the relations got to droppin' off in one-two-three order, and she seemed to think that so long as she'd started in on the job of ridin' in the first carriage, she ought to see it through. whether it was foolish of her or not, ain't worth while debatin' now. anyhow, she stuck to it until the last one had cashed in, puttin' durgin off from month to month and year to year. then it turns out that the last of the bunch, uncle theodore, had left her a good-sized wad that purdy-pell had always supposed was comin' to him, but which he didn't grudge to cornelia a bit. so there she was, all the lingerin' ones off her hands, and her sportin' a bank account of her own. she's some tired out, though; so, after sendin' durgin word that they might as well wait until fall now, she hikes off to some little place in new hampshire and spends the summer restin' up. next she comes down unexpected and hits new york. in the meantime, though, durgin has suddenly decided to scratch his entry for that partic'lar matrimonial handicap. not that he's seriously int'rested in somebody else, but he's kind of got weary hangin' around, and he's seen a few livelier ones than cornelia, and he feels that somehow him and her have made a great mistake. you know how they're apt to talk when they get chilly below the ankles? he don't hand this straight out to cornelia, mind you, but goes to mrs. purdy-pell and sadie with the tale, wantin' to know what he'd better do. now i ain't got any grouch against durgin. he's all right, i expect, in his way, more or less of a stiff necked, mealy mouthed chump, i always thought; but they say he's nice to his old mother, and he's makin' good in the law business, and he ain't bad to look at. the women folks takes his side right off. they say they don't blame him a bit, and, without stoppin' to think how cousin cornelia is going to feel left alone there on the siding, they get busy pickin' out new candidates for durgin to choose from. well, that's the situation when i'm handed this assignment to go and inspect the head of the purdy-pells' obituary department and see if she's all comfy. couldn't have weighed very heavy on my mind; for i don't think of it until late afternoon, just as i'm startin' to pull out for home. then i says to myself that maybe it'll do just as well if i ring her up on the 'phone at her hotel. she's in, all right, and i explains over the wire how anxious i am to know if she's all right, and hopes nobody has tried to kidnap her yet, and asks if there's anything i can do. "why, how kind of you, mr. mccabe!" says cornelia. "yes, i am perfectly well and quite safe here." "good!" says i. and then, seein' how easy i was gettin' out of it, i has to pile on the agony a little by addin', "ain't there some way i can be useful, though? no errands you want done, or any place you'd like to be towed around to, eh?" "why--why----" says she, hesitatin'. "oh, but i couldn't think of troubling you, you know." "why not?" says i, gettin' reckless. "just remember that i'd be tickled to death, any time you push the button." "we-e-ell," says she, "we were just wishing, miss stover and i, that we did have some gentleman friend who would----" "count me in," says i. "what's the game? trip to woodlawn cemetery some day, or do you want to be piloted up to grant's tomb?" no, it wa'n't either of them festive splurges she had in mind. they wanted a dinner escort for that evenin', she and miss stover. the other lady, she goes on to say, is a school teacher from up boston way, that she'd made friends with durin' the summer. miss stover was takin' a year off, for the benefit of her nerves, and before she sailed on her cook's trip abroad she thought she'd like to see a little of new york. they'd been tryin' to knock around some alone, and had got along all right daytimes, but hadn't dared venture out much at night. so if i wanted to be real generous, and it wouldn't be too much of a bore, they'd be very thankful if i would---- "in a minute," says i and, seein' i was up against it anyhow, i thought i might as well do it cheerful. "i'll be up about six, eh?" "chee!" says swifty joe, who always has his ear stretched out on such occasions, "you make a noise like you was fixin' up a date." "what good hearin' you have, swifty!" says i. "some day, though, you'll strain one of them side flaps of yours. yes, this is a date, and it's with two of the sportiest female parties that ever dodged an old ladies' home." excitin' proposition, wa'n't it? i spends the next half-hour battin' my head to think of some first class food parlor where i could cart a couple like this boston schoolma'am and cousin cornelia without shockin' 'em. there was the martha washington; but i knew i'd be barred there. also there was some quiet fam'ly hotels i'd heard of up town; but i couldn't remember exactly what street any of 'em was on. "maybe cornelia will have some plans of her own," thinks i, as i gets into my silk faced dinner jacket and v-cut vest. "and i hope she ain't wearin' more'n two thicknesses of crape veil now." well, soon after six i slides out, hops on one of these shed-as-you-enter surface cars, and rides up to the hotel. i'd been holdin' down one of the velvet chairs in the ladies' parlor for near half an hour, and was wonderin' if cornelia had run out of black headed pins, or what, when i pipes off a giddy specimen in wistaria costume that drifts in and begins squintin' around like she was huntin' for some one. next thing i knew she'd spotted me and was sailin' right over. "oh, there you are!" she gurgles, holdin' out her hand. "excuse me, lady," says i, sidesteppin' behind the chair, "but ain't you tryin' to tag the wrong party?" "why," says she, lettin' out a chuckle, "don't you know me, mr. mccabe?" "not yet," says i; "but it looks like i would if----great snakes!" and honest, you could hardly have covered my face cavity with a waffle iron when i drops to the fact that it's cousin cornelia. in place of the dismal female i'd been expectin', here's a chirky party in vivid regalia that shows class in every line. oh, it's a happy days uniform, all right, from the wide brimmed gauze lid with the long heliotrope feather trailin' over one side, to the lavender kid pumps. "gee!" i gasps. "the round is on me, miss cornelia. but i wa'n't lookin' for you in--in----" "i know," says she. "this is the first time i've worn colors for years, and i feel so odd. i hope i don't look too----" "you look all to the skookum," says i. it wa'n't any jolly, either. there never was any real sharp angles to cornelia, and now i come to reckon up i couldn't place her as more'n twenty-six or twenty-seven at the outside. so why shouldn't she show up fairly well in a gibson model? "it's so good of you to come to our rescue," says she. "miss stover will be down presently. now, where shall we go to dinner?" well, i see in a minute i've got to revise my plans; so i begins namin' over some of the swell grillrooms and cafes. "oh, we have been to most of those, all by ourselves," says cornelia. "what we would like to see to-night is some real--well, a place where we couldn't go alone, out somewhere--an automobile resort, for instance." "whe-e-ew!" says i through my front teeth. "say, miss cornie, but you are gettin' out of the bereft class for fair! i guess it's comin' to you, though. now jest let me get an idea of how far you want to go." "why," says she, shruggin' her shoulders,--"how is it you put such things?--the limit, i suppose?" "honest?" says i. "then how about clover blossom inn?" heard about that joint, haven't you? of course. there's a lot of joy-ride tank stations strung along jerome-ave. and the yonkers road; but when it comes to a genuine tabasco flavored chorus girls' rest, the clover blossom has most of the others lookin' like playgrounds for little mothers. but cornie don't do any dodgin'. "fine!" says she. "i've read about that inn." then she hurries on to plan out the details. i must go over to times square and hire a nice looking touring car for the evening. and i mustn't let miss stover know how much it costs; for cornelia wants to do that part of it by her lonely. "the dinner we are to go shares on," says she. "couldn't think of it," says i. "let that stand as my blow." "no, indeed," says cornelia. "we have the money all put aside, and i sha'n't like it. here it is, and i want you to be sure you spend the whole of it," and with that she shoves over a couple of fives. i couldn't help grinnin' as i takes it. maybe you've settled a dinner bill for three and a feed for the shofer at the clover blossom; but not with a ten-spot, eh? and while cornelia is goin' back in the elevator after the schoolma'am, i scoots over to get a machine. after convincin' two or three of them leather capped pirates that i didn't want to buy their blamed outfits, i fin'lly beats one down to twenty-five and goes back after the ladies. [illustration: "cornelia whispered about the peroxide puffed girl"] miss stover don't turn out to be any such star as cornelia; but she don't look so much like a suffragette as i expected. she's plump, and middle aged, and plain dressed; but there's more or less style to the way she carries herself. also she has just a suspicion of eye twinkle behind the glasses, which suggests that perhaps some of this programme is due to her. "all aboard for the clover blossom!" says i, handin' 'em into the tonneau; "that is, as soon as i run in here to the telephone booth." it had come to me only at that minute what a shame it was this stunt of cornelia's was goin' to be wasted on an audience that couldn't appreciate the fine points, and i'd thought of a scheme that might supply the gap. so i calls up an old friend of mine and has a little confab. by the time we'd crossed the harlem and had got straightened out on the parkway with our gas lamps lighted, and the moon comin' up over the trees, and hundreds of other cars whizzin' along in both directions, cornelia and her schoolma'am friend was chatterin' away like a couple of boardin' school girls. there's no denyin' that it does get into your blood, that sort of ridin'. why, even i begun to feel some frisky! and look at cornelia! for years she'd been givin' directions about where to put the floral wreaths, and listenin' to wills being read, and all summer long she'd been buried in a little backwoods boardin' house, where the most excitin' event of the day was watchin' the cows come home, or going down for the mail. can you blame her for workin' up a cheek flush and rattlin' off nonsense? clover blossom inn does look fine and fancy at night, too, with all the colored lights strung around, and the verandas crowded with tables, and the gypsy orchestra sawin' away, and new parties landin' from the limousines every few minutes. course, i knew they'd run against perfect ladies hittin' up cocktails and cigarettes in the cloak room, and hear more or less high spiced remarks; but this was what they'd picked out to view. so i orders the brand of dinner the waiter hints i ought to have,--little necks, okra soup, broiled lobster, guinea hen, and so on, with a large bottle of fizz decoratin' the silver tub on the side and some sporty lookin' mineral for me. it don't make any diff'rence whether you've got a wealthy water thirst or not, when you go to one of them tootsy palaces you might just as well name your vintage first as last; for any cheap skates of suds consumers is apt to find that the waiter's made a mistake and their table has been reserved for someone else. but if you don't mind payin' four prices, and can stand the comp'ny at the adjoinin' tables, just being part of the picture and seeing it from the inside is almost worth the admission. if there's any livelier purple spots on the map than these gasolene road houses from eight-thirty p. m. to two-thirty in the mornin', i'll let you name 'em. cornelia rather shies at the sight of the fat bottle peekin' out of the cracked ice; but she gets over that feelin' after miss stover has expressed her sentiments. "champagne!" says the schoolma'am. "oh, how perfectly delightful! do you know, i always have wanted to know how it tasted." say, she knows all about it now. not that she put away any more'n a lady should,--at the clover blossom,--but she had tackled a dry martini first, and then she kept on tastin' and tastin' her glass of fizz, and the waiter keeps fillin' it up, and that twinkle in her eye develops more and more, and her conversation gets livelier and livelier. so does cornelia's. they gets off some real bright things, too. you'd never guess there was so much fun in cornie, or that she could look so much like a stunner. she was just leanin' over to whisper something to me about the peroxide puffed girl at the next table, and i was tryin' to stand bein' tickled in the neck by that long feather of hers while i listens, and miss stover was snuggled up real chummy on the other side, when i looks up the aisle and sees a little group watchin' us with their mouths open and their eyebrows up. leadin' the way is pinckney. oh, he'd done his part, all right, just as i'd told him over the wire; for right behind him is durgin, starin' at cornelia until he was pop eyed. but that wa'n't all. trust pinckney to add something. beyond durgin is mrs. purdy-pell--and sadie. now, i've seen mrs. mccabe when she's been some jarred; but i don't know as i ever watched the effect of such a jolt as this. you see, cornelia's back was to her, and all sadie can see is that wistaria lid with the feather danglin' down my neck. sadie don't indulge in any preliminaries. she marches right along, with her chin in the air, and glues them irish blue eyes of hers on me in a way i can feel yet. "well, i must say!" says she. "eh?" says i, tryin' hard to put on a pleased grin. "so pinckney brought you along too, did he? lovely evenin', ain't it?" "why, sadie?" says cornelia, jumpin' up and givin' 'em a full face view. and you should have seen how that knocks the wind out of sadie. "wha-a-at!" says she. "you?" "of course," says cornie. "and we're just having the grandest lark, and----oh! why, durgin! where in the world did you come from? how jolly!" "ain't it?" says i. "you see, sadie, i'm carryin' out instructions." well, the minute she gets wise that it's all a job that pinckney and i have put up between us, and discovers that my giddy lookin' friend is only cousin cornelia doin' the butterfly act, the thunder storm is all over. the waiter shoves up another table, and they plants durgin next to cornie, and the festivities takes a new start. did durgin boy forget all about them chilly feet of his? why, you could almost see the frost startin' out before he'd said a dozen words, and by the time he'd let the whole effect sink in, he was no nearer contractin' chilblains than a zulu with his heels in the campfire. what pleases me most, though, was the scientific duck i made in the last round. we'd gone clear through the menu, and they was finishin' up their cordials, when i spots the waiter comin' with a slip of paper on his tray as long as a pianola roll. "hey, pinckney," says i, "see what's comin' now!" and when pinckney reached around and discovers what it is, he digs down for his roll like a true sport, never battin' an eyelash. "you would ring in the fam'ly on me, would you," says i, "when i'm showin' lady friends the sights?" chapter viii doping out an odd one say, notice any deep sea roll about my walk? no? well, maybe you can get the tarry perfume as i pass by? funny you don't; for i've been a vice commodore for most three weeks now. yes, that's on the level--belay my spinnaker taffrail if it ain't! that's what i get for bein' one of the charter members of the rockhurst yacht club. you didn't, eh? well, say, i'm one of the yachtiest yachters that ever jibbed a gangway. not that i do any sailin' exactly; but i guess sadie and me each paid good money for our shares of club stock, and if that ain't as foolish an act as you can find in the nautical calendar, then i'll eat the binnacle boom. course, this vice commodore stunt was sort of sprung on me; for i'd been such an active member i didn't even know the bloomin' clubhouse was finished until here the other day i gets this bulletin from the annual meetin', along with the programme for the openin' exercises. "gee!" says i. "vice commodore! say, there must be some mistake about this." "not at all," says sadie. "sure there is," says i. "why, i hardly know one end of a boat from the other; and besides i ain't got any clubby habits. they've been let in wrong, that's all. i'll resign." "you'll do nothing of the sort!" says sadie. "when i took all that trouble to have you win over that ridiculous bronson-smith!" "eh?" says i. "been playin' the mrs. taft, have you? in that case, i expect i'll have to stay with it. but, honest, you can look for a season of perfectly punk vice commodorin'." as it turns out, though, there ain't one in ten members that knows much more about yachtin' than i do. navigatin' porch rockers, orderin' all hands up for fancy drinks, and conductin' bridge whist regattas was their chief sea-goin' accomplishments; and when it come to makin' myself useful, who was it, i'd like to know, that chucked the boozy steward off the float when he had two of the house committee treed up the signal mast? i suspect that's how it is i'm played up so prominent for this house warmin' episode. anyway, when i arrives there on the great night--me all got up fancy in a double breasted serge coat, white flannel pants, and cork soled canvas shoes--i finds they've put me on the reception committee; and that, besides welcomin' invited guests, i'm expected to keep one eye peeled for outsiders, to see that nobody starts nothin'. so i'm on deck, as you might say, and more or less conspicuous, when this larchmont delegation is landed and comes stringin' up. it was "ahoy there, captain this!" and "how are you, captain that?" from the rest of the committee, who was some acquainted; and me buttin' around earnest tryin' to find someone to shake hands with, when i runs across this thick set party in the open front tuxedo regalia, with his opera hat down over one eye and a long cigar raked up coquettish from the sou'west corner of his face. know him? i guess! it's peter k. tracey; yes, the one that has his name on so many four-sheet posters. noticed how he always has 'em read, ain't you? "mr. peter k. tracey presents booth keene, the sterling young actor." never forgets that "mr."; but, say, i knew him when he signed it just "p. tracey," and chewed his tongue some at gettin' that down. them was the days when he'd have jumped at the chance of managin' my ring exhibits, and he was known in sportin' circles as chunk tracey. i ain't followed all his moves since then; but i know he got to handlin' the big heavyweights on exhibition tours, broke into the theatrical game with an animal show that was a winner, and has stuck to the boxoffice end ever since. why shouldn't he, with a half ownership in a mascot rube drama that never has less than six road companies playin' it, and at least one hit on broadway every season? i admit i was some surprised, though, to hear of him buyin' a house on fifth-ave. and makin' a stab at mixin' in society. that last i could hardly believe; but here he was, and lookin' as much jarred at findin' me as i was to see him. "well, i'll be hanged!" says i. "chunk tracey!" "why, hello, shorty!" says he, and neither one of us remembers the "charmed to see yuh, old chappy" lines we should have been shootin' off. seems he'd been towed along with a bunch of near-swells that didn't dare treat him as if he really belonged, and he was almost frothin' at the mouth. "talk about your society folks!" says he. "why,--blankety blank 'em!--i can go down the rialto any afternoon, pick up a dozen people at twenty-five a week, drill 'em four days, and give a better imitation than this crowd ever thought of putting up!" "yes; but look who you are, chunk," says i. "i know," says he. and he meant it too. he always was about the cockiest little rooster in the business; but i'd rather expected eight or ten years of ups and downs in the theatrical game, bein' thrown out of the trust and crawlin' back on his knees would have tempered him down some. you couldn't notice it, though. in fact, this chesty, cocksure attitude seemed to have grown on him, and it was plain that most of his soreness just now come from findin' himself in with a lot of folks that didn't take any special pains to admit what a great man he was. so, as him and me was sort of left to flock by ourselves, i undertook the job of supplyin' a few soothin' remarks, just for old time's sake. and that's how it was he got rung in on this little mix-up with cap'n spiller. you see, the way the committee had mapped it out, part of the doin's was a grand illumination of the fleet. anyway, they had all the craft they could muster anchored in a semicircle off the end of the float and trimmed up with japanese lanterns. well, just about time for lightin' up, into the middle of the fleet comes driftin' a punk lookin' old sloop with dirty, patched sails, some shirts and things hangin' from the riggin', and a length of stovepipe stickin' through the cabin roof. when the skipper has struck the exact center, he throws over his mud hook and lets his sail run. not bein' posted on the details, i didn't know but that was part of the show, until the chairman of my committee comes rushin' up to me all excited, and points it out. "oh, i say, mccabe!" says he. "do you see that?" "if i didn't," says i, "i could almost smell it from here. some new member, is it?" "member!" he gasps. "why, it's some dashed old fisherman! we--we cawn't have him stay there, you know." "well," says i, "he seems to be gettin' plenty of advice on that point." and he was; for they was shoutin' things at him through a dozen megaphones. "but you know, mccabe," goes on the chairman, "you ought to go out and send him away. that's one of your duties." "eh?" says i. "how long since i've been official marine bouncer for this organization? g'wan! go tell him yourself!" we had quite an argument over it too, with peter k. chimin' in on my side; but, while the chappy insists that it's my job to fire the old hooker off the anchorage, i draws the line at interferin' with anything beyond the shore. course, it might spoil the effect; but the way it struck me was that we didn't own any more of long island sound than anyone else, and i says so flat. that must have been how the boss of the old sloop felt about it too; for he don't pay any attention to the howls or threats. he just makes things snug and then goes below and starts pokin' about in his dinky little cabin. judgin' by the motions, he was gettin' a late supper. anyway, they couldn't budge him, even though half the club was stewin' about it. and, someway, that seemed to tickle chunk and me a lot. we watched him spread his grub out on the cabin table, roll up his sleeves, and square away like he had a good appetite, just as if he'd been all by himself, instead of right here in the midst of so many flossy yachtsmen. he even had music to eat by; for part of the programme was the turnin' loose of one of these high priced cabinet disk machines, that was on the commodore's big schooner, and feedin' it with caruso and melba records. there was so much chatterin' goin' on around us on the verandas, and so many corks poppin' and glasses clinkin', that the skipper must have got more benefit from the concert than anyone else. at last he wipes his mouth on his sleeve careful, fills his pipe, and crawls out on deck to enjoy the view. it was well worth lookin' at too; for, although there was most too many clouds for the moon to do much execution, here was all the yachts lighted up, and the clubhouse blazin' and gay, and the water lappin' gentle in between. he gazes out at it placid for a minute or so, and then we see him dive down into the cabin. he comes back with something or other that we couldn't make out, and the next thing i knows i finds myself keepin' time with my foot to one of them lively, swingin' old tunes which might have been "the campbells are coming" or might not; but anyway it was enough to give you that tingly sensation in your toes. and it was proceedin' from the after deck of that old hulk. "well, well!" says i. "bagpipes!" "bagpipes be blowed!" says chunk. "that's an accordion he's playing. listen!" say, i was listenin', and with both ears. also other folks was beginnin' to do the same. inside of five minutes, too, all the chatter has died down, and as i glanced around at the tables i could see that whole crowd of fancy dressed folks noddin' and beatin' time with their fans and cigars and fizz glasses. even the waiters was standin' still, or tiptoin' so's to take it in. ever hear one of them out-of-date music bellows handled by a natural born artist? say, i've always been partial to accordions myself, though i never had the courage to own up to it in public; but this was the first time i'd ever heard one pumped in that classy fashion. music! why, as he switches off onto "the old folks at home," you'd thought there was a church organ and a full orchestra out there! maybe comin' across the water had something to do with it; but hanged if it wa'n't great! and of all the fine old tunes he gave us--"nellie gray," "comin' through the rye," "annie laurie," and half a dozen more. "chunk," says i, as the concert ends and the folks begin to applaud, "there's only one thing to be done in a case like this. lemme take that lid of yours." "certainly," says he, and drops a fiver into it before he passes it over. that wa'n't the only green money i collects, either, and by the time i've made the entire round i must have gathered up more'n a quart of spendin' currency. "hold on there, shorty," says chunk, as i starts out to deliver the collection. "i'd like to go with you." "come along, then," says i. "i guess some of these sailormen will row us out." what we had framed up was one of these husky, rugged, old hearts of oak, who would choke up some on receivin' the tribute and give us his blessin' in a sort of "shore acres" curtain speech. part of that description he lives up to. he's some old, all right; but he ain't handsome or rugged. he's a lean, dyspeptic lookin' old party, with a wrinkled face colored up like a pair of yellow shoes at the end of a hard season. his hair is long and matted, and he ain't overly clean in any detail. he don't receive us real hearty, either. "hey, keep your hands off that rail!" he sings out, reachin' for a boathook as we come alongside. "it's all right, cap," says i. "we're friends." "git out!" says he. "i ain't got any friends." "sure you have, old scout," says i. "anyway, there's a lot of people ashore that was mighty pleased with the way you tickled that accordion. here's proof of it too," and i holds up the hat. "huh!" says he, gettin' his eye on the contents. "come aboard, then. here, i guess you can stow that stuff in there," and blamed if he don't shove out an empty lard pail for me to dump the money in. that's as excited as he gets about it too. say, i'd have indulged in about two more minutes of dialogue with that ugly faced old pirate, and then i'd beat it for shore good and disgusted, if it hadn't been for chunk tracey. but he jumps in, as enthusiastic as if he was interviewin' some foreign prince, presses a twenty-five-cent perfecto on the cap'n, and begins pumpin' out of him the story of his life. and when chunk really enthuses it's got to be a mighty cold proposition that don't thaw some. ten to one, too, if this had been a nice, easy talkin', gentle old party, willin' to tell all he knew in the first five minutes, chunk wouldn't have bothered with him; but, because he don't show any gratitude, mushy or otherwise, and acts like he had a permanent, ingrowin' grouch, chunk is right there with the persistence. he drags out of him that he's cap'n todd spiller, hailin' originally from castine, maine, and that the name of his old tub is the queen of the seas. he says his chief business is clammin'; but he does a little fishin' and freightin' on the side. he don't work much, though, because it don't take a lot to keep him. "but you have a wife somewhere ashore, i suppose," suggests chunk, "a dear old soul who waits anxiously for you to come back?" "bah!" grunts cap'n spiller, knockin' the heel out of his corncob vicious. "i ain't got any use for women." "i see," says chunk, gazin' up sentimental at the moon. "a blighted romance of youth; some fair, fickle maid who fled with another and left you alone?" "no such luck," says spiller. "my trouble was havin' too many to once. drat 'em!" and you'd most thought chunk would have let it go at that; but not him! he only tackles spiller along another line. "what i want to know, captain," says he, "is where you learned to play the accordion so well." "never learned 'tall," growls spiller. "just picked it up from a portugee that tried to knife me afterwards." "you don't say!" says chunk. "but there's the musician's soul in you. you love it, don't you? you use it to express your deep, unsatisfied longings?" "guess so," says the captain. "i allus plays most when my dyspepshy is worst. it's kind of a relief." "um-m-m--ah!" says chunk. "many geniuses are that way. you must come into town, though, and let me take you to hear some real, bang up, classical music." "not me!" grunts spiller. "i can make all the music i want myself." "how about plays, then?" says chunk. "now, wouldn't you like to see the best show on broadway?" "no, sir," says he, prompt and vigorous. "i ain't never seen any shows, and don't want to seen one, either." and, say, along about that time, what with the stale cookin' and bilge water scents that was comin' from the stuffy cabin, and this charmin' mood that old spiller was in, i was gettin' restless. "say, chunk," i breaks in, "you may be enjoyin' this, all right; but i've got enough. it's me for shore! goin' along?" "not yet," says he. "have the boat come back for me in about an hour." it was nearer two, though, before he shows up again, and his face is fairly beamin'. "well," says i, "did you adopt the old pirate, or did he adopt you?" "wait and see," says he, noddin' his head cocky. "anyway, he's promised to show up at my office to-morrow afternoon." "you must be stuck on entertaining a grouchy old lemon like that," says i. "but he's a genius," says chunk. "just what i've been looking for as a head liner in a new vaudeville house i'm opening next month." "what!" says i. "you ain't thinkin' of puttin' that old sour face on the stage, are you? say, you're batty!" "batty, am i?" says chunk, kind of swellin' up. "all right, i'll show you. i've made half a million, my boy, by just such batty moves as that. it's because i know people, know 'em through and through, from what they'll pay to hear, to the ones who can give 'em what they want. i'm a discoverer of talent, shorty. where do i get my stars from? pick 'em up anywhere. i don't go to london and paris and pay fancy salaries. i find my attractions first hand, sign' em up on long contracts, and take the velvet that comes in myself. that's my way, and i guess i've made good." "maybe you have," says i; "but i'm guessin' this is where you stub your toe. hot line that'll be for the head of a bill, won't it--an accordion player? think you can get that across?" "think!" says chunk, gettin' indignant as usual, because someone suggests he can fall down on anything. "why, i'm going to put that over twice a day, to twelve hundred-dollar houses! no, i don't think; i know!" and just for that it wouldn't have taken much urgin' for me to have put up a few yellow ones that he was makin' a wrong forecast. but, say, you didn't happen to be up to the openin' of peter k.'s new alcazar the other night, did you? well, sadie and i was, on account of being included in one of chunk's complimentary box parties. and, honest, when they sprung that clouded moonlight water view, with the long island lights in the distance, and the sound steamers passin' back and forth at the back, and the rocks in front, hanged if i didn't feel like i was on the veranda of our yacht club, watchin' it all over again, the same as it was that night! then in from one side comes this boat; no ordinary property piece faked up from something in stock; but a life sized model that's a dead ringer for the old queen of the seas, even to the stovepipe and the shirts hung from the forestay. it comes floatin' in lazy and natural, and when cap spiller goes forward to heave over the anchor he drops it with a splash into real water. he's wearin' the same old costume,--shirt sleeves, cob pipe, and all,--and when he begins to putter around in the cabin, blamed if you couldn't smell the onions fryin' and the coffee boilin'. yes, sir, chunk had put it all on! did the act get 'em interested? say, there was fifteen straight minutes of this scenic business, with not a word said; but the house was so still i could hear my watch tickin'. but when he drags out that old accordion, plants himself on the cabin roof with one leg swingin' careless over the side, and opens up with them old tunes of his--well, he had 'em all with him, from the messenger boys in the twenty-five-cent gallery to the brokers in the fifteen-dollar boxes. he takes five curtain calls, and the orchestra circle was still demandin' more when they rung down the front drop. "chunk," says i, as he shows up at our box, "i take it back. you sure have picked another winner." "looks like it, don't it?" says he. "and whisper! a fifty-minute act for a hundred a week! that's the best of it. up at the columbus their top liner is costing them a thousand a day." "it's a cinch if you can hold onto him, eh?" says i. "oh, i can hold him all right," says chunk, waggin' his head confident. "i know enough about human nature to be sure of that. of course, he's an odd freak; but this sort of thing will grow on him. the oftener he gets a hand like that, the more he'll want it, and inside of a fortnight that'll be what he lives for. oh, i know people, from the ground up, inside and outside!" well, i was beginnin' to think he did. and, havin' been on the inside of his deal, i got to takin' a sort of pride in this hit, almost as much as if i'd discovered the captain myself. i used to go up about every afternoon to see old spiller do his stunt and get 'em goin'. gen'rally i'd lug along two or three friends, so i could tell 'em how it happened. last friday i was a little late for the act, and was just rushin' by the boxoffice, when i hears language floatin' out that i recognizes as a brand that only chunk tracey could deliver when he was good and warm under the collar. peekin' in through the window, i sees him standin' there, fairly tearin' his hair. "what's up, chunk?" says i. "you seem peeved." "peeved!" he yells. "why, blankety blank the scousy universe, i'm stark, raving mad! what do you think? spiller has quit!" "somebody overbid that hundred a week?" says i. "i wish they had; then i could get out an injunction and hold him on his contract," says peter k. "but he's skipped, skipped for good. read that." it's only a scrawly note he'd left pinned up in his dressin' room, and, while it ain't much as a specimen of flowery writin', it states his case more or less clear. here's what it said: mister p. k. tracey; sir:--i'm through being a fool actor. the money's all right if i needed it, which i doant, but i doant like makin' a fool of myself twict a day to please a lot of citty foalks i doant give a dam about annie way, i doant like livin' in a blamed hotel either, for there aint annie wheres to set and smoak and see the sun come up. i'd ruther be on my old bote, and that's whare i'm goin'. you needn't try to find me and git me to come back for i wont. you couldn't git me to act on that staige agin, ever. it's foolish. yours, todd spiller. "now what in the name of all that's woolly," says chunk, "would you say to a thing like that?" "me?" says i. "i don't know. maybe i'd start in by admittin' that to card index the minds of the whole human race was a good deal of a job for one party to tackle, even with a mighty intellect like yours. also, if it was put up to me flat, i might agree with spiller." chapter ix handing bobby a blank say, what do you make out of this plute huntin' business, anyway? has the big money bunch got us down on the mat with our wind shut off and our pockets inside out; or is it just campaign piffle? are we ghost dancin', or waltz dreamin', or what? it sure has me twisted up for fair, and i don't know whether i stand with the criminal rich or the predatory poor. that's all on account of a little mix-up i was rung into at the hotel perzazzer the other day. no, we ain't livin' there reg'lar again. this was just a little fall vacation we was takin' in town, so sadie can catch up with her shoppin', and of course the perzazzer seems more or less like home to us. but it ain't often i've ever run against anything like this there. i've been thinkin' it over since, and it's left me with my feet in the air. no, you didn't read anything about it in the papers. but say, there's more goes on in one of them big joints every week than would fill a whole issue. look at the population the perzazzer's got,--over two thousand, countin' the help! why, drop us down somewhere out in iowa, and spread us around in separate houses, and there'd be enough to call for a third-class postmaster, a police force, and a board of trade. bunched the way we are, all up and down seventeen stories, with every cubic foot accounted for, we don't cut much of a figure except on the checkbooks. you hear about the perzazzer only when some swell gives a fancy blow-out, or a guest gets frisky in the public dining room. and anything in the shape of noise soon has the muffler put on it. we've got a whole squad of husky, two-handed, soft spoken gents who don't have anything else to do, and our champeen ruction extinguisher is danny reardon. to see him strollin' through the café, you might think he was a corporation lawyer studyin' how to spend his next fee; but let some ambitious wine opener put on the loud pedal, or have danny get his eye on some bridgeport dressmaker drawin' designs of the latest paris fashions in the tea room, and you'll see him wake up. nothing seems to get by him. so i was some surprised to find him havin' an argument with a couple of parties away up on our floor. anyone could see with one eye that they was a pair of butt-ins. the tall, smooth faced gent in the black frock coat and the white tie had sky pilot wrote all over him; and the perzazzer ain't just the place an out of town minister would pick out to stop at, unless he wanted to blow a year's salary into a week's board. anyway, his runnin' mate was a dead give away. he looked like he might have just left a bench in the oriental lodgin' house down at chatham square. he's a thin, gawky, pale haired youth, with tired eyes and a limp lower jaw that leaves his mouth half open all the time; and his costume looks like it had been made up from back door contributions,--a faded coat three sizes too small, a forty fat vest, and a pair of shiny black whipcord pants that someone had been married in about twenty years back. what gets me is why such a specimen should be trailin' around with a clean, decent lookin' chap like this minister. maybe that's why i come to take any notice of their little debate. there's some men, though, that you always give a second look at, and this minister gent was one of that kind. it wa'n't until i see how he tops danny by a head that i notices how well built he is; and i figures that if he was only in condition, and knew how to handle himself, he could put up a good lively scrap. something about his jaw hints that to me; but of course, him bein' a bible pounder, i don't expect anything of the kind. "yes, i understand all that," danny was tellin' him; "but you'd better come down to the office, just the same." "my dear man," says the minister, "i have been to the office, as i told you before, and i could get no satisfaction there. the person i wish to see is on the ninth floor. they say he is out. i doubt it, and, as i have come six hundred miles just to have a word with him, i insist on a chance to----" "sure!" says danny. "you'll get your chance, only it's against the rules to allow strangers above the ground floor. now, you come along with me and you'll be all right." with that danny gets a grip on the gent's arm and starts to walk him to the elevator. but he don't go far. the next thing danny knows he's been sent spinnin' against the other wall. course, he wa'n't lookin' for any such move; but it was done slick and prompt. "sorry," says the minister, shovin' his cuffs back in place; "but i must ask you to keep your hands off." i see what danny was up to then. he looks as cool as a soda fountain; but he's red behind his ears, and he's fishin' the chain nippers out of his side pocket. i knows that in about a minute the gent in the frock coat will have both hands out of business. even at that, it looks like an even bet, with somebody gettin' hurt more or less. and blamed if i didn't hate to see that spunky minister get mussed up, just for objectin' to takin' the quiet run out. so i pushes to the front. "well, well!" says i, shovin' out a hand to the parson, as though he was someone i'd been lookin' for. "so you showed up, eh?" "why," says he,--"why--er----" "yes, i know," says i, headin' him off. "you can tell me about that later. bring your friend right in; this is my door. it's all right, danny; mistakes will happen." and before any of 'em knows what's up, danny is left outside with his mouth open, while i've towed the pair of strays into our sittin' room, and shooed sadie out of the way. the minister looks kind of dazed; but he keeps his head well. "really," says he, gazin' around, "i am sure there must be some misunderstanding." "you bet," says i, "and it was gettin' worse every minute. about two shakes more, and you'd been the center of a local disturbance that would have landed you before the police sergeant." "do you mean," says he, "that i cannot communicate with a guest in this hotel without being liable to arrest?" "that's the size of it," says i. "danny had the bracelets all out. the conundrum is, though, why i should do the goat act, instead of lettin' you two mix it up? but that's what happened, and now i guess it's up to you to give an account." "h'm!" says he. "it isn't quite clear; but i infer that you have, in a way, made yourself responsible for me. may i ask whom i have to thank for----" "i'm shorty mccabe," says i. "oh!" says he. "it seems to me i've heard----" "nothing like bein' well advertised," says i. "now, how about you--and this?" with that i points to the specimen in the cast offs, that was givin' an imitation of a flytrap. it was a little crisp, i admit; but i'm gettin' anxious to know where i stand. the minister lifts his eyebrows some, but proceeds to hand out the information. "my name is hooker," says he,--"samuel hooker." "preacher?" says i. "ye-es, a poor one," says he. "where? well, in the neighborhood of mossy dell, pennsylvania." "out in the celluloid collar belt, eh?" says i. "this ain't a deacon, is it?" and i jerks my thumb at the fish eyed one. "this unfortunate fellow," says he, droppin' a hand on the object's shoulder, "is one of our industrial products. his name is kronacher, commonly called dummy." "i can guess why," says i. "but now let's get down to how you two happen to be loose on the seventh floor of the perzazzer and so far from mossy dell." the reverend sam says there ain't any great mystery about that. he come on here special to have a talk with a party by the name of rankin, that he understood was stoppin' here. "you don't mean bobby brut, do you?" says i. "robert k. rankin is the young man's name, i believe," says he,--"son of the late loring rankin, president of the consolidated----" "that's bobby brut," says i. "don't catch onto the brut, eh? you would if you read the champagne labels. friend of yours, is he?" but right there the rev. mr. hooker turns balky. he hints that his business with bobby is private and personal, and he ain't anxious to lay it before a third party. he'd told 'em the same at the desk, when someone from bobbie's rooms had 'phoned for details about the card, and then he'd got the turn down. but he wa'n't the kind that stayed down. he's goin' to see mr. rankin or bu'st. not wantin' to ask for the elevator, he blazes ahead up the stairs; and danny, it seems, hadn't got on his track until he was well started. "all i ask," says he, "is five minutes of mr. rankin's time. that is not an unreasonable request, i hope?" "excuse me," says i; "but you're missin' the point by a mile. it ain't how long you want to stay, but what you're here for. you got to remember that things is run different on fifth-ave. from what they are on penrose-st., mossy dell. you might be a book agent, or a bomb thrower, for all the folks at the desk know. so the only way to get next to anyone here is to show your hand and take the decision. now if you want to try runnin' the outside guard again, i'll call danny back. but you'll make a mess of it." he thinks that over for a minute, lookin' me square in the eye all the time, and all of a sudden he puts out his hand. "you're right," says he. "i was hot headed, and let my zeal get the better of my commonsense. thank you, mr. mccabe." "that's all right," says i. "you go down to the office and put your case to 'em straight." "no," says he, shruggin' his shoulders, "that wouldn't do at all. i suppose i've come on a fool's errand. kronacher, we'll go back." "that's too bad," says i, "if you had business with bobby that was on the level." "since you've been so kind," says he, "perhaps you would give me your opinion--if i am not detaining you?" "spiel away!" says i. "i'll own up you've got me some interested." well, say, when he'd described his visit as a dippy excursion, he wa'n't far off. seems that this rev. sam hooker ain't a reg'lar preacher, with a stained glass window church, a steam heated parsonage, and a settled job. he's sort of a gospel promoter, that goes around plantin' churches here and there,--home missionary, he calls it, though i always thought a home missionary was one that was home from china on a half-pay visit. mainly he says he drifts around through the coke oven and glass works district, where all the polackers and other dagoes work. he don't let it go with preachin' to 'em, though. he pokes around among their shacks, seein' how they live, sendin' doctors for sick babies, givin' the women folks hints on the use of fresh air and hard soap, an' advisin' 'em to keep their kids in school. he's one of them strenuous chaps, too, that believes in stirrin' up a fuss whenever he runs across anything he thinks is wrong. one of the fights he's been making is something about the boys in the glass works. "perhaps you have heard of our efforts to have a child labor bill passed in our state?" says he. "no," says i; "but i'm against it. there's enough kids has to answer the mill whistle, without passin' laws to make 'em." then he explains how the bill is to keep 'em from goin' at it too young, or workin' too many hours on a stretch. course, i'm with him on that, and says so. "ah!" says he. "then you may be interested to learn that young mr. rankin is the most extensive employer of child labor in our state. that is what i want to talk to him about." "ever see bobby?" says i. he says he hasn't. "know anything of his habits, and so on?" i asks. "not a thing," says the rev. sam. "then you take it from me," says i, "that you ain't missed much." see? i couldn't go all over that record of bobby brut's, specially to a preacher. not that bobby was the worst that ever cruised around the milky way in a sea goin' cab with his feet over the dasher; but he was something of a torrid proposition while he lasted. you remember some of his stunts, maybe? i hadn't kept strict tabs on him; but i'd heard that after they chucked him out of the sanatorium his mother planted him here, with a man nurse and a private doctor, and slid off to europe to stay with her son-in-law count until folks forgot about bobby. and this was the youth the rev. mr. hooker had come to have a heart to heart talk with! "ain't you takin' a lot of trouble, just for a few polackers?" says i. "they are my brothers," says he, quiet like. "what!" says i. "you don't look it." his mouth corners flickers a little at that, and there comes a glimmer in them solemn gray eyes of his; but he goes on to say that it's part of his belief that every man is his brother. "gee!" says i. "you've adopted a big fam'ly." but say, he's so dead in earnest about it, and he talks so sensible about other things, besides appearin' so white clear through, that i can't help likin' the cuss. "look here!" says i. "this is way out of my line, and it strikes me as a batty proposition anyway; but if you're still anxious to have a chin with bobby, maybe i can fix it." "thank you, thank you!" says he, givin' me the grateful grip. it's a good deal easier than i'd thought. all i does is get one of bobby's retinue on the house 'phone, tell who i am, and say i was thinkin' of droppin' up with a couple of friends for a short call, if bobby's agreeable. seems he was, for inside of two minutes we're on our way up in the elevator. got any idea of the simple way a half baked young plute can live in a place like the perzazzer? he has one floor of a whole wing cut off for his special use,--about twenty rooms, i should judge,--and there was hired hands standin' around in every corner. we're piloted in over the persian rugs, with the preacher blinkin' his eyes to keep from seein' some of the statuary and oil paintin's. at last we comes to a big room with an eastern exposure, furnished like a show window. sittin' at a big mahogany table in the middle is a narrow browed, pop eyed, bat eared young chap in a padded silk dressin' gown, and i remembers him for the bobby brut i used to see floatin' around with the trixy-madges at the lobster palaces. he has a couple of decks of cards laid out in front of him, and i guesses he's havin' a go at canfield solitaire. behind his chair stands a sour faced lackey who holds up his hand for us to wait. bobby don't look up at all. he's shiftin' the cards around, tryin' to make 'em come out right, doin' it quick and nervous. all of a sudden the lackey claps his hand down on a pile and says, "beg pardon, sir, but you can't do that." "blast you!" snarls bobby. "and i was just getting it! why didn't you look the other way? bah!" and he sends the whole lot flyin' on the floor. do you catch on? he has the lackey there to see that he don't cheat himself. but while the help was pickin' up the cards bobby gets a glimpse of our trio, ranged up against the door draperies. "hello, shorty mccabe!" he sings out. "it's bully of you to drop in. nobody comes to see me any more--hardly a soul. say, do you think there's anything the matter with my head?" "can't say your nut shows any cracks from here," says i. "who's been tellin' you it did?" "why, all those blasted doctors," says he. "they won't even let me go out alone. but say," here he beckons me up and whispers mysterious, "i'll fix 'em yet! you just wait till i get my animals trained. you wait!" then he claps his hands and hollers, "atkins! set 'em going!" atkins, he stops scrabblin' after the cards and starts around the room. and say, would you believe it, on all the tables and mantelpieces was a lot of those toy animals, such as they sell durin' the holidays. there was lions and tigers and elephants, little and big, and every last one of 'em has its head balanced so it'll move up and down when you touch it. atkins' job was to go from one to the other and set 'em bobbin'. them on the mantels wa'n't more'n a few inches long; but on the floor, hid behind chairs, was some that was life size. one was a tiger, made out of a real skin, and when his head goes his jaws open and shut, and his tail lashes from side to side, as natural as life. say, it was weird to watch that collection, all noddin' away together--almost gave you the willies! "are they all going?" says bobby. "yes, sir," says atkins, standin' attention. "what do you think, eh?" says bobbie, half shuttin' his pop eyes and starin' at me, real foxy. "great scheme!" says i. "didn't know you had a private zoo up here. but say, i brought along someone that wants to have a little chin with you." with that i hauls the rev. sam to the front and gives him the nudge to fire away. and say, he's all primed! he begins by givin' bobbie a word picture of the rankin glass works at night, when the helpers are carryin' the trays from the hot room, where the blowers work three-hour shifts, with the mercury at one hundred and twenty, to the coolin' room, where it's like a cellar. he tells him how many helpers there are, how many hours they work a day, and what they get for it. it didn't make me yearn for a job. "and here," says the rev. mr. hooker, pullin' the dummy up by the sleeve, "is what happens. this boy went to work in your glass factory when he was thirteen. he was red cheeked, clear eyed, then, and he had a normal brain. he held his job six years. then he was discharged. why? because he wasn't of any more use. he was all in, the juice sapped out of him, as dry as a last year's cornhusk. look at him! any doubt about his being used up? and what happened to him is happening to thousands of other boys. so i have come here to ask you, mr. rankin, if you are proud of turning out such products? aren't you ready to stop hiring thirteen-year-old boys for your works?" say, it was straight from the shoulder, that talk,--no flourishes, no fine words! and what do you guess bobby brut has to say? not a blamed thing! i doubt if he heard more'n half of it, anyway; for he's got his eyes set on that pasty face of dummy kronacher, and is followin' his motions. the dummy ain't payin' any attention to the speech, either. he's got sight of all them animals with their heads bobbin', and a silly grin spreads over his face. first he sidles over to the mantel and touches up one that was about stopped. then he sees another, and starts that off again, and by the time hooker is through the dummy is as busy and contented as you please, keepin' them tigers and things movin'. "well?" says the rev. sam. "eh?" says bobby, tearin' his eyes off the dummy. "were you saying something about the glass works? beastly bore! i never go near them. but say! i want that chap over there. i want to hire him. what's his name?" "dummy kronacher," says the rev. sam, comin' out strong on the first word. "good!" says bobbie. "hey, dummy? what will you take to stay here with me and do that right along?" dummy has just discovered a stuffed alligator that can snap its jaws and wiggle its tail. he only looks up and grins. "i'll make it a hundred a month," says bobbie. "well, that's settled. atkins, you're fired! and say, mccabe, i must show this new man how i want this business done. you and your friend run in some other time, will you?" "but," says hooker, "can't you do something about those helpers? won't you promise to----" "no!" snaps bobby. "i've no time to bother with such things. atkins, show 'em out!" well, we went. we goes so sudden the rev. sam forgets about leavin' the dummy until we're outside, and then he's for goin' back after him. "what for?" says i. "that pair'll get along fine; they're two of a kind." "i guess you're right," says he. "and it's something to have brought those two together. perhaps someone will see the significance of it, some day." now what was he drivin' at then? you can search me. all i've been able to make out of it is that what ails the poor is poverty, and the trouble with the plutes is that they've got too much. eh? barney shaw said something like that too? well, don't let on i agree with him. he might get chesty. chapter x marmaduke slips one over and you'd almost think i could accumulate enough freaks, all by myself, without havin' my friends pass theirs along, wouldn't you? yet lemme tell you what pinckney rung up on me. he comes into the studio one day towin' a party who wears brown spats and a brown ribbon to his shell rimmed eyeglasses, and leaves him planted in a chair over by the window, where he goes to rubbin' his chin with a silver-handled stick while we dive into the gym. for one of our little half-hour sessions. leaves him there without sayin' a word, mind you, like you'd stand an umbrella in the corner! "who's the silent gazooks you run on the siding out front?" says i. "why," says pinckney, "that's only marmaduke." "only!" says i. "i should say marmaduke was quite some of a name. anything behind it? he ain't a blank, is he?" "who, marmaduke?" says he. "far from it! in fact, he has a most individual personality." "that sounds good," says i; "but does it mean anything? who is he, anyway?" "ask him, shorty, ask him," says pinckney, and as he turns to put his coat on the hanger i gets a glimpse of that merry eye-twinkle of his. "go on--i'm easy," says i. "i'd look nice, wouldn't i, holdin' a perfect stranger up for his pedigree?" "but i assure you he'd be pleased to give it," says pinckney, "and, more than that, i want to be there to hear it myself." "well, you're apt to strain your ears some listenin'," says i. "this ain't my day for askin' fool questions." you never can tell, though. we hadn't much more'n got through our mitt exercise, and pinckney was only half into his afternoon tea uniform, when there's a 'phone call for him. and the next thing i know he's hustled into his frock coat and rushed out. must have been five minutes later when i fin'lly strolls into the front office, to find that mysterious marmaduke is still holdin' down the chair and gazin' placid out onto d-st. it looks like he'd been forgotten and hadn't noticed the fact. one of these long, loose jointed, languid actin' gents, marmaduke is; the kind that can drape themselves careless and comf'table over almost any kind of furniture. he's a little pop eyed, his hair is sort of a faded tan color, and he's whopper jawed on the left side; but beyond that he didn't have any striking points of facial beauty. it's what you might call an interestin' mug, though, and it's so full of repose that it seems almost a shame to disturb him. someone had to notify him, though, that he'd overslept. i tried clearin' my throat and shufflin' my feet to bring him to; but that gets no action at all. so there was nothing for it but to go over and tap him on the shoulder. "excuse me," says i, "but your friend has gone." "ah, quite so," says he, still starin' out of the window and rubbin' his chin. "'tis a way friends have. they come, and they go. quite so." "nobody's debatin' that point," says i; "but just now i wa'n't speakin' of friends in gen'ral. i was referrin' to pinckney. he didn't leave any word; but i suspicion he was called up by----" "thanks," breaks in marmaduke. "i know. mrs. purdy-pell consults him about dinner favors--tremendous trifles, to be coped with only by a trained intelligence. we meet at the club later." "oh, that's it, is it?" says i. "in that case, make yourself to home. have an evening paper?" "please take it away," says he. "i might be tempted to read about the beastly stock market." "been taking a little flyer, eh?" says i. "what, i?" says he. "why, i haven't enough cash to buy a decent dinner. but everybody you meet follows the market, you know. it's a contagious disease." "so?" says i. "now i've been exposed a lot and haven't caught it very hard." "gifted of the gods!" says he. "eh?" says i. "i'm marmaduke, you know," says he. "i've heard that much," says i. "to him that hath ears--mufflers," says he. "mufflers?" says i. "i guess i must be missin' some of my cues, mister." "never care," says he. "why cry over spilt milk when one can keep a cat?" "look here!" says i. "are you stringin' me, or am i stringin' you?" "of what use to fret the oracle?" says he. "they say silence is golden--well, i've spent mine." and, say, he had me doin' the spiral dip at that. i don't mind indulgin' in a little foolish conversation now and then; but i hate to have it so one sided. and, honest, so far as i figured, he might have been readin' the label off a tea chest. so with that i counters with one of my rough and ready comebacks. "marmaduke--did you say it was?" says i. "if you did, where's the can?" "by jove! that's rather good, though!" says he, rappin' the floor with his stick. "a little crude; but the element is there. brava! bravissimo!" "stirred up the pigeons, anyway," says i. "pigeons?" says he, lookin' puzzled. "well, well!" says i. "and he wants a diagram for that mossy one! loft, you know," and i taps my forehead. "almost worthy of my steel!" says he, jumpin' up and shovin' out his hand. "well met, brother!" "i don't know which of us has a call to get chesty over it; but here's how," says i, takin' the friendly palm he holds out. "seein' it's gone this far, though, maybe you'll tell me who in blazes you are!" and there i'd gone and done just what pinckney had egged me to do. course, the minute i asked the question i knew i'd given him a chance to slip one over on me; but i wa'n't lookin' for quite such a double jointed jolt. "who am i?" says he. "does it matter? well, if it does, i am easily accounted for. behold an anachronism!" "a which?" says i. "an anachronism," says he once more. "i pass," says i. "is it part of austria, or just a nickname for some alfalfa district out west?" "brave ventures," says he; "but vain. one's place of birth doesn't count if one's twentieth century mind has a sixteenth century attitude. that's my trouble; or else i'm plain lazy, which i don't in the least admit. do you follow me?" "i'm dizzy from it," says i. "the confession is aptly put," he goes on, "and the frankness of it does you credit. but i perceive. you would class me by peg and hole. well, i'm no peg for any hole. i don't fit. on the floor of life's great workshop i just kick around. there you have me--ah--what?" "maybe," says i; "but take my advice and don't ever spring that description on any desk sergeant. it may be good; but it sounds like loose bearin's." "ah!" says he. "the metaphor of to-morrow! speak on, sir galahad!" "all right," says i. "i know it's runnin' a risk; but i'll chance one more: what part of the map do you hail from, marmaduke?" "my proper home," says he, "is the forest of arden; but where that is i know not." "why," says i, "then you belong in the new harriman state park. anyway, there's a station by that name out on the erie road." "rails never ran to arden wood," says he, "nor ever will. selah!" "sounds like an old song," says i. "are you taken this way often?" "i'm marmaduke, you know," says he. "sure, that's where we begun," says i; "but it's as far as we got. is bein' marmaduke your steady job?" "some would call it so," says he. "i try to make of it an art." "you win," says i. "what can i set up?" "thanks," says he. "pinckney has thoughtlessly taken his cigarette case with him." so i sends swifty out for a box of the most expensive dope sticks he can find. maybe it wouldn't strike everybody that way; but to me it seemed like bein' entertained at cut rates. next to havin' a happy dream about nothing i could remember afterwards, i guess this repartee bout with marmaduke gets the ribbon. it was like blowin' soap bubbles to music,--sort of soothin' and cheerin' and no wear and tear on the brain. he stayed until closin' up time, and i was almost sorry to have him go. "come around again," says i, "when the fog is thinner." "i'm certain to," says he. "i'm marmaduke, you know." and the curious thing about that remark was that after you'd heard it four or five times it filled the bill. i didn't want to know any more, and it was only because pinckney insisted on givin' me the details that the mystery was partly cleared up. "well," says he, "what did you think of marmaduke?" "neither of us did any thinkin'," says i. "i just watched the butterflies." "you what?" says pinckney. "oh, call 'em bats, then!" says i. "he's got a dome full." "you mean you thought marmaduke a bit off?" says he. "nothing of the kind, shorty. why, he's a brilliant chap,--oxford, heidelberg, and all that sort of thing. he's written plays that no one will put on, books that no one will publish, and composed music that few can understand." "i can believe it," says i. "also he can use language that he invents as he goes along. entertainin' cuss, though." "a philosopher soufflé," says pinckney. "does it pay him well?" says i. "it's no joke," says pinckney. "the little his father left him is gone, and what's coming from his uncle norton he doesn't get until the uncle dies. meanwhile he's flat broke and too proud to beg or borrow." "never tried trailin' a pay envelope, did he?" says i. "but he doesn't know how," says pinckney. "his talents don't seem to be marketable. i am trying to think of something he could do. and did you know, shorty, he's taken quite a fancy to you?" "they all do," says i; "but marmaduke's easier to stand than most of 'em. next time i'm threatened with the willies i'll send for him and offer to hire him by the hour." as a matter of fact, i didn't have to; for he got into the habit of blowin' into the studio every day or two, and swappin' a few of his airy fancies for my mental short-arm jabs. he said it did him good, and somehow or other it always chirked me up too. and the more i saw of marmaduke, the less i thought about the bats. get under the surface, and he wa'n't nutty at all. he just had a free flow of funny thoughts and odd ways of expressin' 'em. most of us are so shy of lettin' go of any sentiments that can't be had on a rubber stamp that it takes a mighty small twist to put a person in the queer class. however, business is business, and i'd just as soon marmaduke hadn't been on hand the other day when pyramid gordon comes in with one of his heavyweight broker friends. course, i didn't know anything about the stranger; but i know pyramid, and his funnybone was fossilized years ago. marmaduke don't offer to make any break, though. he takes his fav'rite seat over by the window and goes to gazin' out and rubbin' his chin. seems that mr. gordon and his friend was both tangled up in some bank chain snarl that was worryin' 'em a lot. things wouldn't be comin' to a head for forty-eight hours or so, and meantime all they could do was sit tight and wait. now, pyramid's programme in a case of that kind is one i made out for him myself. it's simple. he comes to the studio for an hour of the roughest kind of work we can put through. after that he goes to his turkish bath, and by the time his rubber is through with him he's ready for a private room and a ten hours' snooze. that's what keeps the gray out of his cheeks, and helps him look a grand jury summons in the face without goin' shaky. so it's natural he recommends the same course to this mr. gridley that he's brought along. another thick-neck, gridley is, with the same flat ears as pyramid, only he's a little shorter and not quite so rugged around the chin. "here we are, now," says pyramid, "and here's professor mccabe, gridley. if he can't make you forget your troubles, you will be the first on record. come on in and see." but gridley he shakes his head. "nothing so strenuous for me," says he. "my heart wouldn't stand it. i'll wait for you, though." "better come in and watch, then," says i, with a side glance at marmaduke. "no, thanks; i shall be quite as uncomfortable here," says gridley, and camps his two hundred and ten pounds down in my desk chair. it was a queer pair to leave together,--this gridley gent, who was jugglin' millions, and gettin' all kinds of misery out of it, and marmaduke, calm and happy, with barely one quarter to rub against another. but of course there wa'n't much chance of their findin' anything in common to talk about. anyway, i was too busy for the next hour to give 'em a thought, and by the time i'd got pyramid breathin' like a leaky air valve and glowin' like a circus poster all over, i'd clean forgot both of 'em. so, when i fin'lly strolls out absent minded, it's something of a shock to find 'em gettin' acquainted, marmaduke tiltin' back careless in his chair, and gridley eyin' him curious. it appears that pyramid's friend has got restless, discovered marmaduke, and proceeded to try to tell him how near he comes to bein' a nervous wreck. "ever get so you couldn't eat, couldn't sleep, couldn't think of but one thing over and over?" he was just sayin'. "to every coat of arms, the raveled sleeve of care," observes marmaduke sort of casual. "hey?" says gridley, facin' round on him sharp. "as the poet puts it," marmaduke rattles on,-- "you cannot gild the lily, nor can you wet the sea; pray tell me of my bonnie, but bring her not to me!" "say, what the howling hyenas are you spouting about?" snorts gridley, growin' purple back of the ears. "who in thunder are you?" "don't!" says i, holdin' up a warnin' hand. but i'm too late. marmaduke has bobbed up smilin'. "a chip on the current," says he. "i'm marmaduke, you know. no offense meant. and you were saying----" "huh!" grunts gridley, calmin' down. "can't wet the sea, eh? not so bad, young man. you can't keep it still, either. it's the only thing that puts me to sleep when i get this way." "break, break, break--i know," says marmaduke. "that's it," says gridley, "hearing the surf roar. i'd open up my seashore cottage just for the sake of a good night's rest, if it wasn't for the blasted seagulls. you've heard 'em in winter, haven't you, how they squeak around?" "it's their wing hinges," says marmaduke, solemn and serious. "eh?" says gridley, gawpin' at him. "squeaky wing hinges," says marmaduke. "you should oil them." and, say, for a minute there, after gridley had got the drift of that tomfool remark, i didn't know whether he was goin' to throw marmaduke through the window, or have another fit. all of a sudden, though, he begins poundin' his knee. "by george! but that's rich, young man!" says he. "squeaky gulls' wing hinges! haw-haw! oil 'em! haw-haw! how did you ever happen to think of it, eh?" "one sweetly foolish thought," says marmaduke. "i'm blessed with little else." "well, it's a blessing, all right," says gridley. "i have 'em sometimes; but not so good as that. say, i'll have to tell that to gordon when he comes out. no, he wouldn't see anything in it. but see here, mr. marmaduke, what have you got on for the evening, eh?" "my tablets are cleaner than my cuffs," says he. "good work!" says gridley. "what about coming out and having dinner with me?" "with you or any man," says marmaduke. "to dine's the thing." with that, off they goes, leavin' pyramid in the gym. doorway strugglin' with his collar. course, i does my best to explain what's happened. "but who was the fellow?" says mr. gordon. "just marmaduke," says i, "and if you don't want to get your thinker tied in a double bowknot you'll let it go at that. he's harmless. first off i thought his gears didn't mesh; but accordin' to pinckney he's some kind of a philosopher." "gridley has a streak of that nonsense in him too," says pyramid. "i only hope he gets it all out of his system by to-morrow night." well, from all i could hear he did; for there wa'n't any scarehead financial story in the papers, and i guess the bank snarl must have been straightened out all right. what puzzled me for a few days, though, was to think what had become of marmaduke. he hadn't been around to the studio once; and pinckney hadn't heard a word from him, either. pinckney had it all framed up how marmaduke was off starvin' somewhere. it was only yesterday, too, that i looks up from the desk to see marmaduke, all got up in an entire new outfit, standin' there smilin' and chipper. "well, well!" says i. "so you didn't hit the breadline, after all!" "perchance i deserved it," says he; "but there came one from the forest who willed otherwise." "ah, cut the josh for a minute," says i, "and tell us what you landed!" "gladly," says he. "i have been made the salaried secretary of the s. o. s. g. w. h." "is it a new benefit order," says i, "or what?" "the mystic letters," says he, "stand for the society for oiling squeaky gulls' wing hinges. mr. gridley is one member; i am the other." and, say, you may not believe it, but hanged if it wa'n't a fact! he has a desk in gridley's private office, and once a day he shows up there and scribbles off a foolish thought on the boss's calendar pad. that's all, except that he draws down good money for it. "also i have had word," says marmaduke, "that my aged uncle norton is very low of a fever." "gee!" says i. "some folks are born lucky, though!" "and others," says he, "in the forest of arden." chapter xi a look in on the goat game pinckney was tellin' me, here awhile back at lunch one day, what terrors them twins of his was gettin' to be. he relates a tragic tale about how they'd just been requested to resign from another private school where they'd been goin' as day scholars. "that is the third this season," says he; "the third, mind you!" "well, there's more still, ain't there?" says i. "brilliant observation, shorty," says he, "also logical and pertinent. yes, there are several others still untried by the twins." "what you howlin' about, then?" says i. "because," says he, toyin' with the silver frame that holds the bill of fare, "because it is not my intention to demoralize all the educational institutions of this city in alphabetical order." "g'wan!" says i. "the kids have got to be educated somewhere, haven't they?" "which is the sad part of it," says pinckney, inspectin' the dish of scrambled eggs and asparagus tips and wavin' the waiter to do the serving himself. "it means," he goes on, "having a governess around the house, and you know what nuisances they can be." "do i?" says i. "the nearest i ever got to havin' a governess was when mrs. o'grady from next door used to come in to use our wash-tubs and i was left with her for the day. nobody ever called her a nuisance and got away with it." "what an idyllic youth to look back upon!" says he. "i can remember half a dozen, at least, who had a hand in directing the course of my budding intellect, and each one of them developed some peculiarity which complicated the domestic situation. i am wondering what this new governess of ours will contribute." "got one on the job already, eh?" says i. "this is her third day," says he, "and if she manages to live through it with the twins, i shall have hope." "ah, pickles!" says i. "those kids are all right. they're full of life and ginger, that's all." "especially ginger," says pinckney. "what of it?" says i. "or are you just blowin' about 'em? it's all right, they're a great pair, and any time you want to entertain me for half an hour, turn 'em loose in my comp'ny." "done!" says pinckney. "we'll take a cab right up." "put it off three minutes, can't you?" says i, lookin' over the french pastry tray and spearin' a frosted creampuff that was decorated up with sugar flowers until it looked like a bride's bouquet. he insists on callin' my bluff, though; so up the avenue we goes, when i should have been hotfootin' it back to the studio. but i could see that pinckney was some anxious about how the kids was gettin' on, gertie being away for the day, and i thinks maybe i'll be useful in calmin' any riot he might find in progress. all was quiet and peaceful, though, as pinckney opens the door with his latchkey. no howls from upstairs, no front windows broken, and nobody slidin' down the banisters. we was just waitin' for the automatic elevator to come down when we hears voices floatin' out from the lib'ry. pinckney steps to the doorway where he can see through into the next room, and then beckons me up for a squint. it wa'n't the kids at all, but a couple of grownups that was both strangers to me. from the way the young woman is dressed i could guess she was the new governess. anyway, she's makin' herself right to home, so far as entertainin' comp'ny goes; for she and the gent with her is more or less close together and mixed up. first off it looked like a side-hold lover's clinch, and then again it didn't. "is it a huggin' match, or a rough-house tackle?" i whispered over pinckney's shoulder. "i pass the declaration," says he. "suppose we investigate." with that we strolls in, and we're within a dozen feet of the couple before they get wise to the fact that there's an int'rested audience. i must say, though, that they made a clean, quick breakaway. then they stands, starin' at us. "ah, miss marston!" says pinckney. "do i interrupt?" "why--er--er--you see, sir," she begins, "i--that is--we----" and she breaks down with as bad a case of rattles as i ever see. she's a nice lookin', modest appearin' young woman, too, a little soft about the mouth, but more or less classy in her lines. her hair is some mussed, and there's sort of a wild, desp'rate look in her eyes. "a near relative, i presume?" suggests pinckney, noddin' at the gent, who's takin' it all cool enough. "oh, yes, sir," gasps out the governess. "my husband, sir." and the gent, he bows as easy and natural as if he was bein' introduced at an afternoon tea party. "glad to know you," says he, stickin' out his hand, which pinckney, bein' absent-minded just then, fails to see. "really!" says pinckney, lookin' the governess up and down. "then it's not miss marston, but mrs.--er----" "yes," says she, lettin' her chin drop, "mrs. marston." "very unfortunate," says pinckney, "very!" "haw, haw, haw!" breaks out the strange gent, slappin' his knee. "i say now, but that's a good one, that is, even if it is at my expense! unfortunate, eh? perfectly true though, perfectly true!" now it takes a lot to get pinckney going; but for a minute all he does is turn and size up this husband party with the keen sense of humor. i had my mouth open and my eyes bugged too; for he don't look the part at all. why, he's dressed neat and expensive, a little sporty maybe, for a real gent; but he carries it off well. "glad to have your assurance that i was right," says pinckney, still givin' him the frosty eye. "oh, don't mention it," says mr. marston. "and i trust you will overlook my butting in here to see kitty--er, mrs. marston. little matter of sentiment and--well, business, you know. i don't think it will happen often." "i am quite sure it won't," says pinckney. "and now, if the interview has been finished, i would suggest that----" "oh, certainly, certainly!" says marston, edging towards the door. "allow me, gentlemen, to bid you good-day. and i say, kit, don't forget that little matter. by-by." honest, if i could make as slick a backout as that, without carryin' away anybody's footprint, i'd rate myself a headliner among the trouble dodgers. pinckney, though, don't seem to appreciate such talents. "that settles governess no. ," says he as we starts for the elevator again. "we are beginning the series well." that was before he saw how smooth she got along with jack and jill. after she'd given an exhibition of kid trainin' that was a wonder, he remarked that possibly he might as well let her stay the week out. "but of course," says he, "she will have to go. hanged if i understand how mrs. purdy-pell happened to send her here, either! shorty, do you suppose sadie could throw any light on this case?" "i'll call for a report," says i. does sadie know anything about the marstons? well, rather! says she told me all about 'em at the time too; but if she did it must have got by. anyway, this was just a plain, simple case of a worthless son marryin' the fam'ly governess and bein' thrown out for it by a stern parent, same as they always are in them english novels sadie's forever readin'. the marstons was madison-ave. folks, which means that their back yard was bounded on the west by the smart set--and that's as far as there's any need of going. the girl comes from 'frisco and is an earthquake orphan. hence the governess stunt. as for young marston, he'd been chucked out of college, tried out for a failure in the old man's brokerage office, and then left to drift around town on a skimpy allowance. so he was in fine shape to get married! the girl sticks to him, though, until there's trouble with the landlady, and then, when he only turns ugly and makes no move towards gettin' a job, she calls it off, gives him the slip, and begins rustlin' for herself. "oh, well," says pinckney, "i suppose she ought to have a chance. but if that husband of hers is going to----" "next time you catch him at it," says i, "just 'phone down for me. it'll be a pleasure." i meant it too; for after hearing how she'd lost other places on account of his hangin' around i could have enjoyed mussin' him up some. with my feelin' that way, you can guess what a jar it is, one afternoon when i'm having a little front office chat with my old reg'lar, pyramid gordon, to see this same gent blow in through the door. almost looked like he knew what he ought to get and had come after it. "well?" says i as chilly as i knew how. "quite so," says he, "quite so. i see you remember our recent meeting. awkward situation for a moment, wasn't it, eh? splendid chap, though, your friend----" "say, choke off the hot air," says i, "and let's hear what gave you the courage to climb those stairs!" and what do you guess? he takes five minutes of steady chinnin' to get around to it; but he puts over such a velvety line of talk, and it's so int'restin' to watch him do it, that i let him spiel ahead until he gets to the enactin' clause in his own way. and it's nothing more or less than a brassy fingered touch for a twenty, all based on the fact that he met me at a house where his wife's drawin' wages. "mr. gordon," says i, turnin' to pyramid, who's heard it all, "what do you think of that, anyway?" "very neat, indeed," says pyramid, chucklin'. "and then a few!" says i. "i can almost see myself givin' up that twenty right off the bat. nothing but great presence of mind and wonderful self-control holds me back. but look here, mr. what's-your-name----" "marston," says he, flashin' an engraved visitin' card, "l. egbert marston." "l. egbert, eh?" says i. "does the l stand for limed? and what do they call you for short--eggie?" "oh, suit yourself," says he, with a careless wave of the hand. "all right, eggie," says i; "but before we get in any deeper i've got a conundrum or two to spring on you. we got kind of curious, pinckney and me, about that visit of yours. he thinks we disturbed a fond embrace. it looked diff'rent to me. i thought i could see finger-marks on the young lady's throat. how about it?" course he flushes up. any man would under a jab like that, and i looked for him either to begin breakin' the peace or start lyin' out of it. there's considerable beef to egbert, you know. he'd probably weigh in at a hundred and eighty, with all that flabby meat on him, and if it wa'n't for that sort of cheap look to his face you might take him for a real man. but he don't show any more fight than a cow. he don't even put in any indignant "not guilty!" he just shrugs his shoulders and indulges in a sickly laugh. "it doesn't sound nice," says he; "but sometimes they do need a bit of training, these women." "for instance?" says i. "in the matter of handing over a little spendin' money, eh?" "you've struck it," says he, with another shrug. i glances at pyramid; but there wa'n't any more expression to that draw poker face of his than as if it was a cement block. "egbert," says i, frank and confidential, "you're a sweet scented pill, ain't you?" and does that draw any assault and battery motions? it don't. all the result is to narrow them shifty eyes of his and steady 'em down until he's lookin' me square in the face. "i was hard up, if you want to know," says he. "i didn't have a dollar." "and that," says i, "is what you give out as an excuse for----" "yes," he breaks in. "and i'm no worse than lots of other men, either. with money, i'm a gentleman; without it--well, i get it any way i can. and i want to tell you, i've seen men with plenty of it get more in meaner ways. i don't know how to juggle stocks, or wreck banks, or use any of the respectable methods that----" "nothing personal, i hope," puts in mr. gordon, with another chuckle. "not so intended," says marston. "eh, thanks," says pyramid. "we'll admit," says i, "that your partic'lar way of raisin' funds, mr. marston, ain't exactly novel; but didn't it ever occur to you that some folks get theirs by workin' for it?" "i know," says he, tryin' to seem good natured again; "but i'm not that kind. i'm an idler. as some poet has put it, 'useless i linger, a cumberer here.'" "you're a cucumber, all right," says i; "but why not, just for a change, make a stab at gettin' a job?" "i've had several," says he, "and never could hold one more than a week. too monotonous, for one thing; and then, in these offices, one is thrown among so many ill bred persons, you know." "sure!" says i, feelin' my temper'ture risin'. "parties that had rather work for a pay envelope than choke their wives. i've met 'em. i've heard of your kind too, egbert; but you're the first specimen i ever got real close to. and you're a bird! mr. gordon, shall i chuck him through the window, or help him downstairs with my toe?" "i wouldn't do either," says pyramid. "in fact, i think i can make use of this young man." "then you're welcome to him," says i. "blaze ahead." "much obliged," says pyramid. "now, mr. marston, what is the most reasonable sum, per month, that would allow you to carry out your idea of being a gentleman?" egbert thinks that over a minute and then puts it at three hundred. "and would it conflict with those ideas," pyramid goes on, "if you were required, say twice a week, to spend an hour in a private office, signing your name?" egbert thinks he could stand that. "very well, then," says pyramid, producin' his checkbook and gettin' busy with the fountain pen, "here is your first month's salary in advance. whenever you find it convenient during the week, report at my offices. ask for mr. bradley. yes, bradley. that's all," and pyramid lights up one of his torches as satisfied as though he'd just bought in a senator. as for egbert, he stows the check away, taps me on the shoulder, and remarks real friendly, "well, professor, no hard feelings, i hope?" "say, eggie," says i, "seems to me i expressed myself once on that point, and i ain't had any sudden change of heart. if i was you i'd beat while the beatin's good." egbert laughs; but he takes the advice. "huh!" says i to pyramid. "i expect that's your notion of making a funny play, eh!" "i'm no humorist, shorty," says he. "then what's the idea?" says i. "what do you mean?" "i never mean anything but cold, straight business," says he. "that's the only game worth playing." "so?" says i. "then here's where you got let in bad with your eyes open. you heard him tell how useless he was?" "i did," says pyramid; "but i always do my own appraising when i hire men. i anticipate finding mr. marston somewhat useful." and say, that's all i can get out of pyramid on the subject; for when it comes to business, he's about as chatty over his plans as a hard shell clam on the suffragette question. i've known him to make some freak plans; but this move of pickin' out a yellow one like egbert and rewardin' him as if he was a carnegie medal winner beat anything he'd ever sprung yet. it's no bluff, either. i hears of this marston gent sportin' around at the clubs, and it wa'n't until i accident'lly run across an item on the wall street page that i gets any more details. he shows up, if you please, as secretary of the consolidated holding company that there's been so much talk about. i asks pinckney what kind of an outfit that was; but he don't know. "huh!" says i. "all i'd feel safe in givin' egbert to hold for me would be one end of the brooklyn bridge." "i don't care what he holds," says pinckney, "if he will stay away from our little governess. she's a treasure." seems mrs. marston had been doin' some great tricks with the twins, not only keepin' 'em from marrin' the furniture, but teachin' 'em all kinds of knowledge and improvin' their table manners, until it was almost safe to have 'em down to luncheon now and then. but her life was being made miser'ble by the prospect of havin' egbert show up any day and create a row. she confided the whole tale to sadie, how she was through with marston for good, but didn't dare tell him so, and how she sent him most of her salary to keep him away. "the loafer!" says i. "and think of the chance i had at him there in the studio! hanged if i don't get even with pyramid for that, though!" but i didn't. mr. gordon's been too busy this season to show up for any trainin', and it was only here the other day that i runs across him in the street. "well," says i, "how's that work scornin' pet of yours gettin' on these days?" "marston?" says he. "why, haven't you heard? mr. marston is away on a vacation." "vacation!" says i. "he needs it, he does!" "the company thought so," says pyramid. "they gave him six months' leave with pay. he's hunting reindeer or musk ox somewhere up in british columbia." "him a hunter?" says i. "g'wan!" pyramid grins. "he did develop a liking for the wilderness rather suddenly," says he; "but that is where he is now. in fact, i shouldn't be surprised if he stayed up there for a year or more." "what's the joke?" says i, catchin' a flicker in them puffy eyes of pyramid's. "why, just this," says he. "mr. marston, you know, is secretary of the consolidated holding company." "yes, i read about that," says i. "what then?" "it pains me to state," says mr. gordon, "that in his capacity of secretary mr. marston seems to have sanctioned transactions which violate the interstate commerce act." "ah-ha!" says i. "turned crooked on you, did he?" "we are not sure as yet," says pyramid. "the federal authorities are anxious to settle that point by examining certain files which appear to be missing. they even asked me about them. perhaps you didn't notice, shorty, that i was cross-examined for five hours, one day last week." "i don't read them muck rakin' articles," says i. "quite right," says pyramid. "well, i couldn't explain; for, as their own enterprising detectives discovered, when mr. marston boarded the montreal express his baggage included a trunk and two large cases. odd of him to take shipping files on a hunting trip, wasn't it?" and pyramid tips me the slow wink. i'm more or less of a thickhead when it comes to flossy finance; but i've seen enough plain flimflam games to know a few things. and the wink clinched it. "mr. gordon," says i, "for a mr. smooth you've got a greased pig in the warthog class. but suppose egbert gets sick of the woods and hikes himself back? what then?" "jail," says pyramid, shruggin' his sable collar up around his ears. "that would be rather deplorable too. bright young man, marston, in many ways, and peculiarly adapted for----" "yes, i know the part," says i. "they gen'rally spells it g-o-a-t." chapter xii mrs. truckles' broad jump and do you imagine kitty marston settles down to a life job after that? not her. at the very next pay day she hands in her two weeks' notice, and when they pin her right down to facts she admits weepy that she means to start out lookin' for egbert. now wouldn't that crust you? course, the sequel to that is another governess hunt which winds up with madame roulaire. and say, talk about your queer cases----but you might as well have the details. you see, until aunt martha arrived on the scene this madame roulaire business was only a fam'ly joke over to pinckney's, with all of us in on it more or less. but aunt martha ain't been there more'n three or four days before she's dug up mystery and scandal and tragedy enough for another one of them french dope dramas. "in my opinion," says she, "that woman is hiding some dreadful secret!" but mrs. pinckney only smiles in that calm, placid way of hers. you know how easy she took things when she was miss geraldine and pinckney found her on the steamer in charge of the twins that had been willed to him? well, she ain't changed a bit; and, with pinckney such a brilliant member of the don't worry fraternity, whatever frettin' goes on in that house has to be done by volunteers. aunt martha acts like she was wise to this; for she starts right in to make up for lost opportunities, and when she spots this freaky lookin' governess she immediately begins scoutin' for trouble. suspicions? she delivers a fresh lot after every meal! "humph!" says she. "madame roulaire, indeed! well, i must say, she looks as little like a frenchwoman as any person i ever saw! how long have you had her, geraldine? what, only two months? did she bring written references, and did you investigate them carefully?" she wouldn't let up, either, until she'd been assured that madame roulaire had come from service in an english fam'ly, and that they'd written on crested notepaper indorsin' her in every point, giving her whole hist'ry from childhood up. "but she hasn't the slightest french accent," insists aunt martha. "i know," says mrs. pinckney. "she lived in england from the time she was sixteen, and of course twenty years away from one's----" "does she claim to be only thirty-six?" exclaims aunt martha. "why, she's fifty if she's a day! besides, i don't like that snaky way she has of watching everyone." there was no denyin', either, that this roulaire party did have a pair of shifty eyes in her head. i'd noticed that much myself in the few times i'd seen her. they wa'n't any particular color you could name,--sort of a greeny gray-blue,--but they sure was bright and restless. you'd never hear a sound out of her, for she didn't let go of any remarks that wa'n't dragged from her; but somehow you felt, from the minute you got into the room until she'd made a gumshoe exit by the nearest door, that them sleuthy lamps never quite lost sight of you. that and her smile was the main points about her. i've seen a lot of diff'rent kinds of smiles, meanin' and unmeanin'; but this chronic half-smirk of madame roulaire's was about the most unconvincin' performance i've ever watched. why, even a blind man could tell she didn't really mean it! outside of that, she was just a plain, pie faced sort of female with shrinkin', apologizin' ways and a set of store teeth that didn't fit any too well; but she wa'n't one that you'd suspect of anything more tragic than eatin' maraschino cherries on the sly, or swappin' household gossip with the cook. that wa'n't the way martha had her sized up, though, and of course there was no keepin' her inquisitive nose out of the case. first thing anyone knew, she'd backed madame roulaire into a corner, put her through the third degree, and come trottin' back in triumph to mrs. pinckney. "didn't i tell you?" says she. "french! bosh! perhaps you haven't asked her about auberge-sur-mer, where she says she was born?" greraldine admits that she ain't done much pumpin'. "well, i have," says aunt martha, "and she couldn't tell me a thing about the place that was so. i spent ten days there only two years ago, and remember it perfectly. she isn't any more french than i am." "oh, what of it?" says mrs. pinckney. "she gets along splendidly with the twins. they think the world of her." "but she's thoroughly deceitful," aunt martha comes back. "she misrepresents her age, lies about her birthplace, and--and she wears a transformation wig." "yes, i had noticed the brown wig," admits mrs. pinckney; "but they're quite common." "so are women poisoners," snaps martha. "think of what happened to the briggses, after they took in that strange maid! then there was the madame catossi case, over in florence last year. they were warned about her, you remember." and maybe you know how a good lively suspecter can get results when she keeps followin' it up. they got to watchin' the governess close when she was around, and noticin' all the little slips in her talk and the crab-like motions she made in dodgin' strangers. that appears to make her worse than ever, too. she'd get fussed every time anyone looked her way, and just some little question about the children would make her jump and color up like she'd been accused of burnin' a barn. even sadie, who'd been standin' up for her right along, begins to weaken. "after all," says she, "i'm not sure there isn't something queer about that woman." "ah, all governesses are queer, ain't they?" says i; "but that ain't any sign they've done time or are in the habit of dosin' the coffeepot with arsenic. it's aunt martha has stirred all this mess up, and she'd make the angel gabriel prove who he was by blowin' bugle calls." it was only next day, though, that we gets a report of what happens when pinckney runs across this sir carpenter-podmore at the club and lugs him out to dinner. he's an english gent pinckney had known abroad. comin' in unexpected that way, him and madame roulaire had met face to face in the hall, while the introductions was bein' passed out--and what does she do but turn putty colored and shake like she was havin' a fit! "ah, truckles?" says podmore, sort of cordial. "no, no!" she gasps. "roulaire! i am madame roulaire!" "beg pardon, i'm sure," says sir carpenter, liftin' his eyebrows and passin' on. that was all there was to it; but everyone in the house heard about it. course aunt martha jumps right in with the question marks; but all she gets out of podmore is that he presumes he was mistaken. "well, maybe he was," says i. "why not?" "then you haven't heard," says sadie, "that sir carpenter was for a long time a judge on the criminal bench." "z-z-z-zing!" says i. "looks kind of squally for the governess, don't it?" if it hadn't been for pinckney, too, aunt martha'd had her thrown out that night; but he wouldn't have it that way. "i've never been murdered in my bed, or been fed on ground glass," says he, "and--who knows?--i might like the sensation." say, there's more sides to that pinckney than there are to a cutglass paperweight. you might think, with him such a reggie chap, that havin' a suspicious character like that around would get on his nerves; but, when it comes to applyin' the real color test, there ain't any more yellow in him than in a ball of bluin', and he can be as curious about certain things as a kid investigatin' the animal cages. rather than tie the can to madame roulaire without gettin' a straight line on her, he was willin' to run chances. and it don't make any difference to him how much aunt martha croaks about this and that, and suggests how dreadful it is to think of those dear, innocent little children exposed to such evil influences. that last item appeals strong to mrs. pinckney and sadie, though. "of course," says geraldine, "the twins don't suspect a thing as yet, and whatever we discover must be kept from them." "certainly," says sadie, "the poor little dears mustn't know." so part of the programme was to keep them out of her way as much as possible without actually callin' her to the bench, and that's what fetched me out there early the other afternoon. it was my turn at protectin' innocent childhood. i must say, though, it's hard realizin' they need anything of that sort when you're within reach of that jack and jill combination. most people seem to feel the other way; but, while their society is apt to be more or less strenuous, i can gen'rally stand an hour or so of it without collectin' any broken bones. as usual, they receives me with an ear splittin' whoop, and while jill gives me the low tackle around the knees jack proceeds to climb up my back and twine his arms affectionate around my neck. "hey, uncle shorty," they yells in chorus, "come play wild west with us!" "g'wan, you young terrors!" says i, luggin' 'em out on the lawn and dumpin' 'em on the grass. "think i'd risk my neck at any such game as that? hi! leggo that necktie or i'll put on the spanks! say, ain't you got any respect for company clothes? now straighten up quiet and tell me about the latest deviltry you've been up to." "pooh!" says jill. "we're not afraid of you." "and we know why you're here to-day, too," says jack. "do you?" says i. "well, let's have it." "you're on guard," says jill, "keeping us away from old clicky." "old clicky?" says i. "uh-huh," says jack. "the goosy governess, you know." "eh?" says i, openin' my eyes. "we call her that," says jill, "because her teeth click so when she gets excited. at night she keeps 'em in a glass of water. do you suppose they click then?" "her hair comes off too," says jack, "and it's all gray underneath. we fished it off once, and she was awful mad." "you just ought to hear her when she gets mad," says jill. "she drops her h's." "she don't do it before folks, though," says jack, "'cause she makes believe she's french. she's awful good to us, though, and we love her just heaps." "you've got queer ways of showin' it," says i. "what makes aunt martha so scared of her?" says jill. "do you think it's so she would really and truly murder us all and run off with the jewelry, or that she'd let in burglars after dark? she meets someone every thursday night by the side gate, you know." "a tall woman with veils over her face," adds jack. "we hid in the bushes and watched 'em." "say, for the love of mike," says i, "is there anything about your governess you kids haven't heard or seen? what more do you know?" "lots," says jill. "she's scared of marie, the new maid. marie makes her help with the dishes, and make up her own bed, and wait on herself all the time." "and she has to study beforehand all the lessons she makes us learn," says jack. "she studies like fun every night in her room, and when we ask questions from the back of the book she don't know the answers." "she's been too scared to study or anything, ever since monday," says jill. "do you think they'll have a policeman take her away before she poisons us all? we heard aunt martha say they ought to." say, they had the whole story, and more too. if there was anything about madame roulaire's actions, her past hist'ry, or what people thought of her that had got by these two, i'd like to know what it was. "gee!" says i. "talk about protectin' you! what you need most is a pair of gags and some blinders. now trot along off and do your worst, while i look up pinckney and give him some advice." i was strollin' through the house lookin' for him, and i'd got as far as the lib'ry, when who should i see but madame roulaire comin' through the opposite door. someway, i didn't feel like meetin' them sleuthy eyes just then, or seein' that smirky smile; so i dodges back and pikes down the hall. she must have had the same thought; for we almost collides head on halfway down, and the next thing i know she's dropped onto a davenport, sobbin' and shakin' all over. "excuse me for mentionin' it," says i; "but there ain't any call for hysterics." "oh, i know who you are now," says she. "you--you're a private detective!" "eh?" says i. "how'd you get onto my disguise?" "i knew it from the first," says she. "and then, when i saw you with the children, asking them about me----oh, you won't arrest me and take me away from the darlings, will you? please don't take me to jail! i'll tell you everything, truly i will, sir!" "that might help some," says i; "but, if you're goin' to 'fess up, suppose you begin at chapter i. was it the fam'ly jewels you was after?" "no, no!" says she. "i never took a penny's worth in my life. truckles could tell you that if he could only be here." "truckles, eh!" says i. "now just who was----" "my 'usband, sir," says she. "and i'm mrs. truckles." "oh-ho!" says i. "then this roulaire name you've been flaggin' under was sort of a _nom de plume_?" "it was for katy i did it!" she sobs. "oh, yes," says i. "well, what about katy?" and, say, that was the way it come out; first, a bit here and then a bit there, with me puttin' the ends together and patchin' this soggy everyday yarn out of what we'd all thought was such a deep, dark mystery. she was english, mrs. truckles was, and so was the late truckles. they'd worked together, him bein' a first class butler whose only fault was he couldn't keep his fingers off the decanters. it was after he'd struck the bottom of the toboggan slide and that thirst of his had finished him for good and all that mrs. truckles collects her little katy from where they'd boarded her out and comes across to try her luck on this side. she'd worked up as far as housekeeper, and had made enough to educate katy real well and marry her off to a bright young gent by the name of mcgowan that owned a half interest in a corner saloon up in the bronx and stood well with the district leader. she was happy and contented in them days, mrs. truckles was, with mcgowan doin' a rushin' business, gettin' his name on the tammany ticket, and katy patronizing a swell dressmaker and havin' a maid of her own. then, all of a sudden, mrs. truckles tumbles to the fact that katy is gettin' ashamed of havin' a mother that's out to service and eatin' with the chauffeur and the cook. not that she wants her livin' with them,--mcgowan wouldn't stand for that,--but katy did think mother might do something for a living that wouldn't blur up the fam'ly escutcheon quite so much. it was just when mrs. truckles was feelin' this most keen that the french governess where she was got married and went west to live, leavin' behind her, besides a collection of old hats, worn out shoes, and faded picture postals, this swell reference from lady jigwater. and havin' put in a year or so in france with dif'rent families that had taken her across, and havin' had to pick up more or less of the language, mrs. truckles conceives the great scheme of promotin' herself from the back to the front of the house. so she chucks up as workin' housekeeper, splurges on the wig, and strikes a swell intelligence office with this phony reference. course, with anybody else but an easy mark like mrs. pinckney, maybe she wouldn't have got away with it; but all geraldine does is glance at the paper, ask her if she likes children, and put her on the payroll. "well?" says i. "and it got you some worried tryin' to make good, eh?" "i was near crazy over it," says she. "i thought i could do it at first; but it came cruel 'ard. oh, sir, the lies i've 'ad to tell, keepin' it up. and with the rest of the 'elp all 'ating me! marie used me worst of all, though. she made me tell 'er everything, and 'eld it over my 'ead. next that aunt martha came and thought up so many bad things about me--you know." "sure," says i; "but how about this sir podmore?" "i was 'ead laundress at podmore 'ouse," says she, "and i thought it was all up when he saw me here. i never should have tried to do it. i'm a good 'ousekeeper, if i do say it; but i'm getting to be an old woman now, and this will end me. it was for katy i did it, though. every week she used to come and throw it in my face that she couldn't call at the front door and--and----well, i 'opes you'll believe me, sir; but that was just the way of it, and if i'm taken to jail it will kill katy and----" "aha!" breaks in a voice behind us. "here, pinckney! come, geraldine! this way everybody!" and as i turns around there's aunt martha with the accusin' finger out and her face fairly beamin'. before i can get in a word she's assembled the fam'ly. "what did i tell you?" she cackles. "she's broken down and confessed! i heard her!" "is it true, shorty?" demands mrs. pinckney. "does she admit that she was plotting to----" "yep!" says i. "it's something awful too, almost enough to curdle your blood." "go on," says aunt martha. "tell us the worst. what is it?" "it's a case of standin' broad jump," says i, "from housekeeper to governess, with an age handicap and a crooked entry." course, i has to work out the details for 'em, and when i've stated the whole hideous plot, from the passing of truckles the thirsty to the high pride of katy the barkeep's bride, includin' the tale of the stolen character and chuckin' the nervy bluff--well, they didn't any of 'em know what to say. they just stands around gawpin' curious at this sobbin', wabbly kneed old party slumped down there on the hall seat. aunt martha, actin' as prosecutor for the state, is the first to recover. "well, there's no knowin' how far she might have gone," says she. "and she ought to be punished some way. pinckney, what are you going to do with her?" for a minute he looks from aunt martha to the object in the middle of the circle, and then he drops them black eyelashes lazy, like he was half-asleep, and i knew somethin' was coming worth listenin' to. "considering all the circumstances," says pinckney, "i think we shall discharge marie, increase mrs. truckles' salary, give her an assistant, and ask her to stay with us permanently. eh, geraldine?" and geraldine nods hearty. "pinckney, let's shake on that," says i. "even if your head is full of soap bubbles, you've got an eighteen-carat heart in you. hear the news, mrs. truckles?" "then--then i'm not to go to jail?" says she, takin' her hands off her face and lookin' up straight and steady for the first time in months. "jail nothin'!" says i. "there's goin' to be a new deal, and you start in fresh with a clean slate." "humph!" snorts aunt martha. "do you expect me to stay here and countenance any such folly?" "i'm far too considerate of my relatives for that," says pinckney. "there's a train at five-thirty-six." and, say, to see mrs. truckles now, with her gray hair showin' natural, and her chin up, and a twin hangin' to either hand, and the sleuthy look gone out of them old eyes, you'd hardly know her for the same party! these antelope leaps is all right sometimes; but when you take 'em you want to be wearin' your own shoes. chapter xiii heiney takes the gloom cure two in one day, mind you. it just goes to show what effect the first dose of hot weather is liable to have on the custard heads. well, maybe i oughtn't to call 'em that, either. they can't seem to help gettin' that way, any more'n other folks can dodge havin' bad dreams, or boils on the neck. and i ain't any mind specialist; so when it comes to sayin' what'll soften up a man's brain, or whether he couldn't sidestep it if he tried, i passes the make. now look at this dippy move of mr. jarvis's. guess you don't remember him. i'd 'most forgot him myself, it's so long since he was around; but he's the young chap that owns that big blenmont place, the gent that swifty and i helped out with the fake match when he----well, never mind that yarn. he got the girl, all right; and as he had everything else anybody could think of, it should have been a case of lockin' trouble on the outside and takin' joy for a permanent boarder. but there the other mornin', just as i was havin' a breathin' spell after hammerin' some surplus ego out of a young society sport that had the idea he could box, the studio door opens, and in pokes this mr. jarvis, actin' like he'd been doped. now he's a big, husky, full blooded young gent, that's always used himself well, never collected any bad habits, and knows no more about being sick than a cat knows about swimmin'. add to that the fact that he's one of the unemployed rich, with more money than he knows how to spend, and you can figure out how surprised i am to see that down and out look on his face. course, i thinks something serious has been happenin' to him, and i treats him real gentle. "hello, mr. jarvis!" says i. "somebody been throwin' the hooks into you, have they?" "oh, no," says he. "no, i--i'm all right." "that's good," says i. "dropped in to let me hand you a few vibrations with the mitts?" "no, thank you, shorty," says he, fingerin' a chair-back sort of hesitatin', as if he didn't know whether to sit down or stand up. "that is--er--i think i don't care for a bout to-day. i--i'm hardly in the mood, you see." "just as you say," says i. "have a seat, anyway. sure! that one; it's reserved for you. maybe you come in to enjoy some of my polite and refined conversation?" "why--er--the fact is, shorty," says he, fixin' his tie kind of nervous, "i--i don't know just why i did come in. i think i started for the club, and as i was passing by in a cab i looked up here at your windows--and--and----" "of course," says i, soothin'. "what's the use goin' to the club when the physical culture studio is handier? you're feelin' fine as silk; how're you lookin'?" "eh? beg pardon?" says he, gettin' twisted up on that mothy gag. "oh, i see! i'm looking rotten, thank you, and feeling the same." "g'wan!" says i. "you ain't got any license to have feelin's like that. guess you got the symptoms mixed. but where do you think it hurts most?" well, it takes five or ten minutes of jollyin' like that to pull any details at all out of jarvis, and when i does get the whole heartrendin' story, i hardly knows whether to give him the laugh, or to send out for a nursin' bottle. ever seen a great, grown man play the baby act? talk about a woman in a cryin' spell! that ain't a marker to watchin' a six-foot, one hundred and eighty-pound free citizen droop his mouth corners and slump his shoulders over nothin' at all. course, i don't always feel like a hickey boy myself, and i'll admit there are times when the rosy tints get a little clouded up; but i has my own way of workin' out of such spells before the mullygrubs turns my gray matter into curdled milk. but jarvis, he's as blue as a rainy monday with the wash all in soak. in the first place, he's been alone for nearly three whole weeks, the women folks all bein' abroad, and it's a new experience for him. think of that awful calamity happenin' to a man of his size! seems that before he was married he'd always carted mother and sister around, under the idea that he was lookin' out for them, when as a matter of fact they was the ones that was lookin' after him. then mrs. jarvis, lady evelyn that was, takes him in hand and makes him more helpless than ever. he never mistrusts how much he's been mollycoddled, until he finds himself with nobody but a valet, a housekeeper, and seventeen assorted servants to help him along in the struggle for existence. his first move after the ladies have sailed is to smoke until his tongue feels like a pussycat's back, eat his lonesome meals at lunch-counter clip, and work himself into a mild bilious state. that makes him a little cranky with the help, and, as there's no one around to smooth 'em out, the cook and half a dozen maids leaves in a bunch. his head coachman goes off on a bat, the housekeeper skips out to ohio to bury an aunt, and the domestic gear at blenmont gets to runnin' about as smooth as a flat wheel trolley car on a new roadbed. to finish off the horrible situation, jarvis has had a misunderstandin' with a landscape architect that he'd engaged to do things to the grounds. jarvis had planned to plant a swan lake in the front yard; but the landscaper points out that it can't be done because there's a hill in the way. "to be sure," says jarvis, "these are little things; but i've been worrying over them until--until---- well, i'm in bad shape, shorty." "it's a wonder you're still alive," says i. "don't!" says he, groanin'. "it is too serious a matter. perhaps you don't know it, but i had an uncle that drank himself to death." "huh!" says i. "'most everybody has had an uncle of that kind." "and one of my cousins," jarvis goes on, lowerin' his voice and lookin' around cautious, "shot himself--in the head!" "eh?" says i. and then i begun to get a glimmer of what he was drivin' at. "what! you don't mean that you were thinkin' of--of----" he groans again and nods his head. then i cuts loose. "why, look here!" says i. "you soft boiled, mush headed, spineless imitation of a real man! do you mean to tell me that, just because you've been tied loose from a few skirts for a week or so, and have had to deal with some grouchy hired hands, you've actually gone jelly brained over it?" perhaps that don't make him squirm some, though! he turns white first, and then he gets the hectic flush. "pardon me, mccabe," says he, stiffenin' up, "but i don't care to have anyone talk to me like----" "ah, pickles!" says i. "i'll talk to you a good deal straighter'n that, before i finish! and you'll take it, too! why, you great, overgrown kid! what right have you developin' such a yellow cur streak as that? you! what you need is to be laid over that chair and paddled, and blamed if i don't know but i'd better----" but just here the door creaks, and in drifts the other one. hanged if i ever did know what his real name was. i called him heiney kirschwasser for short, though he says he ain't dutch at all, but swiss-french; and that it ain't kirsch that's his failin', but prune brandy. he's the mop and broom artist for the buildin', some floater the janitor picked up off the sidewalk a few months back. he wa'n't exactly a decorative object, this heiney; but he's kind of a picturesque ruin. his widest part is around the belt; and from there he tapers both ways, his shoulders bein' a good eight inches narrower; and on top of them, with no neck to speak of, is a head shaped like a gum drop, bald on top, and remindin' you of them mountain peaks you see in pictures, or a ham set on end. he has a pair of stary, pop eyes, a high colored beak that might be used as a danger signal, and a black, shoebrush beard, trimmed close except for a little spike under the chin, that gives the lower part of his face a look like the ace of spades. his mornin' costume is a faded blue jumper, brown checked pants, and an old pair of rubber soled shoes that swifty had donated to him. that's heiney's description, as near as i can get to it. he comes shufflin' in, luggin' a scrub pail in one hand, and draggin' a mop in the other, and he looks about as cheerful as a worn-out hearse that's been turned into an ash wagon. "heiney," says i, "you're just in time. still lookin' for a nice, comfortable place to die in, are you?" heiney shrugs his shoulders and lifts his eyebrows in a lifeless sort of style. he does most of his conversin' that way; but he can say more with a few shrugs than swifty joe can by usin' both sides of his mouth. what heiney means is that one place is as good as another, and he don't care how soon he finds it. "well, cheer up, heiney," says i; "for i've just decided to give you the use of my back room to shuffle off in. i've got comp'ny for you, too. here's a friend of mine that feels the same way you do. mr. jarvis, mr. heiney kirschwasser." and you should have seen the look of disgust on jarvis's face as he sizes up the specimen. "oh, i say now, shorty," he begins, "there's such a thing as----" "g'wan!" says i. "wa'n't you just tellin' me about how you was plannin' a job for the coroner? and heiney's been threatenin' to do the same thing for weeks. he comes in here every day or so and talks about jumpin' off the dock, or doin' the air dance. i've been stavin' him off with slugs of prune brandy and doses of good advice; but if a chap like you has caught the fever, then i see i've been doin' wrong not to let heiney have his way. now there's the back room, with plenty of rope and gasjets. get on in there, both of you, and make a reg'lar bee of it!" heiney, he stands blinkin' and starin' at jarvis, until he gets him so nervous he almost screams. "for heaven's sake, shorty," says jarvis, "let's not joke about such a subject!" "joke!" says i. "you're the one that's supplyin' the comedy here. now heiney is serious. he'd do the trick in a minute if he had the nerve. he's got things on his mind, heiney has. and what's the odds if they ain't so? compared to what you've been fussin' about, they're----here, heiney, you tell the gentleman that tale of yours. begin where you was a cook in some seashore hotel in switzerland." "not zeashore! _non_!" says heiney, droppin' his pail and wavin' one hand. "eet ees at lack como, in ze montongs. i am ze head chef, _moi!_" "yes, you look it!" says i. "a fine figure of a chef you'd make! wouldn't you? well, go on: about bein' full of prunes when they called on you to season the soup. what was it you dumped in instead of salt,--arsenic, eh?" "_non, non!_" says heiney, gettin' excited. "ze poison for ze r-r-rat. i keep heem in one tin can, same as ze salt. i am what you call intoxicate. i make ze mistak'. ah, _diable! deux, trois_--t'ree hundred guests are zere. zey eat ze soup. zen come by me ze _maître d'hôtel._ he say ze soup ees spoil. eet has ze foony taste. ah, mon _dieu! mon_----" "yes, yes," says i. "never mind whether it was monday or tuesday. what did you do then?" "_moi_? i fly!" says heiney. "i am distract. i r-r-r-run on ze r-r-r-road. i tear-r-r off my white apron, my white chapeau. ah, _sacr-r-ré nom!_ how my heart is thoomp, thoomp, on my inside! all night i speak to myself: 'you have keel zem all! ze _belle_ ladies! ze _pauvre_ shildren! all, you have poi-zon-ed! zey make to tweest up on ze floor!' ah, _diable_! always i can see zem tweest up!" "reg'lar rough on rats carnival, eh?" says i. "three hundred beautiful ladies and poor children, not to mention a few men, doin' the agony act on the dinin' room floor! there, jarvis! how'd you like to carry round a movin' picture film like that in your mem'ry? course, i've tried to explain to heiney that nothing of the kind ever took place; that the papers would have been full of it; and that he'd been in the jug long before this, if it had. but this is heiney's own particular pipe dream, and he can't let go of it. it's got tangled up in the works somehow, and nothing i can say will jar it loose. poor cuss! look at him! no doubt about its seemin' real to him, is there? and how does your little collection of fleabites show up alongside it; eh, jarvis?" but jarvis, he's gazin' at heiney as if this lump of moldy sweitzerkase was fascinatin' to look at. "i beg pardon," says he, "but you say this hotel was at lake como?" heiney nods his head, then covers his face with his hands, as if he was seein' things again. "and what was the date of this--this unfortunate occurrence?" says jarvis. "year before the last, in augoost," says heiney, shudderin',--"augoost seven." "the seventh of august!" says jarvis. "and was your hotel the occident?" "_oui, oui_!" says heiney. "_l'hôtel occident_." "guess he means accident," says i. "what do you know about it, jarvis?" "why," says he, "i was there." "what?" says i. "here, heiney, wake up! here's one of the victims of your rat poison soup. does he look as though he'd been through that floor tweestin' orgy?" with that heiney gets mighty interested; but he ain't convinced until jarvis gives him all the details, even to namin' the landlord and describin' the head waiter. "but ze soup!" says heiney. "ze poi-zon-ed soup?" "it was bad soup," says jarvis; "but not quite so bad as that. nobody could eat it, and i believe the final report that we had on the subject was to the effect that a half intoxicated chef had seasoned it with the powdered alum that should have gone into the morning rolls." "ze alum! ze alum! of zat i nevair think!" squeals heiney, flopping down on his knees. "ah, _le bon dieu! le bon dieu_!" he clasps his hands in front of him and rolls his eyes to the ceilin'. say, it was the liveliest french prayin' i ever saw; for heiney is rockin' back and forth, his pop eyes leakin' brine, and the polly-voo conversation is bubblin' out of him like water out of a bu'sted fire hydrant. "ah, quit it!" says i. "this is no camp meetin'." there's no shuttin' him off, though, and all the let-up he takes is to break off now and then to get jarvis to tell him once more that it's all true. "you make _certainement_, eh?" says he. "nobody was keel?" "not a soul," says jarvis. "i didn't even hear of anyone that was made ill." "ah, _merci, merci_!" howls heiney, beginnin' the rockin' horse act again. "say, for the love of pete, heiney!" says i, "will you saw that off before you draw a crowd? i'm glad you believe jarvis, and that jarvis believes you; but hanged if i can quite swallow any such dopy yarn as that without somethin' more convincin'! all i know about you is that you're the worst floor scrubber i ever saw. and you say you was a cook, do you?" "cook!" says heiney, swellin' up his chest. "i am tell you zat i was ze premier chef. i have made for myself fame. everywhere in _l'europe_ zey will tell you of me. for the king of ze englise i have made a dinner. _moi!_ i have invent ze sauce ravignon. from nozzing at all--some meat scraps, some leetle greens--i produce ze dish ravishment." "yes, i've heard bluffs like that before," says i; "but i never saw one made good. tell you what i'll do, though: in the far corner of the gym, there, is what swifty joe calls his kitchenet, where he warms up his chowder and beans. there's a two-burner gas stove, an old fryin' pan, and a coffee pot. now here's a dollar. you take that out on sixth-ave. and spend it for meat scraps and leetle greens. then you come back here, and while jarvis and i are takin' a little exercise, if you can hash up anything that's fit to eat, i'll believe your whole yarn. do you make the try?" does he? say, you never saw such a tickled frenchy in your life. before jarvis and me had got nicely peeled down for our delayed boxin' bout, heiney is back with his bundles, has got the fryin' pan scoured, the gas blazin', and is throwin' things together like a juggler doin' a stage turn. he sheds the blue jumper, ties a bath towel around him for an apron, makes a hat out of a paper bag, and twists some of that stringy lip decoration of his into a pointed mustache. honest, he didn't look nor act any more like the wreck that had dragged the mop in there half an hour before than i look like bill taft. and by the time we've had our three rounds and a rub down, he's standin' doubled up beside a little table that he's found, with his arms spread out like he was goin' to take a dive. "_messieurs_," says he, "eet ees serve." "good!" says i. "i'm just about up to tacklin' a hot lunch. what kind of a mess have you got here, anyway, heiney? any alum in it? blamed if i don't make you put away the whole shootin' match if it ain't good!" how's that? well, say, i couldn't name it, or say whether it was a stew, fry or an omelet, but for an impromptu sample of fancy grub it was a little the tastiest article i ever stacked up against. "why!" says jarvis, smackin' his lips after the third forkful. "it's _ris de veau_, isn't it?" "but yes, monsieur!" says heiney, his face lightin' up. "eet ees _ris de veau grillé, à la financier_." "and what's that in english?" says i. "in englise," says heiney, shruggin' his shoulders, "eet ees not exist. eet ees parisienne." "bully for paris, then!" says i. "whatever it might be if it could be naturalized, it touches the spot. i take it all back, heiney. you're the shiftiest chef that ever juggled a fryin' pan. a refill on the riddy-voo, seal-voo-plate." well, what do you guess! jarvis engages heiney on the spot, and an hour later they've started for blenmont, both of 'em actin' like they thought this was a good world to live in, after all. yesterday me and sadie accepts a special invite out there to dinner; and it was worth goin' out to get. from start to finish it was the finest that ever happened. afterwards jarvis has heiney come up from the kitchen and show himself while we drinks his good health. and say, in his white togs and starched linen cap, he's got the chef on the canned goods ads. lookin' like a hash rustler in a beanery. as for jarvis, he's got the pink back in his cheeks, and is holdin' his chin up once more, and when we left in the mornin' he was out bossin' a couple of hundred lab'rers that was takin' that hill in wheelbarrows and cartin' it off where it wouldn't interfere with the lake. "shorty," says he, "i don't know how you did it, but you've made me a sane man again, and i owe you more than----" "ah, chuck it!" says i. "it was curin' heiney that cured you." "really?" says he. "then you are a believer in homeopathic psychotherapeutics?" "which?" says i. "say, write that down on my cuff by syllables, will you? i want to spring it on swifty joe." chapter xiv a try-out for toodleism eh? yes, maybe i do walk a little stiff jointed; but, say, i'm satisfied to be walkin' around at all. if i hadn't had my luck with me the other day, i'd be wearin' that left leg in splints and bein' pushed around in a wheel chair. as it is, the meat is only a little sore, and a few more alcohol rubs will put it in shape. what was it come so near gettin' me on the disabled list? toodleism! no, i expect you didn't; but let me put you next, son: there's more 'isms and 'pathys and 'ists floatin' around these days, than any one head can keep track of. i don't know much about the lot; but this toodleism's a punk proposition. besides leavin' me with a game prop, it come near bu'stin' up the fam'ly. seems like trouble was lookin' for me last week, anyway. first off, i has a run of old timers, that panhandles me out of all the loose coin i has in my clothes. you know how they'll come in streaks that way, sometimes? why, i was thinkin' of havin' 'em form a line, one while. then along about thursday one of my back fletchers develops a case of jumps. what's a fletcher? why, a steak grinder, and this one has a ripe spot in it. course, it's me for the nickel plated plush chair, with the footrest and runnin' water attached; and after the tooth doctor has explored my jaw with a rock drill and a few other cute little tools, he says he'll kill the nerve. "don't, doc.!" says i. "that nerve's always been a friend of mine until lately. wouldn't dopin' it do?" he says it wouldn't, that nothin' less'n capital punishment would reform a nerve like that; so i tells him to blaze away. no use goin' into details. guess you've been there. "say, doc.," says i once when he was fittin' a fresh auger into the machine, "you ain't mistakin' me for the guilty party, are you?" "did i hurt?" says he. "you don't call that ticklin', do you?" says i. but he only grins and goes on with the excavation. after he's blasted out a hole big enough for a terminal tunnel he jabs in a hunk of cotton soaked with sulphuric acid, and then tamps down the concrete. "there!" says he, handin' me a drug store drink flavored with formaldehyde. "in the course of forty-eight hours or so that nerve will be as dead as a piece of string. meantime it may throb at intervals." that's what it did, too! it dies as hard as a campaign lie. about every so often, just when i'm forgettin', it wakes up again, takes a fresh hold, and proceeds to give an imitation of a live wire on an alternatin' circuit. "ahr chee!" says swifty joe. "to look at the map of woe you're carryin' around, you'd think nobody ever had a bum tusk before." "nobody ever had this one before," says i, "and the way i look now ain't chronic, like some faces i know of." "ahr chee!" says swifty, which is his way of bringin' in a minority report. the worst of it was, though, i'm billed to show up at rockywold for a may party that sadie and mrs. purdy-pell was pullin' off, and when i lands there friday afternoon the jaw sensations was still on the job. i'm feeling about as cheerful and chatty as a zoo tiger with ingrowin' toenails. so, after i've done the polite handshake, and had a word with sadie on the fly, i digs out my exercise uniform and makes a sneak down into their dinky little gym., where there's a first class punchin' bag that i picked out for purdy-pell myself. you know, i felt like i wanted to hit something, and hit hard. it wa'n't any idle impulse, either. that tooth was jumpin' so i could almost feel my heels leave the floor, and i had emotions that it would take more than language to express proper. so i peels off for it, down to a sleeveless jersey and a pair of flannel pants, and starts in to drum out the devil's tattoo on that pigskin bag. i was so busy relievin' my feelin's that i didn't notice anything float in the door; but after awhile i looks up and discovers the audience. she's a young female party that i didn't remember havin' seen before at any of the rockywold doin's; but it looks like she's one of the guests, all right. well, i hadn't been introduced, and i couldn't see what she was buttin' into the gym. for, anyway, so i keeps right on punchin' the bag; thinkin' that if she was shocked any by my costume she'd either get over it, or beat it and have a fit. she's one of the kind you might expect 'most anything from,--one of these long, limp, loppy, droop eyed fluffs, with terracotta hair, and a prunes-and-prisms mouth all puckered to say something soulful. she's wearin' a whackin' big black feather lid with a long plume trailin' down over one ear, a strawb'ry pink dress cut accordin' to louis catorz designs,--waist band under her armpits, you know,--and nineteen-button length gloves. finish that off with a white hen feather boa, have her hands clasped real shy under her chin, and you've got a picture of what i sees there in the door. but it was the friendly size-up she was givin' me, and no mistake. she must have hung up there three or four minutes too, before she quits, without sayin' a word. at the end of half an hour i was feelin' some better; but when i'd got into my tailor made, i didn't have any great enthusiasm for tacklin' food. "guess i'll appoint this a special fast day for mine," says i to sadie. "why, shorty!" says she. "whatever is the matter?" and she has no sooner heard about the touchy tusk than she says, "oh, pooh! just say there isn't any such thing as toothache. pain, you know, is only a false mental photograph, an error of the mind, and----" "ah, back up, sadie!" says i. "do you dream i don't know whether this jump is in my brain or my jaw? this is no halftone; it's the real thing." "nonsense!" says she. "you come right downstairs and see dr. toodle. he'll fix it in no time." seems this toodle was the one the party had been arranged for, and sadie has to hunt him up. it didn't take long to trail him down; for pretty soon she comes towin' him into the drawin'-room, where i'm camped down on a sofa, holdin' on with both hands. "dr. toodle," says she, "i want to present mr. mccabe." now, i don't claim any seventh-son powers; but i only has to take one look at toodle to guess that he's some sort of a phony article. no reg'lar pill distributor would wear around that mushy look that he has on. he's a good sized, wide shouldered duck, with a thick crop of long hair that just clears his coat collar, and one of these smooth, soft, sentimental faces the women folks go nutty over,--you know, big nose, heavy chin, and sagged mouth corners. his get-up is something between a priest's and an actor's,--frock coat, smooth front black vest, and a collar buttoned behind. he gurgles out that he's charmed to meet mr. mccabe, and wants to know what's wrong. "nothin' but a specked tooth," says i. "but i can stand it." "my de-e-ear brother," says toodle, puttin' his fingers together and gazin' down at me like a prison chaplain givin' a talk to murderers' row, "you are possessed of mental error. your brain focus has been disturbed, and a blurred image has been cast on the sensitive retina of the----" "ah, say, doc.," says i, "cut out the preamble! if you've got a cocaine gun in your pocket, dig it up!" then he goes off again with another string of gibberish, about pain bein' nothin' but thought, and thought bein' something we could steer to suit ourselves. i can't give you the patter word for word; but the nub of it was that i could knock that toothache out in one round just by thinkin' hard. now wouldn't that peeve you? what? "all right, doc.," says i. "i'll try thinkin' i ain't got any ache, if you'll sit here and keep me comp'ny by thinkin' you've had your dinner. is it a go?" well, it wa'n't. he shrugs his shoulders, and says he's afraid i'm a difficult subject, and then he teeters off on his toes. sadie tells me i ought to be ashamed of myself for tryin' to be so fresh. "he's a very distinguished man," she says. "he's the founder of toodleism. he's written a book about it." "i thought he looked like a nutty one," says i. "keep him away from me; i'll be all right by mornin'." the argument might have lasted longer; but just then comes the dinner call, and they all goes in where the little necks was waitin' on the cracked ice, and i'm left alone to count the jumps and enjoy myself. durin' one of the calm spells i wanders into the lib'ry, picks a funny paper off the table, and settles down in a cozy corner to read the jokes. i must have been there near an hour, when in drifts the loppy young lady in the pink what-d'ye-call-it,--the one i'd made the silent hit with in the gym.,--and she makes straight for me. "oh, here you are!" says she, like we was old friends. "do you know, i've just heard of your--your trouble." "ah, it ain't any killin' matter," says i. "it don't amount to much." "of course it doesn't!" says she. "and that is what i came to talk to you about. i am miss lee,--violet lee." "ye-e-es?" says i. "you see," she goes on, "i am dr. toodle's secretary and assistant." "oh!" says i. "he's in luck, then." "now, now!" says she, just like that, givin' me a real giddy tap with her fan. "you must be real serious." "i'm in condition to be all of that," says i. "are you plannin' to try the----" "i am going to help you to banish the imaginary pains, mr. mccabe," says she. "now first you must repeat after me the _summum bonum_." "eh?" says i. "it's very simple," says she, floppin' down on the cushions alongside and reachin' out for one of my hands. "it begins this way, 'i am a child of light and goodness.' now say that." say, how would you duck a proposition of that kind? there was violet, with her big eyes rolled at me real pleadin', and her mouth puckered up real cunning, and the soft, clingin' grip on my right paw. well, i says it over. "that's it!" she purrs. "now, 'evil and fear and pain are the creatures of darkness.' go on!" "sure thing!" says i. "'evil and fear and----ouch!" ever feel one of them last gasps that a nerve gives when it goes out of business? i thought the top of my head was comin' off. but it didn't, and a couple of seconds later i knew the jumpin' was all over; so i straightens my face out, and we proceeds with the catechism. it was a bird, too. i didn't mind doin' it at all with miss lee there to help; for, in spite of her loppy ways, she's more or less of a candy girl. there was a good deal to it, and it all means the same as what toodle was tryin' to hand out; but now that the ache has quit i'm ready for any kind of foolishness. violet had got to the point where she has snuggled up nice and close, with one hand still grippin' mine and the other smoothin' out my jaw while she told me again how pain was only a pipe dream,--when i glances over her shoulder and sees sadie floatin' in hangin' to dr. toodle's arm. and does sadie miss the tableau in our corner? not to any extent! her eyebrows go up, and her mouth comes open. that's the first indication. next her lips shut tight, and her eyes narrow down, and before you could count three she's let go of toodle as if he was a hot potato, and she's makin' a bee line for the cozy corner. "why!" says miss lee, lookin' up and forecastin' the comin' conditions in a flash. "is dinner over? oh, and there's dr. toodle!" and off she trips, leavin' the mccabe fam'ly to hold a reunion. "well, i never!" says sadie, givin' me the gimlet gaze. and say, she puts plenty of expression into them three words. "me either," says i. "not very often, anyway. but a chance is a chance." "i hope i didn't intrude?" says she, her eyes snappin'. "there's no tellin'," says i. "it was a very touching scene!" says she. "very!" "wa'n't it?" says i. "nice girl, violet." "violet! humph!" says she. "there's no accounting for tastes!" "just what i was thinkin' when i see you with the timelock clutch on that freak doctor's south wing," says i. "dr. toodle," says she, "was explaining to me his wonderful self healing theories." "and dear violet," says i, "was puttin' me through a course of sprouts in the automatic toothache cure." "oh, indeed!" says sadie. "was patting your cheek part of it?" "i hope so," says i. "huh!" says she. "i suppose it worked?" "like a charm," says i. "all that bothers me now is how i can dig up another pain." "you might have your dear violet see what can be done for that soft spot in your head!" she snaps. "only next time take her off out of sight, please." "oh, we'll attend to that, all right," says i. "this havin' a green eyed wife buttin' in just at the interestin' point is something fierce!" and that's where i spread it on too thick. "don't be a chump, shorty!" says sadie, lettin' loose a sudden giggle and mussin' my hair up with both hands. it's a way she has of gettin' out of a corner, and she's skipped off before i'm sure whether she's still got a grouch, or is only lettin' on. by that time my appetite has come back; so i holds up the butler and has him lay out a solitaire feed. and when i goes back to the crowd again i finds toodle has the center of the stage, with the spotlight full on him. all the women are gathered round, listening to his guff like it was sound sense. seems he's organized a new deal on the thought cure stunt, and he's workin' it for all it's worth. the men, though, don't appear so excited over what he's sayin'. "confounded rubbish, i call it!" says mr. purdy-pell. "you ought to hear it from violet," says i. "she's the star explainer of that combination." but violet seems to have faded into the background. we don't see anything more of her that evenin', nor she wa'n't in evidence next mornin'. doc. toodle was, though. he begins by tellin' how he never takes anything but hot water and milk on risin'; but that in the middle of the forenoon he makes it a point to put away about three fresh laid eggs, raw, in a glass of sherry. "how interesting!" says mrs. purdy-pell. "then we must drive over to fernbrook farm, right after breakfast, and get some of their lovely white leghorn eggs." that was the sort of excursion i was rung into; so the bunch of us piles into the wagonette and starts for a fresh supply of hen fruit. when we gets to the farm the superintendent invites us to take a tour through the incubator houses, and of course they all wants to see the dear little chickies and so on. all but me. i stays and chins with the coachman while he walks the horses around the driveway. in about half an hour they comes troopin' back, toodle in the lead, luggin' a paper bag full of warm eggs. he don't wait for the others, but pikes for the wagonette and climbs in one of the side seats facin' me. we was just turnin' to back up to the block for the ladies, when a yellow kyoodle dashes around the corner after a cat. them skittish horses was just waitin' for some such excuse as that, and before mr. driver can put the curb bit on 'em hard enough they've done a quick pivot, cramped the wheels, and turned us over on the soggy grass as neat as anything you ever see. me bein' on the low side, i strikes the ground first; but before i can squirm out, down comes toodle on top, landin' his one hundred and ninety pounds so sudden that it knocks the wind clear out of me. he's turned over on the way down, so i've got his shoulder borin' into my chest and the heavy part of him on my leg. course, the women squeals, and the horses cut up some; but the driver has landed on his feet and has them by the head in no time at all, so we wa'n't dragged around any. noticin' that, i lays still and waits for toodle to pry himself loose. but the doc. don't seem in any hurry to move, and the next thing i know i hear him groanin' and mumblin' under his breath. between groans he was tryin' to say over that rigmarole of his. "i am a child of light--oh, dear me!--of light and goodness!" he was pantin' out. "evil and fear and--oh, my poor back!--and pain are creatures of--oh my, oh my!--of darkness! nothing can harm me!" "say, something is goin' to harm you mighty sudden," says i, "if you don't let me up out of this." "oh, my life blood!" he groans. "i can feel my life blood! oh, oh! i am a child of----" "ah, slush!" says i. "get up and shake yourself. think i'm a bloomin' prayer rug that you can squat on all day? roll over!" and i manages to hand him a short arm punch in the ribs that stirs him up enough so i can slide out from under. soon's i get on my feet and can hop around once or twice i finds there's no bones stickin' through, and then i turns to have a look at him. and say, i wouldn't have missed that exhibition for twice the shakin' up i got! there he is, stretched out on the wet turf, his eyelids flutterin', his breath comin' fast, and his two hands huggin' tight what's left of that bu'sted paper bag, right up against the front of his preacher's vest. and can you guess what's happened to them eggs? "oh, my life blood!" he keeps on moanin'. "i can feel it oozing through----" "ah, you're switched, toodle!" says i. "your brain kodak is out of register, that's all. it ain't life blood you're losin'; it's only your new laid omelet that's leakin' over your vest front." about then i gets a squint at sadie and mrs. purdy-pell, and they're almost chokin' to death in a funny fit. well, say, that was the finish of toodleism with the rockywold bunch. the doc. didn't have a scratch nor a bruise on him, and after he'd been helped up and scraped off, he was almost as good as new. but his conversation works is clogged for good, and he has his chin down on his collar. they sends him and violet down to catch the next train, and sadie and mrs. purdy-pell spends the rest of the day givin' imitations of how toodle hugged up the eggs and grunted that he was a child of light. "not that i don't believe there was something in what he said," sadie explains to me afterwards; "only--only----" "only he was a false alarm, eh?" says i. "well, violet wa'n't that kind, anyway." "pooh!" says she. "i suppose you'll brag about violet for the rest of your life." can you keep 'em guessin' long, when it comes to things of that kind? not if they're like sadie. chapter xv the case of the tiscotts what i had on the slate for this part'cular afternoon was a brisk walk up broadway as far as the gasoline district and a little soothin' conversation with mr. cecil slattery about the new roadster he's tryin' to paladino me into placin' my order for. i'd just washed up and was in the gym. giving my coat a few licks with the whisk broom, when swifty joe comes tiptoein' in, taps me on the shoulder, and points solemn into the front office. "that's right," says i, "break it to me gentle." "get into it quick!" says he, grabbin' the coat. "eh?" says i. "fire, police, or what?" "s-s-sh!" says he. "lady to see you." "what kind," says i, "perfect, or just plain lady? and what's her name?" "ahr-r-r chee!" he whispers, hoarse and stagy. "didn't i tell you it was a lady? get a move on!" and he lifts me into the sleeves and yanks away the whisk broom. "see here, swifty," says i, "if this is another of them hot air demonstrators, or a book agent, there'll be trouble comin' your way in bunches! remember, now!" here was once, though, when swifty hadn't made any mistake. not that he shows such wonderful intelligence in this case. with her wearin' all them expensive furs, and the cute little english footman standin' up straight in his yellow topped boots over by the door, who wouldn't have known she was a real lady? she's got up all in black, not exactly a mournin' costume, but one of these real broadcloth regalias, plain but classy. she's a tall, slim party, and from the three-quarters' view i gets against the light i should guess she was goin' on thirty or a little past it. all she's armed with is a roll of paper, and as i steps in she's drummin' with it on the window sill. course, we has all kinds driftin' into the studio here, by mistake and otherwise, and i gen'rally makes a guess on 'em right; but this one don't suggest anything at all. even that rat faced tiger of hers could have told her this wa'n't any french millinery parlor, and she didn't look like one who'd get off the trail anyway. so i plays a safety by coughin' polite behind my hand and lettin' her make the break. she ain't backward about it, either. "why, there you are, professor mccabe!" says she, in that gushy, up and down tone, like she was usin' language as some sort of throat gargle. "how perfectly dear of you to be here, too!" "yes, ain't it?" says i. "i've kind of got into the habit of bein' here." "really, now!" says she, smilin' just as though we was carryin' on a sensible conversation. and it's a swagger stunt too, this talkin' without sayin' anything. when you get so you can keep it up for an hour you're qualified either for the afternoon tea class or the batty ward. but the lady ain't here just to pay a social call. she makes a quick shift and announces that she's miss colliver, also hoping that i remember her. "why, sure," says i. "miss ann, ain't it?" as a matter of fact, the only time we was ever within speakin' distance was once at the purdy-pells' when she blew in for a minute just at dinner time, lifted a bunch of american beauties off the table with the excuse that they was just what she wanted to send to the blind asylum, and blew out again. but of course i couldn't help knowin' who she was and all about her. ain't the papers always full of her charity doin's, her funds for this and that, and her new discoveries of shockin' things about the poor? ain't she built up a rep as a lady philanthropist that's too busy doing good to ever get married? maybe mrs. russell sage and helen gould has gained a few laps on her lately; but when it comes to startin' things for the tattered tenth there ain't many others that's got much on her. "gee!" thinks i. "wonder what she's going to do for me?" i ain't left long in doubt. she backs me up against the desk and cuts loose with the straight talk. "i came in to tell you about my new enterprise, piny crest court," says she. "apartment house, is it?" says i. "no, no!" says she. "haven't you read about it? it's to be a white plague station for working girls." "a white--white----oh! for lungers, eh?" "we never speak of them in that way, you know," says she, handin' me the reprovin' look. "piny crest court is the name i've given to the site. rather sweet, is it not? really there are no pines on it, you know; but i shall have a few set out. the buildings are to be perfectly lovely. i've just seen the architect's plans,--four open front cottages grouped around an administration infirmary, the superintendent's office to be finished in white mahogany and gold, and the directors' room in circassian walnut, with a stucco frieze after della robbia. don't you simply love those robbia bambinos?" "great!" says i, lyin' as easy and genteel as if i had lots of practice. "i am simply crazy to have the work started," she goes on; "so i am spending three afternoons a week in filling up my lists. everyone responds so heartily, too. now, let me see, i believe i have put you down for a life membership." "eh?" says i, gaspin' some; for it ain't often i'm elected to things. "you will have the privilege of voting for board members and of recommending two applicants a year. a life membership is two hundred and fifty dollars." "you mean i get two-fifty," says i, "for--for just----" then i came to. and, say, did you ever know such a bonehead? honest, though, from all i'd heard of the way she spreads her money around, and the patronizin' style she has of puttin' this proposition up to me, i couldn't tell for a minute how she meant it. and when i suddenly surrounds the idea that it's me gives up the two-fifty, i'm so fussed that i drops back into the chair and begins to hunt through the desk for my checkbook. and then i feels myself growin' a little warm behind the ears. "so you just put me down offhand for two hundred and fifty, did you?" says i. "if you wish," says she, "you may take out a life certificate for each member of your family. several have done that. let me show you my list of subscribers. see, here are some of the prominent merchants and manufacturing firms. i haven't begun on the brokers and bankers yet; but you will be in good company." "ye-e-es?" says i, runnin' my eye over the firm names. "but i don't know much about this scheme of yours, miss colliver." "why, it is for working girls," says she, "who are victims of the white plague. we take them up to piny crest and cure them." "of working?" says i. "of the plague," says she. "it is going to be the grandest thing i've done yet. and i have the names of such a lot of the most interesting cases; poor creatures, you know, who are suffering in the most wretched quarters. i do hope they will last until the station is finished. it means finding a new lot, if they don't, and the public organizations are becoming so active in that sort of thing, don't you see?" somehow, i don't catch it all, she puts over her ideas so fast; but i gather that she'd like to have me come up prompt with my little old two-fifty so she can get busy givin' out the contracts. seein' me still hangin' back, though, she's willin' to spend a few minutes more in describin' some of the worst cases, which she proceeds to do. "we estimate," says miss ann as a final clincher, "that the average cost is about fifty dollars per patient. now," and she sticks the subscription list into my fist, "here is an opportunity! do you wish to save five human lives?" ever had it thrown into you like that? the sensation is a good deal like bein' tied to a post and havin' your pockets frisked by a holdup gang. anyway, that's the way i felt, and then the next minute i'm ashamed of havin' any such feelings at all; for there's no denyin' that dozens of cases like she mentions can be dug up in any crowded block. seems kind of inhuman, too, not to want chip in and help save 'em. and yet there i was gettin' grouchy over it, without knowin' why! "well," says i, squirmin' in the chair, "i'd like to save five hundred, if i could. how many do you say you're going to take care of up at this new place?" "sixty," says she. "i select the most pitiful cases. i am taking some things to one of them now. i wish you could see the awful misery in that home! i could take you down there, you know, and show you what a squalid existence they lead, these tiscotts." "tiscotts!" says i, prickin' up my ears. "what tiscotts? what's his first name?" "i never heard the husband mentioned," says miss ann. "i doubt if there is one. the woman's name, i think, is mrs. anthony tiscott. of course, unless you are really interested----" "i am," says i. "i'm ready to go when you are." that seems to jar miss colliver some, and she tries a little shifty sidestepping; but i puts it up to her as flat as she had handed it to me about savin' the five lives. it was either make good or welsh, and she comes to the scratch cheerful. "very well, then," says she, "we will drive down there at once." so it's me into the victoria alongside of miss ann, with the fat coachman pilotin' us down fifth-ave. to th, then across to third-ave., and again down and over to the far east side. i forget the exact block; but it's one of the old style double-deckers, with rusty fire escapes decorated with beddin' hung out to air, dark hallways that has a perfume a garbage cart would be ashamed of, rickety stairs, plasterin' all gone off the halls, and other usual signs of real estate that the agents squeeze fifteen per cent. out of. you know how it's done, by fixin' the buildin' and board of health inspectors, jammin' from six to ten fam'lies in on a floor, never makin' any repairs, and collectin' weekly rents or servin' dispossess notices prompt when they don't pay up. lovely place to hang up one of the "home, sweet home" mottoes! there's a water tap in every hall, so all the tenants can have as much as they want, stove holes in most of the rooms, and you buy your coal by the bucket at the rate of about fourteen dollars a ton. only three a week for a room, twelve dollars a month. course, that's more per room than you'd pay on the upper west side with steam heat, elevator service, and a tennessee marble entrance hall thrown in; but the luxury of stowin' a whole fam'ly into one room comes high. or maybe the landlords are doin' it to discourage poverty. "this is where the tiscotts hang out, is it?" says i. "shall i lug the basket for you, miss colliver?" "dear no!" says she. "i never go into such places. i always send the things in by hutchins. he will bring mrs. tiscott down and she will tell us about her troubles." "let hutchins sit on the box this time," says i, grabbin' up the basket. "besides, i don't want any second hand report." "but surely," puts in miss ann, "you are not going into such a----" "why not?" says i. "i begun livin' in one just like it." at that miss ann settles back under the robe, shrugs her shoulders into her furs, and waves for me to go ahead. half a dozen kids on the doorstep told me in chorus where i'd find the tiscotts, and after i've climbed up through four layers of stale cabbage and fried onion smells and felt my way along to the third door left from the top of the stairs, i makes my entrance as the special messenger of the ministerin' angel. it's the usual fam'ly-room tenement scene, such as the slum writers are so fond of describin' with the agony pedal down hard, only there ain't quite so much dirt and rags in evidence as they'd like. there's plenty, though. also there's a lot of industry on view. over by the light shaft window is mrs. tiscott, pumpin' a sewin' machine like she was entered in a twenty-four-hour endurance race, with a big bundle of raw materials at one side. in front of her is the oldest girl, sewin' buttons onto white goods; while the three younger kids, includin' the four-year-old boy, are spread out around the table in the middle of the room, pickin' nut meat into the dishpan. what's the use of tellin' how mrs. tiscott's stringy hair was bobbed up, or the kind of wrapper she had on? you wouldn't expect her to be sportin' a sixth-ave. built pompadour, or a lingerie reception gown, would you? and where they don't have swedish nursery governesses and porcelain tubs, the youngsters are apt not to be so----but maybe you'll relish your nut candy and walnut cake better if we skip some details about the state of the kids' hands. what's the odds where the contractors gets such work done, so long as they can shave their estimates? the really int'restin' exhibit in this fam'ly group, of course, is the bent shouldered, peaked faced girl who has humped herself almost double and is slappin' little pearl buttons on white goods at the rate of twenty a minute. and there's no deception about her being a fine case for piny crest. you don't even have to hear that bark of hers to know it. i stands there lookin' 'em over for a whole minute before anybody pays any attention to me. then mrs. tiscott glances up and stops her machine. "who's that?" she sings out. "what do you----why! well, of all things, shorty mccabe, what brings you here?" "i'm playin' errand boy for the kind miss colliver," says i, holdin' up the basket. is there a grand rush my way, and glad cries, and tears of joy? nothing doing in the thankful hysterics line. "oh!" says mrs. tiscott. "well, let's see what it is this time." and she proceeds to dump out miss ann's contribution. there's a glass of gooseb'ry bar le duc, another of guava jelly, a little can of pâté de foie gras, and half a dozen lady fingers. "huh!" says she, shovin' the truck over on the window sill. as she's expressed my sentiments too, i lets it go at that. "looks like one of your busy days," says i. "one of 'em!" says she with a snort, yankin' some more pieces out of the bundle and slippin' a fresh spool of cotton onto the machine. "what's the job?" says i. "baby dresses," says she. "good money in it?" says i. "oh, sure!" says she. "forty cents a dozen is good, ain't it?" "what noble merchant prince is so generous to you as all that?" says i. mrs. tiscott, she shoves over the sweater's shop tag so i can read for myself. curious,--wa'n't it?--but it's the same firm whose name heads the piny crest subscription list. it's time to change the subject. "how's annie?" says i, lookin' over at her. "her cough don't seem to get any better," says mrs. tiscott. "she's had it since she had to quit work in the gas mantle shop. that's where she got it. the dust, you know." yes, i knew. "how about tony?" says i. "tony!" says she, hard and bitter. "how do i know? he ain't been near us for a month past." "sends in something of a saturday, don't he?" says i. "would i be lettin' the likes of her--that miss colliver--come here if he did," says she, "or workin' my eyes out like this?" "i thought lizzie was in a store?" says i, noddin' towards the twelve-year-old girl at the nut pickin' table. "they always lays off half the bundle girls after christmas," says mrs. tiscott. "that's why we don't see tony regular every payday any more. he had the nerve to claim most of lizzie's envelope." then it was my turn to say "huh!" "why don't you have him up?" says i. "i'm a-scared," says she. "he's promised to break my head." "think he would?" says i. "yes," says she. "he's changed for the worse lately. he'd do it, all right, if i took him to court." "what if i stood ready to break his, eh?" says i. "would that hold him?" say, it wa'n't an elevatin' or cheerful conversation me and mrs. tiscott indulged in; but it was more or less to the point. she's some int'rested in the last proposition of mine, and when i adds a few frills about givin' a butcher's order and standin' for a sack of potatoes, she agrees to swear out the summons for tony, providin' i'll hand it to him and be in court to scare the liver out of him when she talks to the justice. "i hate to do it too," says she. "i know," says i; "but no meat or potatoes from me unless you do!" sounds kind of harsh, don't it? you'd think i had a special grudge against tony tiscott too. but say, it's only because i know him and his kind so well. nothing so peculiar about his case. lots of them swell coachmen go that way, and in his day tony has driven for some big people. him and me got acquainted when he was wearin' the twombley-crane livery and drawin' down his sixty-five a month. that wa'n't so long ago, either. but it's hard waitin' hours on the box in cold weather, and they get to boozin'. when they hit it up too free they lose their places. after they've lost too many places they don't get any more. meantime they've accumulated rheumatism and a fam'ly of kids. they've got lazy habits too, and new jobs don't come easy at forty. the next degree is loafin' around home permanent; but they ain't apt to find that so pleasant unless the wife is a good hustler. most likely she rows it. so they chuck the fam'ly and drift off by themselves. that's the sort of chaps you'll find on the bread lines. but tony hadn't quite got to that yet. i knew the corner beer joint where he did odd jobs as free lunch carver and window cleaner. also i knew the line of talk i meant to hand out to him when i got my fingers on his collar. "well?" says miss ann, when i comes back with the empty basket. "did you find it an interesting case?" "maybe that's the word," says i. "you saw the young woman, did you?" says she, "the one who----" "sure," says i. "she's got it--bad." "ah!" says miss ann, brightenin' up. "and now about that life membership!" "well," says i, "the piny crest proposition is all right, and i'd like to see it started; but the fact is, miss colliver, if i should put my name down with all them big people i'd be runnin' out of my class." "you would be--er----beg pardon," says she, "but i don't think i quite get you?" i'd suspected she wouldn't. but how was i going to dope out to her clear and straight what's so muddled up in my own head? you know, all about how annie got her cough, and my feelin's towards the firms that's sweatin' the tiscotts, from the baby up, and a lot of other things that i can't state. "as i said," goes on miss colliver, "i hardly think i understand." "me either," says i. "my head's just a merry go round of whys and whatfors. but, as far as that fund of yours goes, i don't come in." "humph!" says she. "that, at least, is quite definite. home, hutchins!" and there i am left on the curb lookin' foolish. me, i don't ride back to the studio on any broadcloth cushions! serves me right too, i expect. i feels mean and low down all the rest of the day, until i gets some satisfaction by huntin' up tony and throwin' such a scare into him that he goes out and finds a porter's job and swears by all that's holy he'll take up with the fam'ly again. but think of the chance i passed up of breakin' into the high toned philanthropy class! chapter xvi classing tutwater right maybe that brass plate had been up in the lower hall of our buildin' a month or so before i takes any partic'lar notice of it. even when i did get my eye on it one mornin' it only gets me mildly curious. "tutwater, director of enterprises, room , fourth floor," is all it says on it. "huh!" thinks i. "that's goin' some for a nine by ten coop under the skylight." and with that i should have let it drop, i expect. but what's the use? where's the fun of livin', if you can't mix in now and then. and you know how i am. well, i comes pikin' up the stairs one day not long after discoverin' the sign, and here on my landin', right in front of the studio door, i finds this greek that runs the towel supply wagon usin' up his entire united states vocabulary on a strange gent that he's backed into a corner. "easy, there, easy, mr. poulykopolis!" says i. "this ain't any golf links, where you can smoke up the atmosphere with language like that. what's the row, anyway?" "no pay for five week; always nex' time, he tells, nex' time. gr-r-r-r! i am strong to slap his life out, me!" says pouly, thumpin' his chest and shakin' his black curls. they sure are fierce actin' citizens when they're excited, these marathoners. "yes, you would!" says i. "slap his life out? g'wan! if he handed you one jolt you wouldn't stop runnin' for a week. how big is this national debt you say he owes you! how much?" "five week!" says pouly. "one dollar twenty-five." "sufferin' shylocks! all of that? well, neighbor," says i to the strange gent, "has he stated it correct?" "perfectly, sir, perfectly," says the party of the second part. "i do not deny the indebtedness in the least. i was merely trying to explain to this agent of cleanliness that, having been unable to get to the bank this morning, i should be obliged to----" "why, of course," says i. "and in that case allow me to stake you to the price of peace. here you are, pouly. now go out in the sun and cool off." "my dear sir," says the stranger, followin' me into the front office, "permit me to----" "ah, never mind the resolutions!" says i, "it was worth riskin' that much for the sake of stoppin' the riot. yes, i know you'll pay it back. let's see, which is your floor?" "top, sir," says he, "room ." "oh ho!" says i. "then you're the enterprise director, tutwater?" "and your very humble servant, sir," says he, bringin' his yellow panama lid off with a full arm sweep, and throwin' one leg graceful over the back of a chair. at that i takes a closer look at him, and before i've got half through the inspection i've waved a sad farewell to that one twenty-five. from the frayed necktie down to the runover shoes, tutwater is a walkin' example of the poor debtor's oath. the shiny seams of the black frock coat shouts of home pressin', and the limp way his white vest fits him suggests that he does his own laundry work in the washbowl. but he's clean shaved and clean brushed, and you can guess he's seen the time when he had such things done for him in style. yet there ain't anything about the way tutwater carries himself that signifies he's down and out. not much! he's got the easy, confident swing to his shoulders that you might expect from a sport who'd just picked three winners runnin'. rather a tall, fairly well built gent he is, with a good chest on him, and he has one of these eager, earnest faces that shows he's alive all the time. you wouldn't call him a handsome man, though, on account of the deep furrows down each side of his cheeks and the prominent jut to his eyebrows; but, somehow, when he gets to talkin', them eyes of his lights up so you forget the rest of his features. you've seen chaps like that. gen'rally they're cranks of some kind or other, and when they ain't they're topliners. so i puts tutwater down as belongin' to the crank class, and it wa'n't long before he begun livin' up to the description. "director of enterprises, eh?" says i. "that's a new one on me." "naturally," says he, wavin' his hand, "considering that i am first in the field. it is a profession i am creating." "so?" says i. "well, how are you comin' on?" "excellently, sir, excellently," says he. "i have found, for the first time in my somewhat varied career, full scope for what i am pleased to call my talents. of course, the work of preparing the ground is a slow process, and the--er--ahem--the results have not as yet begun to materialize; but when opportunity comes my way, sir----aha! ha, ha! ho, ho! well, then we shall see if tutwater is not ready for her!" "i see," says i. "you with your hand on the knob, eh? it's an easy way of passin' the time too; that is, providin' such things as visits from the landlord and the towel collector don't worry you." "not at all," says he. "merely petty annoyances, thorns and pebbles in the pathways that lead to each high emprise." say, it was almost like hearin' some one read po'try, listenin' to tutwater talk; didn't mean much of anything, and sounded kind of good. at the end of half an hour i didn't know any more about his game than at the beginning. i gathered, though, that up to date it hadn't produced any ready cash, and that tutwater had been on his uppers for some time. he was no grafter, though. that dollar twenty-five weighed heavier on his mind than it did on mine. he'd come in and talk about not bein' able to pay it back real regretful, without even hintin' at another touch. and little by little i got more light on tutwater, includin' some details of what he called his career. there was a lot to it, so far as variety went. he'd been a hist'ry professor in some one-horse western college, had tried his luck once up at nome, had canvassed for a patent dishwasher through michigan, done a ballyhoo trick outside a travelin' tent show, and had given bump lectures on the schoolhouse circuit. but his prize stunt was when he broke into the real estate business and laid out eucalyptus city. that was out in iowa somewhere, and he'd have cleaned up a cool million in money if the blamed trolley company hadn't built their line seven miles off in the other direction. it was gettin' this raw deal that convinces him the seed district wa'n't any place for a gent of his abilities. so he sold out his options on the site of eucalyptus to a brick makin' concern, and beat it for d-st. with a capital of eighty-nine dollars cash and this great director scheme in his head. the brass plate had cost him four dollars and fifty cents, one month's rent of the upstairs coop had set him back thirty more, and he'd been livin' on the rest. "but look here, tutty," says i, "just what sort of enterprise do you think you can direct?" "any sort," says he, "anything, from running an international exposition, to putting an icecream parlor on a paying basis." "don't you find your modesty something of a handicap?" says i. "oh, i'm modest enough," he goes on. "for instance, i don't claim to invent new methods. i just adapt, pick out lines of proved success, and develop. now, your business here--why, i could take hold of it, and in six months' time i'd have you occupying this entire building, with classes on every floor, a solarium on the roof, a corps of assistants working day and night shifts, and----" "yes," i breaks in, "and then the sheriff tackin' a foreclosure notice on the front door. i know how them boom methods work out, tutty." but talk like that don't discourage tutwater at all. he hangs onto his great scheme, keepin' his eyes and ears open, writin' letters when he can scare up money for postage, and insistin' that sooner or later he'll get his chance. "here is the place for such chances to occur," says he, "and i know what i can do." "all right," says i; "but if i was you i'd trail down some pavin' job before the paper inner soles wore clean through." course, how soon he hit the bread line wa'n't any funeral of mine exactly, and he was a hopeless case anyway; but somehow i got to likin' tutwater more or less, and wishin' there was some plan of applyin' all that hot air of his in useful ways. i know of lots of stiffs with not half his brains that makes enough to ride around in taxis and order custom made shirts. he was gettin' seedier every week, though, and i had it straight from the agent that it was only a question of a few days before that brass plate would have to come down. and then, one noon as we was chinnin' here in the front office, in blows a portly, red faced, stary eyed old party who seems kind of dazed and uncertain as to where he's goin'. he looks first at tutwater, and then at me. "same to you and many of 'em," says i. "what'll it be?" "mccabe was the name," says he; "professor mccabe, i think. i had it written down somewhere; but----" "never mind," says i. "this is the shop and i'm the right party. what then?" "perhaps you don't know me?" says he, explorin' his vest pockets sort of aimless with his fingers. "that's another good guess," says i; "but there's lots of time ahead of us." "i--i am--well, never mind the name," says he, brushin' one hand over his eyes. "i--i've mislaid it." "eh?" says i. "it's no matter," says he, beginnin' to ramble on again. "but i own a great deal of property in the city, and my head has been troubling me lately, and i heard you could help me. i'll pay you well, you know. i--i'll give you the brooklyn bridge." "wha-a-at's that?" i gasps. "say, couldn't you make it madison square garden? i could get rent out of that." "well, if you prefer," says he, without crackin' a smile. "and this is mr. tutwater," says i. "he ought to be in on this. what'll yours be, tutty?" say, for a minute or so i couldn't make out whether the old party was really off his chump or what. he's a well dressed, prosperous lookin' gent, a good deal on the retired broker type, and i didn't know but he might be some friend of pyramid gordon's who'd strayed in here to hand me a josh before signin' on for a course of lessons. next thing we knew, though, he slumps down in my desk chair, leans back comf'table, sighs sort of contented, smiles a batty, foolish smile at us, and then closes his eyes. another second and he's snorin' away as peaceful as you please. "well, say!" says i to tutwater. "what do you think of that, now? does he take this for a free lodgin' house, or central park? looks like it was up to me to ring for the wagon." "don't," says tutwater. "the police handle these cases so stupidly. his mind has been affected, possibly from some shock, and he is physically exhausted." "he's all in, sure enough," says i; "but i can't have him sawin' wood here. come, come, old scout," i hollers in his ear, "you'll have to camp somewhere else for this act!" i might as well have shouted into the safe, though. he never stirs. "the thing to do," says tutwater, "is to discover his name, if we can, and then communicate with his friends or family." "maybe you're right, tutwater," says i. "and there's a bunch of letters in his inside pocket. have a look." "they all seem to be addressed to j. t. fargo, esq.," says tutwater. "what!" says i. "say, you don't suppose our sleepin' friend here is old jerry fargo, do you? look at the tailor's label inside the pocket. eh? jeremiah t. fargo! well, say, tutty, that wa'n't such an idle dream of his, about givin' me the garden. guess he could if he wanted to. why, this old party owns more business blocks in this town than anybody i know of except the astors. and i was for havin' him carted off to the station! lemme see that 'phone directory." a minute more and i had the fargo house on the wire. "who are you?" says i. "oh, mr. fargo's butler. well, this is shorty mccabe, and i want to talk to some of the fam'ly about the old man. sure, old jerry. he's here. eh, his sister? she'll do. yes, i'll hold the wire." i'd heard of that old maid sister of his, and how she was a queer old girl; but i didn't have any idea what a cold blooded proposition she was. honest, she seemed put out and pettish because i'd called her up. "jeremiah again, hey?" she squeaks. "now, why on earth don't he stay in that sanatorium where i took him? this is the fourth time he's gone wandering off, and i've been sent for to hunt him up. you just tell him to trot back to it, that's all." "but see here, miss fargo," says i, "he's been trottin' around until you can't tell him anything! he's snoozin' away here in my office, dead to the world." "well, i can't help it," says she. "i'm not going to be bothered with jeremiah to-day. i've got two sick cats to attend to." "cats!" says i. "say, what do you----" "oh, hush up!" says she. "do anything you like with him!" and hanged if she don't bang up the receiver at that, and leave me standin' there at my end of the wire lookin' silly. "talk about your freak plutes," says i to tutwater, after i've explained the situation, "if this ain't the limit! look what i've got on my hands now!" tutwater, he's standin' there gazin' hard at old jerry fargo, his eyes shinin' and his thought works goin' at high pressure speed. all of a sudden he slaps me on the back and grips me by the hand. "professor," says he, "i have it! there is opportunity!" "eh?" says i. "old jerry? how?" "i shall cure him--restore his mind, make him normal," says tutwater. "what do you know about brushin' out batty lofts?" says i. "nothing at all," says he; "but i can find someone who does. you'll give me fargo, won't you?" "will i?" says i. "i'll advance you twenty to take him away, and charge it up to him. but what'll you do with him?" "start the tutwater sanatorium for deranged millionaires," says he. "there's a fortune in it. may i leave him here for an hour or so?" "what for?" says i. "until i can engage my chief of staff," says he. "say, tutty," says i, "do you really mean to put over a bluff the size of that?" "i've thought it all out," says he. "i can do it." "all right, blaze ahead," says i; "but i'm bettin' you land in the lockup inside of twenty-four hours." what do you think, though? by three o'clock he comes back, towin' a spruce, keen eyed young chap that he introduces as dr. mcwade. he's picked him up over at bellevue, where he found him doin' practice work in the psychopathic ward. on the strength of that i doubles my grubstake, and he no sooner gets his hands on the two sawbucks than he starts for the street. "here, here!" says i. "where you headed for now?" and tutwater explains how his first investment is to be a new silk lid, some patent leather shoes, and a silver headed walkin' stick. "good business!" says i. "you'll need all the front you can carry." and while he's out shoppin' the doc and me and swifty joe lugs the patient up to tutwater's office without disturbin' his slumbers at all. well, i didn't see much more of tutwater that day, for from then on he was a mighty busy man; but as i was drillin' across to the grand central on my way home i gets a glimpse of him, sportin' a shiny hat and white spats, just rushin' important into a swell real estate office. about noon next day he stops in long enough to shake hands and say that it's all settled. "tutwater sanatorium is a fact," says he. "i have the lease in my pocket." "what is it, some abandoned farm up in vermont?" says i. "hardly," says tutwater, smilin' quiet. "it's cragswoods; beautiful modern buildings, formerly occupied as a boys' boarding school, fifteen acres of lovely grounds, finest location in westchester county. we take possession to-day, with our patient." "but, say, tutwater," says i, "how in blazes did you----" "i produced fargo," says he. "dr. mcwade has him under complete control and his cure has already begun. it will be finished at cragswoods. run up and see us soon. there's the address. so long." well, even after that, i couldn't believe he'd really pull it off. course, i knew he could make fargo's name go a long ways if he used it judicious; but to launch out and hire an estate worth half a million--why he was makin' a shoestring start look like a sure thing. and i was still listenin' for news of the grand crash, when i begun seein' these items in the papers about the tutwater sanatorium. "millionaires building a stone wall," one was headed, and it went on to tell how five new york plutes, all sufferin' from some nerve breakdown, was gettin' back health and clearin' up their brains by workin' like day laborers under the direction of the famous specialist, dr. clinton mcwade. "aha!" says i. "he's added a press agent to the staff, and he sure has got a bird!" every few days there's a new story bobs up, better than the last, until i can't stand it any longer. i takes half a day off and goes up there to see if he's actually doin' it. and, say, when i walks into the main office over the persian rug, there's the same old tutwater. course, he's slicked up some fancy, and he's smokin' a good cigar; but you couldn't improve any on the cheerful countenance he used to carry around, even when he was up against it hardest. what i asks to see first is the five millionaires at work. "seven, you mean," says tutwater. "two more came yesterday. step right out this way. there they are, seven; count 'em, seven. the eighth man is a practical stone mason who is bossing the job. it's a good stone wall they're building, too. we expect to run it along our entire frontage." "got 'em mesmerized?" says i. "not at all," says tutwater. "it's part of the treatment. mcwade's idea, you know. the vocational cure, we call it, and it works like a charm. mr. fargo is practically a well man now and could return to his home next week if he wished. as it is, he's so much interested in finishing that first section of the wall that he will probably stay the month out. you can see for yourself what they are doing." "well, well!" says i. "seven of 'em! what i don't understand, tutwater, is how you got so many patients so soon. where'd you get hold of 'em?" "to be quite frank with you, mccabe," says tutwater, whisperin' confidential in my ear, "only three of them are genuine paying patients. that is why i have to charge them fifty dollars a day, you see." "and the others?" says i. "first class imitations, who are playing their parts very cleverly," says he. "why not? i engaged them through a reliable theatrical agency." "eh?" says i. "you salted the sanatorium? tutwater, i take it all back. you're in the other class, and i'm backin' you after this for whatever entry you want to make." chapter xvii how hermy put it over what do you know about luck, eh? say, there was a time when i banked heavy on such things as four-leaf clovers, and the humpback touch, and dodgin' ladders, and keepin' my fingers crossed after gettin' an x-ray stare. the longer i watch the game, though, the less i think of the luck proposition as a chart for explainin' why some gets in on the ground floor, while others are dropped through the coal chute. now look at the latest returns on the career of my old grammar school chum, snick butters. maybe you don't remember my mentionin' him before. yes? no? it don't matter. he's the sporty young gent that's mortgaged his memorial window to me so many times,--you know, the phony lamp he can do such stunts with. he's a smooth boy, snick is,--too smooth, i used to tell him,--and always full of schemes for avoidin' real work. for a year or so past he's held the hot air chair on the front end of one of these sightseein' chariots, cheerin' the out of town buyers and wheat belt tourists with the flippest line of skyscraper statistics handed out through any megaphone in town. they tell me that when snick would fix his fake eye on the sidewalk, and roll the good one up at the metropolitan tower, he'd have his passengers so dizzy they'd grab one another to keep from fallin' off the wagon. yes, i always did find snick's comp'ny entertainin', and if it hadn't been more or less expensive,--a visit always meanin' a touch with him,--i expect i'd been better posted on what he was up to. as it is, i ain't enjoyed the luxury of seein' snick for a good many months; when here the other afternoon, just as i was thinking of startin' for home, the studio door opens, and in blows a couple of gents, one being a stranger, and the other this mr. butters. now, usually snick's a fancy dresser, no matter who he owes for it. he'll quit eatin' any time, or do the camel act, or even give up his cigarettes; but if the gents' furnishing shops are showin' something new in the line of violet socks or alligator skin vests, snick's got to sport the first ones sprung on broadway. so, seein' him show up with fringes on his cuffs, a pair of runover tan shoes, and wearin' his uniform cap off duty, i can't help feelin' some shocked, or wonderin' how much more'n a five-spot i'll be out by the time he leaves. it was some relief, though, to see that the glass eye was still in place, and know i wouldn't be called on to redeem the ticket on that, anyway. "hello, snick!" says i. "glad you came in,--i was just going. hope you don't mind my lockin' the safe? no offense, you know." "can it, shorty," says he. "there's no brace coming this time." "eh?" says i. "once more with that last, and say it slower, so i can let it sink in." "don't kid," says he. "this is straight business." "oh!" says i. "well, that does sound serious. in that case, who's your--er----did he come in with you?" i thought he did at first; but he seems so little int'rested in either snick or me that i wa'n't sure but he just wandered in because he saw the door open. he's a high, well built, fairly good lookin' chap, dressed neat and quiet in black; and if it wa'n't for the sort of aimless, wanderin' look in his eyes, you might have suspected he was somebody in partic'lar. "oh, him!" says snick, shootin' a careless glance over his shoulder. "yes, of course he's with me. it's him i want to talk to you about." "well," says i, "don't he--er----is it a dummy, or a live one? got a name, ain't it?" "why, sure!" says snick. "that's hermy. hey you, hermy, shake hands with professor mccabe!" "howdy," says i, makin' ready to pass the grip. but hermy ain't in a sociable mood, it seems. "oh, bother!" says he, lookin' around kind of disgusted and not noticin' the welcomin' hand at all. "i don't want to stay here. i ought to be home, dressing for dinner." and say, that gives you about as much idea of the way he said it, as you'd get of an oil paintin' from seein' a blueprint. i can't put in the pettish shoulder wiggle that goes with it, or make my voice behave like his did. it was the most ladylike voice i ever heard come from a heavyweight; one of these reg'lar "oh-fudge-lizzie-i-dropped-my-gum" voices. and him with a chest on him like a swell front mahog'ny bureau! "splash!" says i. "you mean, mean thing! so there!" "don't mind what he says at all, shorty," says snick. "you wait! i'll fix him!" and with that he walks up to hermy, shakes his finger under his nose, and proceeds to lay him out. "now what did i tell you; eh, hermy?" says snick. "one lump of sugar in your tea--no pie--and locked in your room at eight-thirty. oh, i mean it! you're here to behave yourself. understand? take your fingers off that necktie! don't slouch against the wall there, either! you might get your coat dusty. dress for dinner! didn't i wait fifteen minutes while you fussed with your hair? and do you think you're going to go through all that again? you're dressed for dinner, i tell you! but you don't get a bit unless you do as you're told! hear?" "ye-e-es, sir," sniffles hermy. honest, it was a little the oddest exhibition i ever saw. why, he would make two of snick, this hermy would, and he has a pair of shoulders like a truck horse. don't ever talk to me about chins again, either! hermy has chin enough for a trust buster; but that's all the good it seems to do him. "you ain't cast the hypnotic spell over him, have you, snick?" says i. "hypnotic nothing!" says snick. "that ain't a man; it's only a music box!" "a which?" says i. "barytone," says snick. "say, did you ever hear bonci or caruso or any of that mob warble? no? well, then i'll have to tell you. look at hermy there. take a good long gaze at him. and--sh-h-h! after he's had one show at the metropolitan he'll have that whole bunch carryin' spears." "is this something you dreamed, snick," says i, "or is it a sample of your megaphone talk?" "you don't believe it, of course," says he. "that's what i brought him up here for. hermy, turn on the toreador business!" "eh?" says i; then i sees hermy gettin' into position to cut loose. "back up there! shut it off! what do i know about judgin' singers on the hoof? why, he might be all you say, or as bad as i'd be willin' to bet; but i wouldn't know it. and what odds does it make to me, one way or another?" "i know, shorty," says snick, earnest and pleadin'; "but you're my last hope. i've simply got to convince you." "sorry, snick," says i; "but this ain't my day for tryin' out barytones. besides, i got to catch a train." "all right," says snick. "then we'll trot along with you while i tell you about hermy. honest, shorty, you've got to hear it!" "if it's as desperate as all that," says i, "spiel away." and of all the plunges i ever knew snick butters to make,--and he sure is the dead gamest sport i ever ran across,--this one that he owns up to takin' on hermy had all his past performances put in the piker class. accordin' to the way he deals it out, snick had first discovered hermy about a year ago, found him doin' the tray balancin' act in a porcelain lined three-off-and-draw-one parlor down on seventh-ave. he was doin' it bad, too,--gettin' the orders mixed, and spillin' soup on the customers, and passin' out wrong checks, and havin' the boss worked up to the assassination point. but hermy didn't even know enough to be discouraged. he kept right on singsongin' out his orders down the shaft, as cheerful as you please: "sausage and mashed, two on the wheats, one piece of punk, and two mince, and let 'em come in a hurry! silver!" you know how they do it in them c. b. & q. places? yes, corned beef and cabbage joints. with sixty or seventy people in a forty by twenty-five room, and the dish washers slammin' crockery regardless, you got to holler out if you want the chef to hear. hermy wa'n't much on the shout, so he sang his orders. and it was this that gave snick his pipedream. "now you know i've done more or less tra-la-la-work myself," says he, "and the season i spent on the road as one of the merry villagers with an erminie outfit put me wise to a few things. course, this open air lecturing has spoiled my pipes for fair; but i've got my ear left, haven't i? and say, shorty, the minute i heard that voice of hermy's i knew he was the goods." so what does he do but go back later, after the noon rush was over, and get hermy to tell him the story of his life. it wa'n't what you'd call thrillin'. all there was to it was that hermy was a double orphan who'd been brought up in bridgeport, conn., by an uncle who was a dancin' professor. the only thing that saved hermy from a bench in the brass works was his knack for poundin' out twosteps and waltzes on the piano; but at that it seems he was such a soft head he couldn't keep from watchin' the girls on the floor and striking wrong notes. then there was trouble with uncle. snick didn't get the full details of the row, or what brought it to a head; but anyway hermy was fired from the academy and fin'lly drifted to new york, where he'd been close up against the bread line ever since. "and when i found how he just naturally ate up music," says snick, "and how he'd had some training in a boy choir, and what a range he had, i says to him, 'hermy,' says i, 'you come with me!' first i blows in ten good hard dollars getting a lawyer to draw up a contract. i thought it all out by myself; but i wanted the whereases put in right. and it's a peach. it bound me to find board and lodging and provide clothes and incidentals for hermy for the period of one year; and in consideration of which, and all that, i am to be the manager and sole business representative of said hermy for the term of fifteen years from date, entitled to a fair and equal division of whatsoever profits, salary, or emoluments which may be received by the party of the second part, payable to me, my heirs, or assigns forever. and there i am, shorty. i've done it! and i'm going to stay with it!" "what!" says i. "you don't mean to say you've invested a year's board and lodgin' and expenses in--in that?" and i gazes once more at this hundred and eighty-pound wrist slapper, who is standin' there in front of the mirror pattin' down a stray lock. "that's what i've done," says snick, shovin' his hands in his pockets and lookin' at the exhibit like he was proud of it. "but how the--where in blazes did you get it?" says i. "squeezed it out," says snick; "out of myself, too. and you know me. i always was as good to myself as other folks would let me. but all that had to be changed. it come hard, i admit, and it cost more'n i figured on. why, some of his voice culture lessons set me back ten a throw. think of that! he's had 'em, though. and me? well, i've lived on one meal a day. i've done a double trick: on the wagon day times, night cashier in a drug store from nine till two a.m. i've cut out theaters, cigarettes, and drinks. i've made my old clothes last over, and i've pinched the dimes and nickels so hard my thumbprints would look like treasury dies. but we've got the goods, shorty. hermy may be the mushiest, sappiest, hen brained specimen of a man you ever saw; but when it comes to being a high class grand opera barytone, he's the kid! and little percival here is his manager and has the power of attorney that will fix him for keeps if i know anything!" "ye-e-es?" says i. "reminds me some of the time when you was backin' doughnut to win the suburban. recollect how hard you scraped to get the two-fifty you put down on doughnut at thirty to one, and how hard you begged me to jump in and pull out a bale of easy money? let's see; did the skate finish tenth, or did he fall through the hole in his name?" "ah, say!" says snick. "don't go digging that up now. that was sport. this is straight business, on the level, and i ain't asking you to put up a cent." "well, what then?" says i. would you guess it? he wants me to book hermy for a private exhibition before some of my swell friends! all i've got to do is to persuade some of 'em to give a little musicale, and then spring this nutmeg wonder on the box holdin' set without warnin'. "if he was a russki with long hair," says i, "or even a fiddlin' czech, they might stand for it; but to ask 'em to listen to a domestic unknown from bridgeport, conn.----i wouldn't have the nerve, snick. why not take him around to the concert agencies first?" "bah!" says snick. "haven't we worn out the settees in the agency offices? what do they know about good barytone voices? all they judge by is press clippings and lists of past engagements. now, your people would know. he'd have 'em going in two minutes, and they'd spread the news afterwards. then we'd have the agents coming to us. see?" course i couldn't help gettin' int'rested in this long shot of snick's, even if i don't take any stock in his judgment; but i tries to explain that while i mix more or less with classy folks, i don't exactly keep their datebooks for 'em, or provide talent for their after dinner stunts. that don't head off snick, though. he says i'm the only link between him and the set he wants to reach, and he just can't take no for an answer. he says he'll depend on me for a date for next wednesday night. "why wednesday?" says i. "wouldn't thursday or friday do as well?" "no," says he. "that's frenchy's only night off from the café, and it's his dress suit hermy's got to wear. it'll be some tight across the back; but it's the biggest one i can get the loan of without paying rent." well, i tells snick i'll see what can be done, and when i gets home i puts the problem up to sadie. maybe if she'd had a look at hermy she'd taken more interest; but as it is she says she don't see how i can afford to run the chances of handin' out a lemon, even if there was an op'nin'. then again, so many of our friends were at palm beach just now, and those who'd come back were so busy givin' lent bridge parties, that the chances of workin' in a dark horse barytone was mighty slim. she'd think it over, though, and see if maybe something can't be done. so that's the best i can give snick when he shows up in the mornin', and it was the same every day that week. i was kind of sorry for snick, and was almost on the point of luggin' him and his discovery out to the house and askin' in a few of the neighbors, when sadie tells me that the purdy-pells are back from florida and are goin' to open their town house with some kind of happy jinks wednesday night, and that we're invited. course, that knocks out my scheme. i'd passed the sad news on to snick; and it was near noon wednesday, when i'm called up on the 'phone by sadie. seems that mrs. purdy-pell had signed a lady harpist and a refined monologue artist to fill in the gap between coffee and bridge, and the lady harper had scratched her entry on account of a bad case of grip. so couldn't i find my friend mr. butters and get him to produce his singer? the case had been stated to mrs. purdy-pell, and she was willin' to take the risk. "all right," says i. "but it's all up to her, don't you forget." with that i chases down to madison square, catches snick just startin' out with a load of neck stretchers, gives him the number, and tells him to show up prompt at nine-thirty. and i wish you could have seen the joy that spread over his homely face. even the store eye seemed to be sparklin' brighter'n ever. was he there? why, as we goes in to dinner at eight o'clock, i catches sight of him and hermy holdin' down chairs in the reception room. well, you know how they pull off them affairs. after they've stowed away about eleventeen courses, from grapefruit and sherry to demitasse and benedictine, them that can leave the table without wheel chairs wanders out into the front rooms, and the men light up fresh perfectos and hunt for the smokin' den, and the women get together in bunches and exchange polite knocks. and in the midst of all that some one drifts casually up to the concert grand and cuts loose. that was about the programme in this case. hermy was all primed for his cue, and when mrs. purdy-pell gives the nod i sees snick push him through the door, and in another minute the thing is on. the waiter's uniform was a tight fit, all right; for it stretches across his shoulders like a drumhead. and the shirt studs wa'n't mates, and the collar was one of them saw edged laundry veterans. but the general effect was good, and hermy don't seem to mind them trifles at all. he stands up there lookin' big and handsome, simpers and smiles around the room a few times, giggles a few at the young lady who'd volunteered to do the ivory punishing, and then fin'lly he gets under way with the toreador song. as i say, when it comes to gems from carmen, i'm no judge; but this stab of hermy's strikes me from the start as a mighty good attempt. he makes a smooth, easy get-away, and he strikes a swingin', steady gait at the quarter, and when he comes to puttin' over the deep, rollin' chest notes i has feelin's down under the first dinner layer like i'd swallowed a small thunder storm. honest, when he fairly got down to business and hittin' it up in earnest, he had me on my toes, and by the look on sadie's face i knew that our friend hermy was going some. but was all the others standin' around with their mouths open, drinkin' it in? anything but! you see, some late comers had arrived, and they'd brought bulletins of something rich and juicy that had just happened in the alimony crowd,--i expect the event will figure on the court calendars later,--and they're so busy passin' on the details to willin' ears, that hermy wa'n't disturbin' 'em at all. as a matter of fact, not one in ten of the bunch knew whether he was makin' a noise like a bullfighter or a line-up man. i can't help takin' a squint around at snick, who's peekin' in through the draperies. and say, he's all but tearin' his hair. it was tough, when you come to think of it. here he'd put his whole stack of blues on this performance, and the audience wa'n't payin' any more attention to it than to the rattle of cabs on the avenue. hermy has most got to the final spasm, and it's about all over, when, as a last straw, some sort of disturbance breaks out in the front hall. first off i thought it must be snick butters throwin' a fit; but then i hears a voice that ain't his, and as i glances out i sees the purdy-pell butler havin' a rough house argument with a black whiskered gent in evenin' clothes and a paris model silk lid. course, everyone hears the rumpus, and there's a grand rush, some to get away, and others to see what's doin'. "let me in! i demand entrance! it must be!" howls the gent, while the butler tries to tell him he's got to give up his card first. and next thing i know snick has lit on the butler's back to pull him off, and the three are havin' a fine mix-up, when mr. purdy-pell comes boltin' out, and i've just offered to bounce any of 'em that he'll point out, when all of a sudden he recognizes the party behind the brunette lambrequins. "why--why," says he, "what does this mean, mr. ----" "pardon," says the gent, puffin' and pushin' to the front. "i intrude, yes? a thousand pardons. but i will explain. next door i am dining--there is a window open--i hear that wonderful voice. ah! that marvelous voice! of what is the name of this artist? yes? i demand! i implore! ah, i must know instantly, sir!" well, you know who it was. there's only one grand opera napoleon with black whiskers who does things in that way, and makes good every trip. it's him, all right. and if he don't know a barytone voice, who does? inside of four minutes him and hermy and snick was bunched around the libr'y table, chewin' over the terms of the contract, and next season you'll read the name of a new soloist in letters four foot high. say, i was up to see mr. butters in his new suite of rooms at the st. swithin, where it never rains but it pours. he'd held out for a big advance, and he'd got it. also he'd invested part of it in some of the giddiest raiment them theatrical clothing houses can supply. while a manicure was busy puttin' a gloss finish on his nails, he has his mongolian valet display the rest of his wardrobe, as far as he'd laid it in. "did i get let in wrong on the hermy proposition, eh?" says he. "how about stayin' with your luck till it turns? any reminder of the doughnut incident in this? what?" do i debate the subject? not me! i just slaps snick on the back and wishes him joy. if he wants to credit it all up to a rabbit's foot, or a clover leaf, i'm willin' to let him. but say, from where i stand, it looks to me as if nerve and grit played some part in it. chapter xviii joy riding with aunty was i? then i must have been thinking of dyke mallory. and say, i don't know how you feel about it, but i figure that anybody who can supply me with a hang-over grin good for three days ain't lived in vain. whatever it's worth, i'm on his books for just that much. i'll admit, too, that this dyckman chap ain't apt to get many credits by the sweat of his brow or the fag of his brain. there's plenty of folks would class him as so much plain nuisance, and i have it from him that his own fam'ly puts it even stronger. that's one of his specialties, confidin' to strangers how unpop'lar he is at home. why, he hadn't been to the studio more'n twice, and i'd just got next to the fact that he was a son of mr. craig mallory, and was suggestin' a quarterly account for him, when he gives me the warnin' signal. "don't!" says he. "i draw my allowance the fifteenth, and unless you get it away from me before the twentieth you might as well tear up the bill. no use sending it to the pater, either. he'd renig." "handing you a few practical hints along the economy line, eh?" says i. "worse than that," says dyke. "it's a part of my penance for being the great disappointment. the whole family is down on me. guess you don't know about my aunt elvira?" i didn't, and there was no special reason why i should; but before i can throw the switch dyke has got the deputy sheriff grip on the mallorys' private skeleton and is holdin' him up and explainin' his anatomy. now, from all i'd ever seen or heard, i'd always supposed mr. craig mallory to be one of the safety vault crowd. course, they live at number west; but that's near enough to the avenue for one of the old fam'lies. and when you find a man who puts in his time as chairman of regatta committees, and judgin' hackneys, and actin' as vice president of a swell club, you're apt to rate him in the seven figure bunch, at least. accordin' to duke, though, the mallory income needed as much stretchin' as the pay of a twenty-dollar clothing clerk tryin' to live in a thirty-five dollar flat. and this is the burg where you can be as hard up on fifty thousand a year as on five hundred! the one thing the mallorys had to look forward to was the time when aunt elvira would trade her sealskin sack for a robe of glory and loosen up on her real estate. she was near seventy, aunty was, and when she first went out to live at the old country place, up beyond fort george, it was a good half-day's trip down to d-st. but she went right on livin', and new york kept right on growin', and now she owns a cow pasture two blocks from a subway station, and raises potatoes on land worth a thousand dollars a front foot. bein' of different tastes and habits, her and brother craig never got along together very well, and there was years when each of 'em tried to forget that the other existed. when little dyckman came, though, the frost was melted. she hadn't paid any attention to the girls; but a boy was diff'rent. never havin' had a son of her own to boss around and brag about, she took it out on dyke. a nice, pious old lady, aunt elvira was; and the mere fact that little dyke seemed to fancy the taste of a morocco covered new testament she presented to him on his third birthday settled his future in her mind. "he shall be a bishop!" says she, and hints that accordin' as dyckman shows progress along that line she intends loadin' him up with worldly goods. up to the age of fifteen, dyke gives a fair imitation of a bishop in the bud. he's a light haired, pleasant spoken youth, who stands well with his sunday school teacher and repeats passages from the psalms for aunt elvira when she comes down to inflict her annual visit. but from then on the bulletins wa'n't so favor'ble. at the diff'rent prep. schools where he was tried out he appeared to be too much of a live one to make much headway with the dead languages. about the only subjects he led his class in was hazing and football and buildin' bonfires of the school furniture. being expelled got to be so common with him that towards the last he didn't stop to unpack his trunk. not that these harrowin' details was passed on to aunt elvira. the mallorys begun by doctorin' the returns, and they developed into reg'lar experts at the game of representin' to aunty what a sainted little fellow dyke was growin' to be. the more practice they got, the harder their imaginations was worked; for by the time dyckman was strugglin' through his last year at college he'd got to be such a full blown hickey boy that he'd have been spotted for a sport in a blind asylum. so they had to invent one excuse after another to keep aunt elvira from seein' him, all the while givin' her tales about how he was soon to break into the divinity school; hoping, of course, that aunty would get tired of waitin' and begin to unbelt. "they overdid it, that's all," says dyke. "healthy looking bishop i'd make! what?" "you ain't got just the style for a right reverend, that's a fact," says i. which wa'n't any wild statement of the case, either. he's a tall, loose jointed, slope shouldered young gent, with a long, narrow face, gen'rally ornamented by a cigarette; and he has his straw colored hair cut plush. his costume is neat but expensive,--double reefed trousers, wide soled shoes, and a green yodler's hat with the bow on behind. he talks with the kind of english accent they pick up at new haven, and when he's in repose he tries to let on he's so bored with life that he's in danger of fallin' asleep any minute. judgin' from dyke's past performances, though, there wa'n't many somnolent hours in it. but in spite of all the trouble he'd got into, i couldn't figure him out as anything more'n playful. course, rough housin' in rathskellers until they called out the reserves, and turnin' the fire hose on a vaudeville artist from a box, and runnin' wild with a captured trolley car wa'n't what you might call innocent boyishness; but, after all, there wa'n't anything real vicious about dyke. playful states it. give him a high powered tourin' car, with a bunch of eight or nine from the football squad aboard, and he liked to tear around the state of connecticut burnin' the midnight gasolene and lullin' the villagers to sleep with the boula-boula song. perfectly harmless fun--if the highways was kept clear. all the frat crowd said he was a good fellow, and it was a shame to bar him out from takin' a degree just on account of his layin' down on a few exams. but that's what the faculty did, and the folks at home was wild. dyke had been back and on the unclassified list for nearly a year now, and the prospects of his breakin' into the divinity school was growin' worse every day. he'd jollied mr. mallory into lettin' him have a little two-cylinder roadster, and his only real pleasure in life was when he could load a few old grads on the runnin' board and go off for a joy ride. but after the old man had spent the cost of a new machine in police court fines and repairs, even this little diversion was yanked away. the last broken axle had done the business, and the nearest dyke could come to real enjoyment was when he had the price to charter a pink taxi and inspire the chauffeur with highballs enough so he'd throw her wide open on the way back. not bein' responsible for dyke, i didn't mind having him around. i kind of enjoyed the cheerful way he had of tellin' about the fam'ly boycott on him, and every time i thinks of aunt elvira still havin' him framed up for a comer in the bishop class, i has to smile. you see, having gone so far with their fairy tales, the mallorys never got a chance to hedge; and, accordin' to dyke, they was all scared stiff for fear she'd dig up the facts some day, and make a new will leavin' her rentroll to the foreign missions society. maybe it was because i took more or less interest in him, but perhaps it was just because he wanted company and i happened to be handy; anyway, here the other afternoon dyke comes poundin' up the stairs two at a time, rushes into the front office, and grabs me by the arm. "come on, shorty!" says he. "something fruity is on the schedule." "hope it don't taste like a lemon," says i. "what's the grand rush?" "aunt elvira is coming down, and she's called for me," says dyke, grinnin' wide. "she must suspect something; for she sent word that if i wasn't on hand this time she'd never come again. what do you think of that?" "aunty's got a treat in store for her, eh?" says i, givin' dyke the wink. "i should gurgle!" says he. "i'm good and tired of this fake bishop business, and if i don't jolt the old lady out of that nonsense, i'm a duffer. you can help some, i guess. come on." well, i didn't exactly like the idea of mixin' up with a fam'ly surprise party like that; but dyke is so anxious for me to go along, and he gets me so curious to see what'll happen at the reunion, that i fin'lly grabs my coat and hat, and out we trails. it seems that aunt elvira is due at the grand central. never having tried the subway, she's come to town just as she used to thirty years ago: drivin' to kingsbridge station, and takin' a harlem river local down. we finds the whole fam'ly, includin' mr. and mrs. craig mallory, and their two married daughters, waitin' outside the gates, with the gloom about 'em so thick you'd almost think it was a sea turn. from the chilly looks they shot at dyke you could tell just how they'd forecasted the result when aunt elvira got him all sized up; for, with his collar turned up and his green hat slouched, he looks as much like a divinity student as a bulldog looks like mary's lamb. and they can almost see them blocks of apartment houses bein' handed over to the heathen. as for mr. craig mallory, he never so much as gives his only son a second glance, but turns his back and stands there, twistin' the ends of his close cropped gray mustache, and tryin' to look like he wa'n't concerned at all. good old sport, craig,--one of the kind that can sit behind a pair of sevens and raise the opener out of his socks. lucky for his nerves he didn't have to wait long. pretty soon in pulls the train, and the folks from yonkers and tarrytown begin to file past. [illustration: "most of auntie was obscured by the luggage she carries"] "there she is!" whispers dyke, givin' me the nudge. "that's aunt elvira, with her bonnet on one ear." it's one of the few black velvet lids of the model still in captivity, ornamented with a bunch of indigo tinted violets, and kept from bein' lost off altogether by purple strings tied under the chin. most of the rest of aunty was obscured by the hand luggage she carries, which includes four assorted parcels done up in wrappin' paper, and a big, brass wire cage holdin' a ragged lookin' gray parrot that was tryin' to stick his bill through the bars and sample the passersby. she's a wrinkled faced, but well colored and hearty lookin' old girl, and the eyes that peeks out under the rim of the velvet lid is as keen and shrewd as a squirrel's. whatever else she might be, it was plain aunt elvira wa'n't feeble minded. behind her comes a couple of station porters, one cartin' an old-time black valise, and the other with his arms wrapped around a full sized featherbed in a blue and white tick. "gee!" says i. "aunty carries her own scenery with her, don't she?" "that's bismarck in the cage," says dyke. "how bizzy has changed!" says i. "but why the feather mattress?" "she won't sleep on anything else," says he. "watch how pleased my sisters look. they just love this--not! but she insists on having the whole family here to meet her." i must say for mr. mallory that he stood it well, a heavy swell like him givin' the glad hand in public to a quaint old freak like that. but aunt elvira don't waste much time swappin' fam'ly greetin's. "where is dyckman?" says she, settin' her chin for trouble. "isn't he here?" "oh, yes," says mr. mallory. "right over there," and he points his cane handle to where dyke and me are grouped on the side lines. "here, hold bismarck!" says aunty, jammin' the brass cage into mr. mallory's arm, and with that she pikes straight over to us. i never mistrusted she'd be in any doubt as to which was which, until i sees her look from one to the other, kind of waverin'. no wonder, though; for, from the descriptions she'd had, neither of us came up to the divinity student specifications. yet it was something of a shock when she fixes them sharp old lamps on me and says: "land to goodness! you?" "reverse!" says i. "here's the guilty party," and i pushes dyke to the front. she don't gasp, or go up in the air, or throw any kind of a fit, like i expected. as she looks him over careful, from the sporty hat to the wide soled shoes, i notices her eyes twinkle. "hum! i thought as much!" says she. "craig always could lie easier than he could tell the truth. young man, you don't look to me like a person called to hold orders." "glad of it, aunty," says dyke, with a grin. "i don't feel that way." "and you don't look as if you had broken down your health studying for the ministry, either!" she goes on. "you don't mean to say they filled you up with that?" says dyke. "hee-haw!" "huh!" says aunty. "it's a joke, is it? at least you're not afraid to tell the truth. i guess i want to have a little private talk with you. who's this other young man?" "this is professor mccabe," says dyke. "he's a friend of mine." "let him come along, too," says aunty. "perhaps he can supply what you leave out." and, say, the old girl knew what she wanted and when she wanted it, all right! there was no bunkoin' her out of it, either. mr. mallory leads her out to his brougham and does his best to shoo her in with him and mrs. mallory and away from dyke; but it was no go. "i will ride up with dyckman and his friend," says she. "and i want to go in one of those new automobile cabs i've heard so much about." "good! we'll get one, aunty," says dyke, and then he whispers in my ear, "slip around the corner and call for jerry powers. number . he can make a taxi take hurdles and water jumps." i don't know whether it was luck or not, but jerry was on the stand with the tin flag up, and inside of two minutes the three of us was stowed away inside, with the bag on top, and dyke holdin' bismarck in his lap. "now my featherbed," says aunt elvira, and she has the porter jam it in alongside of me, which makes more or less of a full house. then the procession starts, our taxi in the lead, the brougham second, and the married sisters trailin' behind in a hansom. "my sakes! but these things do ride easy!" says aunty, settlin' back in her corner. "can they go any faster, dyckman?" "just wait until we get straightened out on the avenue," says dyke, and tips me the roguish glance. "i've ridden behind some fast horses in my time," says the old lady; "so you can't scare me. but now, dyckman, i'd like to know exactly what you've been doing, and what you intend to do." well, dyke starts in to unload the whole yarn, beginnin' by ownin' up that he'd scratched the bishop proposition long ago. and he was statin' some of his troubles at college, when i gets a backward glimpse out of the side window at something that makes me sit up. first off i thought it was another snow storm with flakes bigger'n i'd ever seen before, and then i tumbles to the situation. it ain't snow; it's feathers. in jammin' that mattress into the taxi the tick must have had a hole ripped in it, and the part that was bulgin' through the opposite window was leakin' hen foliage to beat the cars. "hey!" says i, buttin' in on the confession and pointin' back. "we're losin' part of our cargo." "land sakes!" says aunt elvira, after one glance. "stop! stop!" at that dyke pounds on the front glass for the driver to shut off the juice. but jerry must have had dyke out before, and maybe he mistook the signal. anyway, the machine gives a groan and a jerk and we begins skimmin' along the asphalt at double speed. that don't check the moltin' process any, and dyke was gettin' real excited, when we hears a chuckle from aunt elvira. the old girl has got her eyes trained through the back window. thanks to our speed and the stiff wind that's blowin' down the avenue, the mallory brougham, with the horses on the jump to keep up with us, is gettin' the full benefit of the feather storm. the dark green uniforms of the mallory coachman and footman was being plastered thick, and they was both spittin' out feathers as fast as they could, and the mallorys was wipin' 'em out of their eyes and ears, and the crowds on the sidewalk has caught on and is enjoyin' the performance, and a mounted cop was starin' at us kind of puzzled, as if he was tryin' to decide whether or not we was breakin' an ordinance. "look at craig! look at mabel ann!" snickers aunt elvira. "tell your man to go faster, dyckman. push out more feathers!" "more feathers it is," says i, shovin' another fold of the bed through the window. even bismarck gets excited and starts squawkin'. talk about your joy rides! i'll bet that's the only one of the kind ever pulled off on fifth-ave. and it near tickles the old girl to death. what was a featherbed to her, when she had her sportin' blood up and was gettin' a hunch in on brother craig and his wife? we goes four blocks before we shakes out the last of our ammunition, and by that time the mallory brougham looks like a poultry wagon after a busy day at the market, while aunt elvira has cut loose with the mirth so hard that the velvet bonnet is hangin' under her chin, and bismarck is out of breath. it's a wonder we wa'n't pinched for breakin' the speed laws; but the traffic cops is so busy watchin' the feather blizzard that they forgets to hold us up. dyke wants to know if i'll come in for a cup of tea, or ride back with jerry. "thanks, but i'll walk back," says i, as we pulls up at the house. "guess i can find the trail easy enough, eh?" i s'posed i'd get a report of the reunion from him next day; but it wa'n't until this mornin' that he shows up here and drags me down to the curb to look at his new sixty-horse-power macadam burner. "birthday present from aunty," says he. "say, she's all to the good, shorty. she got over that bishop idea months ago, all by herself. and what do you think? she says i'm to have a thousand a month, just to enjoy myself on. whe-e-e! can i do it?" "do it, son," says i. "if you can't, i don't know who can." chapter xix turning a trick for beany where'd i collect the flemish oak tint on muh noble br-r-r-ow? no, not sunnin' myself down to coney island. no such tinhorn stunt for me! this is the real plute color, this is, and i laid it on durin' a little bubble tour we'd been takin' through the breakfast doughnut zone. it was pinckney's blow. he ain't had the gasolene-burnin' fever very hard until this summer; but when he does get it, he goes the limit, as usual. course, he's been off on excursions with his friends, and occasionally he's chartered a machine by the day; but i'd never heard him talk of wantin' to own one. and then the first thing i knows he shows up at the house last monday night in the tonneau of one of these big seven-seater road destroyers, all fitted out complete with spare shoes, hat box, and a double-decker trunk strapped on the rack behind. "gee!" says i. "why didn't you buy a private railroad train while you was about it, pinckney?" "precisely what i thought i was getting," says he. "however, i want you and sadie to help me test it. we'll start to-morrow morning at nine-thirty. be all ready, will you?" "got any idea where you're going, or how long you'll be gone?" says i. "nothing very definite," says he. "purdy-pell suggested the shore road to boston and back through the berkshires." "fine!" says i. "i'd love to go meanderin' through the country with you from now until christmas; but sad to say i've got one or two----" "oh, renée tells me we can make it in four days," says pinckney, nodding at the chauffeur. "he's been over the route a dozen times." well, i puts the proposition up to sadie, expectin' she'd queer it first jump; but inside of ten minutes she'd planned out just how she could leave little sully, and what she should wear, and it's all fixed. i tried to show her where i couldn't afford to quit the studio for two or three weeks, just at this time of year, when so many of my reg'lars need tunin' up after their vacations; but my arguments don't carry much weight. "rubbish, shorty!" says she. "we'll be back before the end of the week, and swifty joe can manage until then. anyway, we're not going to miss this lovely weather. we're going, that's all!" "well," says i to pinckney, "i've decided to go." now this ain't any lightnin' conductor rehash. bubble tourin' has its good points, and it has its drawbacks, too. if you're willin' to take things as they come along, and you're travelin' with the right bunch, and your own disposition's fair to middlin', why, you can have a bang up time, just like you could anywhere with the same layout. also, i'm willin' to risk an encore to this partic'lar trip any time i get the chance. but there was something else i was gettin' at. it don't turn up until along durin' the afternoon of our second day out. we was tearin' along one of them new tar roads between narragansett pier and newport, and i was tryin' to hand a josh to renée by askin' him to be sure and tell me when we went through rhode island, as i wanted to take a glance at it,--for we must have been hittin' fifty an hour, with the engine runnin' as smooth and sweet as a french clock,--when all of a sudden there's a bang like bustin' a paper bag, and we feels the car sag down on one side. "_sacré!_" says renée through his front teeth. "ha, ha!" sings out pinckney. "my first blow-out!" "glad you feel so happy over it," says i. it's a sensation that don't bring much joy, as a rule. here you are, skimmin' along through the country, glancin' at things sort of casual, same's you do from a pullman window, but not takin' any int'rest in the scenery except in a general way, only wonderin' now and then how it is people happen to live in places so far away. and then all in a minute the scenery ain't movin' past you at all. it stops dead in its tracks, like when the film of a movin' picture machine gets tangled up, and there's only one partic'lar scene to look at. it's mighty curious, too, how quick that special spot loses its charm. also, as a gen'ral rule, such things happen just at the wrong spot in the road. now we'd been sailin' along over a ridge, where we could look out across narragansett bay for miles; but here where our tire had gone on the blink was a kind of dip down between the hills, with no view at all. first off we all has to pile out and get in renée's way while he inspects the damage. it's a blow-out for fair, a hole big enough to lay your two hands in, right across the tread, where we'd picked up a broken bottle, or maybe a cast horseshoe with the nails in it. then, while he proceeds to get busy with the jack and tire irons, we all makes up our minds to a good long wait; for when you tackle one of them big boys, with the rims rusted in, it ain't any fifteen-minute picnic, you know. course, pinckney gets out his fireless bottles and the glasses and improves the time by handin' around somethin' soothin' or cheerin', accordin' to taste. not bein' thirsty, i begins inspectin' the contagious scenery. it wa'n't anything an artist would yearn to paint. just back from the road is a sort of shack that looks as though someone might be campin' out in it, and behind that a mess of rough sheds and chicken coops. next i discovers that the object down in the field which i'd taken for a scarecrow was a live man. by the motions he's goin' through, he's diggin' potatoes, and from the way he sticks to it, not payin' any attention to us, it seems as if he found it a mighty int'restin' pastime. you'd most think, livin' in an out of the way, forsaken place like that, that most any native would be glad to stop work long enough to look over a hot lookin' bunch like ours. this one don't seem inclined that way, though. he keeps his back bent and his head down and his hands busy. now, whenever i've been out in a machine, and we've had any kind of trouble, there's always been a gawpin' committee standin' around, composed of every human being in sight at the time of the casualty, includin' a few that seemed to pop up out of the ground. but here's a case where the only party that can act as an audience ain't doin' his duty. so a fool freak hits me to stroll over and poke him up. "hey, you!" says i, vaultin' the fence. he jerks his head up a little at that, kind of stares in my direction, and then dives into another hill of spuds. "huh!" thinks i. "don't want any city folks in his'n, by chowder! but here's where he gets 'em thrust on him!" and i pikes over for a closer view. couldn't see much, though, but dirty overalls, blue outing shirt, and an old haymaker's straw hat with a brim that lops down around his face and ears. "excuse me," says i; "but ain't you missin' a trick, or is it because you don't feel sociable to-day? how're the murphies pannin' out this season?" to see the start he gives, you'd think i'd crept up from behind and swatted him one. he straightens up, backs off a step or two, and opens his mouth. "why--why----" says he, after one or two gasps. "who are you, please?" "me?" says i. "oh, i'm just a stray stranger. i was being shot through your cunnin' little state on a no-stop schedule, when one of our tires went out of business. hence this informal call." "but," says he, hesitatin' and pushin' back the hat brim, "isn't this--er--aren't you professor mccabe?" say, then it was my turn to do the open face act! course, knockin' around as much as i have and rubbin' against so many diff'rent kinds of folks, i'm liable to run across people that know me anywhere; but blamed if i expected to do it just walkin' out accidental into a potato orchard. sure enough, too, there was something familiar about that long thin nose and the droopy mouth corners; but i couldn't place him. specially i'd been willin' to pass my oath i'd never known any party that owned such a scatterin' crop of bleached face herbage as he was sportin'. it looked like bunches of old hay on the side of a hill. the stary, faded out blue eyes wa'n't just like any i could remember, either, and i'm gen'rally strong on that point. "you've called my number, all right," says i; "but, as for returnin' the compliment, you've got me going, neighbor. how do you think i'm looking?" he makes a weak stab at springin' a smile, about the ghastliest attempt at that sort of thing i ever watched, and then he shrugs his shoulders. "i--i couldn't say about your looks," says he. "i recognized you by your voice. perhaps you won't remember me at all. i'm dexter bean." "what!" says i. "not beany, that used to do architectin' on the top floor over the studio?" "yes," says he. "and you've forgot my mug so soon?" says i. "oh, no!" says he, speakin' up quick. "i haven't forgotten. but i can't see very well now, you know. in fact, i--i'm---- well, it's almost night time with me, shorty," and by the way he chokes up i can tell how hard it is for him to get out even that much. "you don't mean," says i, "that--that you----" he nods, puts his hands up to his face, and turns his head for a minute. well, say, i've had lumps come in my throat once in a while before on some account or other; but i never felt so much like i'd swallowed a prize punkin as i did just then. most night time! course, you hear of lots of cases, and you know there's asylums where such people are taken care of and taught to weave cane bottoms for chairs; but i tell you when you get right up against such a case, a party you've known and liked, and it's handed to you sudden that he's almost in the stick tappin' class--well, it's apt to get you hard. i know it did me. why, i didn't know any more what to do or say than a goat. but it was my next. "well, well, beany, old boy!" says i, slidin' an arm across his shoulder. "this is all news to me. let's get over in the shade and talk this thing over." "i--i'd like to, shorty," says he. so we camps down under a tree next to the fence, and he gives me the story. as he talks, too, it all comes back to me about the first time some of them boys from up stairs towed him down to the studio. he'd drifted in from some down east crossroads, where he'd taken a course in mechanical drawin' and got the idea that he was an architect. and a greener rube than him i never expect to see. it was a wonder some milliner hadn't grabbed him and sewed him on a hat before he got to d-st. maybe that gang of t square sports didn't find him entertainin', too. why, he swallowed all the moldy old bunk yarns they passed over, and when they couldn't hold in any longer, and just let loose the hee-haws, he took it good natured, springin' that kind of sad smile of his on 'em, and not even gettin' red around the ears. so the boss set him to sweepin' the floors and tendin' the blueprint frames on the roof. that's the way he broke in. then a few months later, when they had a rush of contracts, they tried him out on some detail work. but his drawin' was too ragged. he was so good natured, though, and so willin' to do anything for anybody, that they kept him around, mainly to spring new gags on, so far as i could see. it wa'n't until he got at some house plans by accident that they found out where he fitted in. he'd go over a set of them puzzle rolls that mean as much to me as a laundry ticket, and he'd point out where there was room for another clothes closet off some chamber here, and a laundry chute there, and how the sink in the butler's pantry was on the wrong side for a right handed dish washer, and a lot of little details that nobody else would think of unless they'd lived in just such a house for six months or so. beany the home expert, they called him after that, and before any house plans was o. k.'d by the boss he had to revise 'em. then he got to hangin' round the studio after hours, helpin' swifty joe clean up and listenin' to his enlightenin' conversation. it takes a mighty talented listener to get swifty started; but when he does get his tongue once limbered up, and is sure of his audience, he enjoys nothin' like givin' off his views in wholesale lots. as for me, i never said a whole lot to beany, nor him to me; but i couldn't help growin' to like the cuss, because he was one of them gentle, quiet kind that you cotton to without knowin' exactly why. not that i missed him a lot when he disappeared. fact was, he just dropped out, and i don't know as i even asked what had become of him. i was hearin' now, though. it wa'n't any great tragedy, to start with. some of the boys got skylarkin' one lunch hour, and beany was watchin' 'em, when a lead paper weight he was holdin' slipped out of his hand, struck the end of a ruler, and flipped it up into his face. a sharp corner hit him in the eye, that's all. he had the sore peeper bound up for three or four days before he took it to a hospital. when he didn't show up again they wondered some, and one of the firm inquired for him at his old boardin' place. you know how it is in town. there's so many comin' and goin' that it's hard to keep track of 'em all. so beany just faded out. he told me that when the hospital doctor put it to him flat how bad off his bum lamp was, and how the other was due to go the same way, he just started out and walked aimless for two days and nights, hardly stoppin'. then he steadied down, pulled himself together, and mapped out a plan. besides architectin', all he knew how to do was to raise chickens. he figured that if he could get a little place off where land was cheap, and get the hang of it well in his head before his glim was doused altogether, he might worry along. he couldn't bear to think of goin' back to his old home, or hangin' around among strangers until he had to be herded into one of them big brick barracks. he wanted to be alone and outdoors. he had a few dollars with him that he'd saved up, and when he struck this little sand plot, miles from anywhere, he squat right down on it, built his shack, got some settin' hens, and prepared for a long siege in the dark. one eye was all to the bad already, and the other was beginnin' to grow dim. nice cheerful proposition to wake up to every mornin', wa'n't it? does beany whine any in tellin' it, though? never a whimper! gets off his little jokes on himself about the breaks he makes cookin' his meals, such as sweetenin' his coffee out of the salt bag, and bitin' into a cake of bar soap, thinkin' it was a slice of the soggy bread he'd make. keeps his courage up, too, by trying to think that maybe livin' outdoors and improvin' his health will help him get back his sight. "i'm sure i am some better already," says he. "for months all i could see out of my left eye was purple and yellow and blue rings. now i don't see those at all." "that so?" says i, battin' my head for some come-back that would fit. "why--er--i should think you'd miss 'em, beany." brilliant, wa'n't it? but beany throws back his head and lets out the first real laugh he's indulged in for over a year. "no, hardly that," says he. "i don't care about carrying my rainbows around with me." "but look here, beany," says i. "you can't stay here doin' the poultry hermit act." "it's the only thing i'm fit for," says he; "so i must." "then you've got to let us send you a few things occasionally," says i. "i'll look up your old boss and----" "no, no!" says he. "i'm getting along all right. i've been a little lonesome; but i'll pull through." "you ought to be doin' some doctorin', though," says i. he shrugs his shoulders again and waves one hand. "what's the use?" says he. "they told me at the hospital there wasn't any help. no, i'll just stay here and plug it out by myself." talk about clear grit, eh! and maybe you can frame up my feelin's when he insists there ain't a thing i can do for him. about then, too, i hears 'em shoutin' from the car for me to come along, as they're all ready to start again. so all i does is swap grips with beany, get off some fool speech about wishin' him luck, and leave him standin' there in the potato field. somehow i didn't enjoy the rest of that day's run very much, and when they jollies me by askin' who's my scarecrow acquaintance i couldn't work myself up to tellin' 'em about him. but all i could think of was beany back there pokin' around alone in the fog that was settlin' down thicker and thicker every day. and in the course of two or three hours i had a thought. "pinckney," says i, as we was puttin' up in newport, "you know all sorts of crackerjacks. got any expert eye doctors on your list?" he chews that over a minute or so, and concludes that he has, a dr. jason craige, who's right here in town. "he's the real thing, is he?" says i. "most skillful oculist in the country," says pinckney, "and charges accordingly." "as high as fifty a throw?" says i. "fifty!" says pinckney. "you should see his cliff walk cottage." "let's," says i. "there's a friend of mine i'd like to have him take a look at to-morrow." "no use," says pinckney. "he drops his practice entirely during his vacation; wouldn't treat an emperor then, i've heard him say. he's a good deal of a crank on that--and billiards." "but see here, pinckney," says i, and i goes on to give him the whole tale about beany, puttin' it over as strong as i knew how. "sorry," says pinckney; "but i know of no way in which i could induce him to change his custom. he's scotch, you know, and as obstinate as---- hold on, shorty! i've an idea. how strong will you back my game of billiards?" now of all the erratic cue performers i ever watched, pinckney gets the medal. there's times when he can nurse 'em along the cushion and run up quite a string, and then again i've seen him play a game any duffer'd be ashamed of. but i begins to smell out his scheme. "if it means a chance for beany," says i, "i'll bid good-by to five twenties and let you do your worst." "a wager of that sort would tempt craige, if anything would," says pinckney. "we'll try it on, anyway." whether it was the bluff pinckney threw, or the insultin' way he suggests that the doc don't dare take him up, i can't say. all i know is that inside of half an hour we was in jason craige's private billiard room, him and pinckney peeled down to their shirts, and at it. as a rule i could go to sleep watchin' the best three-ball carom game ever played; but durin' this contest i holds the marker's stick and never misses a move. first off pinckney plays about as skillful as a trained pig practicin' on the piano; but after four or five minutes of punk exhibition he takes a brace and surprises himself. no need going into details. pinckney wins out, and the doc slams his cue into the rack with some remark about producin' the charity patient to-morrow. did i? i routs renée out at daylight next mornin', has him make a fifty-mile run at vanderbilt cup speed, and we has beany in the eye expert's lib'ry before he comes down for breakfast. it takes dr. craige less'n three minutes to discover that the hospital hand who told beany he was bound to lose both lamps was a fat brained nut who'd be more useful drivin' an ashcart. the doc lays beany out on a leather couch, uses a little cocaine in the right place, monkeys around a minute or so with some shiny hardware, and announces that after he's laid up for twenty-four hours in a dark room, usin' the wash reg'lar, he'll be able to see as well as any of us. it's a fact, too; for beany goes back on his old job next monday mornin'. "by jove!" says pinckney, after the trick is turned. "a miracle, craige!" "miracle be blowed!" says the doc. "you accomplished the miracle last night, pinckney, when you ran thirty-two buttons on scratch hits." the end * * * * * * the novels of george barr mccutcheon may be had wherever books are sold. ask for grosset and dunlap's list. graustark. illustrated with scenes from the play. with the appearance of this novel, the author introduced a new type of story and won for himself a perpetual reading public. it is the story of love behind a throne in a new and strange country. beverly of graustark. illustrations by harrison fisher. this is a sequel to "graustark." a bewitching american girl visits the little principality and there has a romantic love affair. prince of graustark. illustrations by a. i. keller. the prince of graustark is none other than the son of the heroine of "graustark." beverly's daughter, and an american multimillionaire with a brilliant and lovely daughter also figure in the story. brewster's millions. illustrated with scenes from the photo-play. a young man, required to spend one million dollars in one year, in order to inherit _seven_, accomplishes the task in this lively story. cowardice court. illus. by harrison fisher and decorations by theodore hapgood. a romance of love and adventure, the plot forming around a social feud in the adirondacks in which an english girl is tempted into being a traitor by a romantic young american. the hollow of her hand. illustrated by a. i. keller. a story of modern new york, built around an ancient enmity, born of the scorn of the aristocrat for one of inferior birth. what's-his-name. illustrations by harrison fisher. "what's-his-name" is the husband of a beautiful and popular actress who is billboarded on broadway under an assumed name. the very opposite manner in which these two live their lives brings a dramatic climax to the story. ask for complete free list of g. & d. popular copyrighted fiction grosset & dunlap, publishers, new york * * * * * * zane grey's novels may be had wherever books are sold. ask for grosset & dunlap's list the light of western stars a new york society girl buys a ranch which becomes the center of frontier warfare. her loyal superintendent rescues her when she is captured by bandits. a surprising climax brings the story to a delightful close. the rainbow trail the story of a young clergyman who becomes a wanderer in the great western uplands--until at last love and faith awake. desert gold the story describes the recent uprising along the border, and ends with the finding of the gold which two prospectors had willed to the girl who is the story's heroine. riders of the purple sage a picturesque romance of utah of some forty years ago when mormon authority ruled. the prosecution of jane withersteen is the theme of the story. the last of the plainsmen this is the record of a trip which the author took with buffalo jones, known as the _preserver of the american bison, across the arizona desert and of a hunt in_ "that wonderful country of deep canons and giant pines." the heritage of the desert a lovely girl, who has been reared among mormons, learns to love a young new englander. the mormon religion, however, demands that the girl shall become the second wife of one of the mormons--well, that's the problem of this great story. the short stop the young hero, tiring of his factory grind, starts out to win fame and fortune as a professional ball player. his hard knocks at the start are followed by such success as clean sportsmanship, courage and honesty ought to win. betty zane this story tells of the bravery and heroism of betty, the beautiful young sister of old colonel zane, one of the bravest pioneers. the lone star ranger after killing a man in self defense, buck duane becomes an outlaw along the texas border. in a camp on the mexican side of the river, he finds a young girl held prisoner, and in attempting to rescue her, brings down upon himself the wrath of her captors and henceforth is hunted on one side by honest men, on the other by outlaws. the border legion joan randle, in a spirit of anger, sent jim cleve out to a lawless western mining camp, to prove his mettle. then realizing that she loved him--she followed him out. on her way, she is captured by a bandit band, and trouble begins when she shoots kells, the leader--and nurses him to health again. here enters another romance--when joan, disguised as an outlaw, observes jim, in the throes of dissipation. a gold strike, a thrilling robbery--gambling and gun play carry you along breathlessly. the last of the great scouts, by helen cody wetmore and zane grey the life story of colonel william f. cody, "buffalo bill," as told by his sister and zane grey. it begins with his boyhood in iowa and his first encounter with an indian. we see "bill" as a pony express rider, then near fort sumter as chief of the scouts, and later engaged in the most dangerous indian campaigns. there is also a very interesting account of the travels of "the wild west" show. no character in public life makes a stronger appeal to the imagination of america than "buffalo bill," whose daring and bravery made him famous grosset & dunlap, publishers, new york * * * * * * b. m. bower's novels thrilling western romances large mos. handsomely bound in cloth. illustrated chip, of the flying u a breezy wholesome tale, wherein the love affairs of chip and delia whitman are charmingly and humorously told. chip's jealousy of dr. cecil grantham, who turns out to be a big, blue eyed young woman is very amusing. a clever, realistic story of the american cow-puncher. the happy family a lively and amusing story, dealing with the adventures of eighteen jovial, big hearted montana cowboys. foremost amongst them, we find ananias green, known as andy, whose imaginative powers cause many lively and exciting adventures. her prairie knight a realistic story of the plains, describing a gay party of easterners who exchange a cottage at newport for the rough homeliness of a montana ranch-house. the merry-hearted cowboys, the fascinating beatrice, and the effusive sir redmond, become living, breathing personalities. the range dwellers here are everyday, genuine cowboys, just as they really exist. spirited action, a range feud between two families, and a romeo and juliet courtship make this a bright, jolly, entertaining story, without a dull page. the lure of dim trails a vivid portrayal of the experience of an eastern author, among the cowboys of the west, in search of "local color" for a new novel. "bud" thurston learns many a lesson while following "the lure of the dim trails" but the hardest, and probably the most welcome, is that of love. the lonesome trail "weary" davidson leaves the ranch for portland, where conventional city life palls on him. a little branch of sage brush, pungent with the atmosphere of the prairie, and the recollection of a pair of large brown eyes soon compel his return. a wholesome love story. the long shadow a vigorous western story, sparkling with the free, outdoor, life of a mountain ranch. its scenes shift rapidly and its actors play the game of life fearlessly and like men. it is a fine love story from start to finish. ask for complete free list of g. & d. popular copyrighted fiction grosset & dunlap, west th st., new york * * * * * * booth tarkington's novels may be had wherever books are sold. ask for grosset & dunlap's list. seventeen. illustrated by arthur william brown. no one but the creator of penrod could have portrayed the immortal young people of this story. its humor is irresistible and reminiscent of the time when the reader was seventeen. penrod. illustrated by gordon grant. this is a picture of a boy's heart, full of the lovable, humorous, tragic things which are locked secrets to most older folks. it is a finished, exquisite work. penrod and sam. illustrated by worth brehm. like "penrod" and "seventeen," this book contains some remarkable phases of real boyhood and some of the best stories of juvenile prankishness that have ever been written. the turmoil. illustrated by c. e. chambers. bibbs sheridan is a dreamy, imaginative youth, who revolts against his father's plans for him to be a servitor of big business. the love of a fine girl turns bibbs' life from failure to success. the gentleman from indiana. frontispiece. a story of love and politics,--more especially a picture of a country editor's life in indiana, but the charm of the book lies in the love interest. the flirt. illustrated by clarence f. underwood. the "flirt," the younger of two sisters, breaks one girl's engagement, drives one man to suicide, causes the murder of another, leads another to lose his fortune, and in the end marries a stupid and unpromising suitor, leaving the really worthy one to marry her sister. ask for complete free list of g. & d. popular copyrighted fiction grosset & dunlap, publishers, new york * * * * * * grosset & dunlap's dramatized novels the kind that are making theatrical history may be had wherever books are sold. ask far grosset & dunlap's list within the law. by bayard veiller & marvin dana. illustrated by wm. charles cooke. this is a novelization of the immensely successful play which ran for two years in new york and chicago. the plot of this powerful novel is of a young woman's revenge directed against her employer who allowed her to be sent to prison for three years on a charge of theft, of which she was innocent. what happened to mary. by robert carlton brown. illustrated with scenes from the play. this is a narrative of a young and innocent country girl who is suddenly thrown into the very heart of new york, "the land of her dreams," where she is exposed to all sorts of temptations and dangers. the story of mary is being told in moving pictures and played in theatres all over the world. the return of peter grimm. by david belasco. illustrated by john rae. this is a novelization of the popular play in which david warfield, as old peter grimm, scored such a remarkable success. the story is spectacular and extremely pathetic but withal, powerful, both as a book and as a play. the garden of allah. by robert hichens. this novel is an intense, glowing epic of the great desert, sunlit barbaric, with its marvelous atmosphere of vastness and loneliness. it is a book of rapturous beauty, vivid in word painting. the play has been staged with magnificent cast and gorgeous properties. ben hur. a tale of the christ. by general lew wallace. the whole world has placed this famous religious-historical romance on a height of pre-eminence which no other novel of its time has reached. the clashing of rivalry and the deepest human passions, the perfect reproduction of brilliant roman life, and the tense, fierce atmosphere of the arena have kept their deep fascination. a tremendous dramatic success. bought and paid for. by george broadhurst and arthur hornblow. illustrated with scenes from the play. a stupendous arraignment of modern marriage which has created an interest on the stage that is almost unparalleled. the scenes are laid in new york, and deal with conditions among both the rich and poor. the interest of the story turns on the day-by-day developments which show the young wife the price she has paid. ask for complete free list of g. & d. popular copyrighted fiction grosset & dunlap, west th st., new york * * * * * * the novels of stewart edward white may be had wherever books are sold. ask for grosset & dunlap's list. the blazed trail. illustrated by thomas fogarty. a wholesome story with gleams of humor, telling of a young man who blazed his way to fortune through the heart of the michigan pines. the call of the north. ills. with scenes from the play. the story centers about a hudson bay trading post, known as "the conjuror's house" (the original title of the book.) the riverman. ills. by n. c. wyeth and c. f. underwood. the story of a man's fight against a river and of a struggle between honesty and grit on the one side, and dishonesty and shrewdness on the other. rules of the game. illustrated by lejaren a. hiller. the romance of the son of "the riverman." the young college hero goes into the lumber camp, is antagonized by "graft," and comes into the romance of his life. gold. illustrated by thomas fogarty. the gold fever of ' is pictured with vividness. a part of the story is laid in panama, the route taken by the gold-seekers. the forest. illustrated by thomas fogarty. the book tells of the canoe trip of the author and his companion into the great woods. much information about camping and outdoor life. a splendid treatise on woodcraft. the mountains. illustrated by fernand lungren. an account of the adventures of a five months' camping trip in the sierras of california. the author has followed a true sequence of events. the cabin. illustrated with photographs by the author. a chronicle of the building of a cabin home in a forest-girdled meadow of the sierras. full of nature and woodcraft, and the shrewd philosophy of "california john." the gray dawn. illustrated by thomas fogarty. this book tells of the period shortly after the first mad rush for gold in california. a young lawyer and his wife, initiated into the gay life of san francisco, find their ways parted through his downward course, but succeeding events bring the "gray dawn of better things" for both of them. ask for complete free list of g. & d. popular copyrighted fiction grosset & dunlap, publishers, new york a guest at the ludlow and other stories by edgar wilson nye [bill nye] _with illustrations by louis braunhold_ [illustration] indianapolis and kansas city the bowen-merrill company m dccc xcvii copyright, by the bowen-merrill co. a guest at the ludlow [illustration: _you can pay five cents to the elevated railroad and get here, or you can put some other man's nickel in your own slot and come here with an attendant_ (page )] * * * * * this volume was prepared for publication by the author a few months before his death, and is now published by arrangement with mrs. edgar wilson nye. * * * * * contents page. i. a guest at the ludlow ii. old polka dot's daughter iii. a great cerebrator iv. hints for the household v. a journey westward vi. a prophet and a piute vii. the sabbath of a great author viii. a flyer in dirt ix. a singular "hamlet" x. my matrimonial bureau xi. the hateful hen xii. as a candidate xiii. summer boarders and others xiv. three open letters xv. the dubious future xvi. earning a reward xvii. a plea for justice xviii. grains of truth xix. a scamper through the park xx. hints to the traveler xxi. a medieval discoverer xxii. how to pick out a birthplace xxiii. on broadway xxiv. my trip to dixie xxv. the thought clothier xxvi. a rubber esophagus xxvii. advice to a son xxviii. the automatic bell boy list of illustrations page you can pay five cents to the elevated railroad and get here, or you can put some other man's nickel in your own slot and come here with an attendant _frontispiece_ his old look of apprehensive cordiality did not leave him until he had seen me climb on a load of hay with my trunk and start for home then they tied a string of sleighbells to his tail, and hit him a smart, stinging blow with a black snake my idea was to apply it to the wall mostly, but the chair tipped, and so i papered the piano and my wife on the way down frogs build their nests there in the spring and rear their young, but people never go there i improved the time by cultivating the acquaintance of the beautiful and picturesque outcasts known as the piute indians he sometimes succeeds in getting himself disliked by some other dog and then i can observe the fight then rolling my trousers up a yard or two, i struck off into the scrub pine, carrying with me a large board he looked up sadly at me with his one eye as who should say, "have you got any more of that there red paint left?" "mr. nye, on behalf of this vast assemblage (tremulo), i thank god that you are poor!!!" three or four times as much oxygen is consumed in activity as in repose, hence the hornets' nests introduced by me last season playing billiards, accompanied by the vicious habit of pounding on the floor with the butt of the cue ever and anon, produces at last optical illusions mr. whatley hadn't gone more than half a mile when he heard the wild and disappointed yells of the salvation army "i was in a large, cool hosspital which smelt strong of some forrin substans. the hed doctor had been breathing on me and so i come too" said the governor as he swung around with his feet over in our part of the carriage and asked me for a light he therefore had to borrow a bald-headed man to act as bust for him in the evening it was at this time that he noticed the swinging of a lamp in a church, and observing that the oscillations were of equal duration here andrew turned the grindstone in the shed, while a large, heavy neighbor got on and rode for an hour or two "a man that crosses broadway for a year can be mayor of boston, but my idee is that he's a heap more likely to be mayor of the new jerusalem" i bought tickets at cincinnati of a pale, sallow liar, who is just beginning to work his way up to the forty-ninth degree in the order of ananias in hotels it will take the mental strain off the bell-boy, relieving him also of a portion of his burdensome salary at the same time a guest at the ludlow i we are stopping quietly here, taking our meals in our rooms mostly, and going out very little indeed. when i say we, i use the term editorially. we notice first of all the great contrast between this and other hotels, and in several instances this one is superior. in the first place, there is a sense of absolute security when one goes to sleep here that can not be felt at a popular hotel, where burglars secrete themselves in the wardrobe during the day and steal one's pantaloons and contents at night. this is one of the compensations of life in prison. here the burglars go to bed at the hour that the rest of us do. we all retire at the same time, and a murderer can not sit up any later at night than the smaller or unknown criminal can. you can get to ludlow street jail by taking the second avenue elevated train to grand street, and then going east two blocks, or you can fire a shotgun into a sabbath-school. you can pay five cents to the elevated railroad and get here, or you can put some other man's nickel in your own slot and come here with an attendant. william marcy tweed was the contractor of ludlow street jail, and here also he died. he was the son of a poor chair-maker, and was born april , . from the chair business in to congress was the first false step. exhilarated by the delirium of official life, and the false joys of franking his linen home every week, and having cake and preserves franked back to him at washington, he resolved to still further taste the delights of office, and in we find him as a school commissioner. in he became grand sachem of the tammany society, an association at that time more purely political than politically pure. as president of the board of supervisors, head of the department of public works, state senator, and grand sachem of tammany, tweed had a large and seductive influence over the city and state. the story of how he earned a scanty livelihood by stealing a million of dollars at a pop, and thus, with the most rigid economy, scraped together $ , , in a few years by patient industry and smoking plug tobacco, has been frequently told. tweed was once placed here in ludlow street jail in default of $ , , bail. how few there are of us who could slap up that amount of bail if rudely gobbled on the street by the hand of the law. while riding out with the sheriff, in , tweed asked to see his wife, and said he would be back in a minute. he came back by way of spain, in the fall of ' , looking much improved. but the malaria and dissipation of blackwell's island afterwards impaired his health, and having done time there, and having been arrested afterwards and placed in ludlow street jail, he died here april , , leaving behind him a large, vain world, and an equally vain judgment for $ , , . , to which he said he would give his attention as soon as he could get a paving contract in the sweet ultimately. from the exterior ludlow street jail looks somewhat like a conservatory of music, but as soon as one enters he readily discovers his mistake. the structure has feet frontage, and a court, which is sometimes called the court of last resort. the guest can climb out of this court by ascending a polished brick wall about feet high, and then letting himself down in a similar way on the ludlow street side. that one thing is doing a great deal towards keeping quite a number of people here who would otherwise, i think, go away. james d. fish and ferdinand ward both remained here prior to their escape to sing sing. red leary, also, made his escape from this point, but did not succeed in reaching the penitentiary. forty thousand prisoners have been confined in ludlow street jail, mostly for civil offenses. a man in new york runs a very short career if he tries to be offensively civil. as you enter ludlow street jail the door is carefully closed after you, and locked by means of an iron lock about the size of a pictorial family bible. you then remain on the inside for quite a spell. you do not hear the prattle of soiled children any more. all the glad sunlight, and stench-condensing pavements, and the dark-haired inhabitants of rivington street, are seen no longer, and the heavy iron storm-door shuts out the wail of the combat from the alley near by. ludlow street jail may be surrounded by a very miserable and dirty quarter of the city, but when you get inside all is changed. you register first. there is a good pen there that you can write with, and the clerk does not chew tolu and read a sporting paper while you wait for a room. he is there to attend to business, and he attends to it. he does not seem to care whether you have any baggage or not. you can stay here for days, even if you don't have any baggage. all you need is a kind word and a mittimus from the court. one enters this sanitarium either as a boarder or a felon. if you decide to come in as a boarder, you pay the warden $ a week for the privilege of sitting at his table and eating the luxuries of the market. you also get a better room than at many hotels, and you have a good strong door, with a padlock on it, which enables you to prevent the sudden and unlooked-for entrance of the chambermaid. it is a good-sized room, with a wonderful amount of seclusion, a plain bed, table, chairs, carpet and so forth. after a few weeks at the seaside, at $ per day, i think the room in which i am writing is not unreasonable at $ . still, of course, we miss the sea breeze. you can pay $ to $ per week here if you wish, and get your money's worth, too. for the latter sum one may live in the bridal chamber, so to speak, and eat the very best food all the time. heavy iron bars keep the mosquitoes out, and at night the house is brilliantly lighted by incandescent lights of one-candle power each. neat snuffers, consisting of the thumb and forefinger polished on the hair, are to be found in each occupied room. bread is served to the freshmen and juniors in rectangular wads. it is such bread as convicts' tears have moistened many thousand years. in that way it gets quite moist. the most painful feature about life in ludlow street jail is the confinement. one can not avoid a feeling of being constantly hampered and hemmed in. one more disagreeable thing is the great social distinction here. the poor man who sleeps in a stone niche near the roof, and who is constantly elbowed and hustled out of his bed by earnest and restless vermin with a tendency toward insomnia, is harassed by meeting in the court-yard and corridors the paying boarders who wear good clothes, live well, have their cigars, brandy and kentucky sec all the time. the mcallister crowd here is just as exclusive as it is on the outside. but, great scott! what a comfort it is to a man like me, who has been nearly killed by a cyclone, to feel the firm, secure walls and solid time lock when he goes to bed at night! even if i can not belong to the , i am almost happy. we retire at : o'clock at night and arise at : in the morning, so as to get an early start. a man who has five or ten years to stay in a place like this naturally likes to get at it as soon as possible each day, and so he gets up at : . we dress by the gaudy light of the candle, and while we do so, we remember far away at home our wife and the little boy asleep in her arms. they do not get up at : . it is at this hour we remember the fragrant drawer in the dresser at home where our clean shirts, and collars and cuffs, and socks and handkerchiefs, are put every week by our wife. we also recall as we go about our stone den, with its odor of former corned beef, and the ghost of some bloody-handed predecessor's snore still moaning in the walls, the picture of green grass by our own doorway, and the apples that were just ripening, when the bench warrant came. the time from : to breakfast is occupied by the average, or non-paying inmate, in doing the chamberwork and tidying up his state-room. i do not know how others feel about it, but i dislike chamberwork most heartily, especially when i am in jail. nothing has done more to keep me out of jail, i guess, than the fact that while there i have to make up my bed and dust the piano. breakfast is generally table d'hôte and consists of bread. a tin-cup of coffee takes the taste of the bread out of your mouth, and then if you have some limburger cheese in your pocket you can with that remove the taste of the coffee. dinner is served at o'clock, and consists of more bread with soup. this soup has everything in it except nourishment. the bead on this soup is noticeable for quite a distance. it is disagreeable. several days ago i heard that the mayor was in the soup, but i didn't realize it before. i thought it was a newspaper yarn. there is everything in this soup, from shop-worn rice up to neat's-foot oil. once i thought i detected cuisine in it. the dinner menu is changed on fridays, sundays and thursdays, on which days you get the soup first and the bread afterwards. in this way the bread is saved. three days in a week each man gets at dinner a potato containing a thousand-legged worm. at o'clock comes supper with toast and responses. bread is served at supper time, together with a cup of tea. to those who dislike bread and never eat soup, or do not drink tea or coffee, life at ludlow street jail is indeed irksome. i asked for kumiss and a pony of benedictine, as my stone boudoir made me feel rocky, but it has not yet been sent up. somehow, while here, i can not forget poor old man dorrit, the master of the marshalsea, and how the debtors' prison preyed upon his mind till he didn't enjoy anything except to stand off and admire himself. ludlow street jail is a good deal like it in many ways, and i can see how in time the canker of unrest and the bitter memories of those who did us wrong but who are basking in the bright and bracing air, while we, to meet their obligations, sacrifice our money, our health and at last our minds, would kill hope and ambition. in a few weeks i believe i should also get a preying on my mind. that is about the last thing i would think of preying on, but a man must eat something. before closing this brief and incomplete account as a guest at ludlow street jail i ought, in justice to my family, to say, perhaps, that i came down this morning to see a friend of mine who is here because he refuses to pay alimony to his recreant and morbidly sociable wife. he says he is quite content to stay here, so long as his wife is on the outside. he is writing a small ready-reference book on his side of the great problem, "is marriage a failure?" with this i shake him by the hand and in a moment the big iron storm-door clangs behind me, the big lock clicks in its hoarse, black throat and i welcome even the air of ludlow street so long as the blue sky is above it. old polka dot's daughter ii i once decided to visit an acquaintance who had named his country place "the elms." i went partly to punish him because his invitation was so evidently hollow and insincere. he had "the elms" worked on his clothes, and embossed on his stationery and blown in his glass, and it pained him to eat his food from table linen that didn't have "the elms" emblazoned on it. he told me to come and surprise him any time, and shoot in his preserves, and stay until business compelled me to return to town again. he had no doubt heard that i never surprise any one, and never go away from home very much, and so thought it would be safe. therefore i went. i went just to teach him a valuable lesson. when i go to visit a man for a week, he is certainly thenceforth going to be a better man, or else punishment is of no avail and the chastening rod entirely useless in his case. "the elms" was a misnomer. it should have been called "the shagbark" or "the doodle bug's lair." it was supposed to mean a wide sweep of meadow, a vine covered lodge, a broad velvet lawn, and a carriage way, where the drowsy locust, in the sensuous shadow of magnanimous elms, gnawed a file at intervals through the day, while back of all this the mossy and gray-whiskered front and corrugated brow of the venerable architectural pile stood off and admired itself in the deep and glassy pool at its base. in the first place none of the yeomanry for eight miles around knew that he called his old malarial tank "the elms," so it was hard to find. but when i described the looks of the lord of the elms they wink at each other and wagged their heads and said, "oh, yes, we know him," also interjecting well known one syllable words that are not euphonious enough to print. [illustration: ... "_his old look of apprehensive cordiality did not leave him until he had seen me climb on a load of hay with my trunk and start for home_" (page )] when i got there he was down cellar sprouting potatoes, and his wife was hanging out upon the clothes line a pair of gathered summer trousers that evidently were made for a man who had been badly mangled in a saw-mill. the elms was not even picturesque, and the preserves were out of order. i was received with the same cordiality which you detect on the face of any other kind of detected liar. he wanted to be regarded as a remarkable host and landed proprietor, without being really hospitable. i remained there at the elms a few days, rubbing rock salt and cayenne pepper into the wounds of my host, and suggesting different names for his home, such as "the tom tit's eyrie," "the weeping willow," "the crook neck squash" and "the muskrat's retreat." then i came away. his old look of apprehensive cordiality did not leave him until he had seen me climb on a load of hay with my trunk and start for home. during my brief sojourn i noticed that the surrounding country was full of people, and i presume there was a larger population of "boarders," as we were called indiscriminately, than ever before. the number of available points to which the victims of humidity and poor plumbing may retreat in summer time is constantly on the increase, while, so far as i know, all the private and public boarding places are filled to their utmost capacity. everywhere, the gaudy boarder in flannels and ecru shoes looms upon the green lawn or the brown dirt road, or scales the mountain one day and stays in bed the following week, rubbing james b. pond's extract on his swollen joints. i scaled mount utsa-yantha in company with others. we picked out a nice hot day, and, selecting the most erect wall of the mountain, facing west, we scaled it in such a way that it will not have to be done again till new scales grow on it. mount utsa-yantha is , feet above sea level, and has a brow which reminds me of mine. it is broad, massive and bleak. the foot of the mountain is more massive, however. from the top of the mountain one gets, with a good glass, a view of six or seven states, i was told. possibly there were that many in sight, though at that season of the year states look so much alike that it takes an expert to pick them out readily. when states are moulting, it is all i can do to tell vermont from massachusetts. on this mountain one gets a nice view and highly exhilarating birch beer. albany can be distinctly seen with a glass--a field glass, i mean, not a glass of birch beer. some claim that the nub of a political boom may be seen protruding from the capitol with the nude vision. others say they can see the green mountains, and as far south as the eye can reach. we took two hours and a half for the ascent of the mountain, and came down in about twenty minutes. we descended ungracefully--the way the irishman claimed that the toad walked, viz.: "git up and sit down." mount utsa-yantha--i use the accepted orthography as found in the blackhawk dictionary--has a legend also. many centuries ago this beautiful valley was infested by the red brother and his bronze progeny. where now the red and blue blazer goes shimmering through the swaying maples, and the girl with her other dress on and her straw colored canvas cinch knocketh the croquet ball galley west, once there dwelt an old chief whom we will call polka dot, the pride of his people. he looked somewhat like william maxwell evarts, but was a heavier set man. places where old polka dot sat down and accumulated rest for himself are still shown to city people whose faith was not overworked while young. old polka dot was a firm man, with double teeth all around, and his prowess got into the personal columns of the papers every little while. he had a daughter named utsa-yantha, which means "a messenger sent hastily for treasure," so i am told, or possibly old polka dot meant to imply "one sent off for cash." anyhow utsa-yantha grew to be quite comely, as indian women go. i never yet saw one that couldn't stop an ordinary planet by looking at it steadily for two minutes. she dressed simply, wearing the same clothes while tooling cross-country before breakfast that she wore at the scalp dance the evening before. in summer time she shellacked herself and visited the poor. taking a little box of water colors in a shawl strap, so that she could change her clothes whenever she felt like it, she would go away and be gone for a fortnight at a time, visiting the ultra fashionable people of her tribe. finally a white man penetrated this region. he did it by asking a brakeman on the west shore road how to get here and then doing differently. in that way he had no trouble at all. he saw utsa-yantha and loved her almost instantly. she was skinning a muskrat at the time, and he could not but admire her deftness and skill. from that moment he was not able to drive her image from his heart. he sought her again and again to tell her of his passion, but she would jump the fence and flee like a frightened fawn with a split stick on its tail, if such a comparison may be permitted. at last he won her, and married her quietly in his working clothes. the nearest justice of the peace was then in england, and so rather than wait he was married informally to utsa-yantha, and she went home very much impressed indeed. that fall a little russet baby came to bless their union. the blessing was all he had with him when he arrived. then the old chief polka dot arose in his wrath, to which he added a pair of moose hide moccasins, and he upbraided his daughter for her conduct. he upbraided her with a piazza pole from his wigwam. he was very much agitated. so was the pole. then he cursed her for being the mother of a / breed child, and stalking / he slew the white man by cutting open his trunk and disarranging his most valuable possessions. he then wiped the stab knife on his tossing mane, and grabbing his grandson by his swaddling clothes he hurled the surprised little stranger into lake utsa-yantha. by pouring another pailful of water into the lake the child was successfully drowned. then the widowed and childless utsa-yantha came forth as night settled down upon the beautiful valley and the day died peacefully on the mountain tops. her eyes were red with weeping and her breath was punctuated with sobs. putting on a pair of high rubber boots she waded out into the middle of the lake, where there is quite a deep place, and drowned herself. when the old man found the body of his daughter he was considerably mortified. he took her to the top of the mountain and buried her there, and ever afterward, it is said, whenever any one spoke of the death of his daughter and her family, he would color up and change the subject. this should teach us never to kill a son-in-law without getting his wife's consent. a great cerebrator iii being at large in virginia, along in the latter part of last season, i visited monticello, the former home of thomas jefferson, also his grave. monticello is about an hour's ride from charlottesville, by diligence. one rides over a road constructed of rip-raps and broken stone. it is called a macadamized road, and twenty miles of it will make the pelvis of a long-waisted man chafe against his ears. i have decided that the site for my grave shall be at the end of a trunk line somewhere, and i will endow a droska to carry passengers to and from said grave. whatever my life may have been, and however short i may have fallen in my great struggle for a generous recognition by the american people, i propose to place my grave within reach of all. monticello is reached by a circuitous route to the top of a beautiful hill, on the crest of which rests the brick house where mr. jefferson lived. you enter a lodge gate in charge of a venerable negro, to whom you pay two bits apiece for admission. this sum goes towards repairing the roads, according to the ticket which you get. it just goes toward it, however; it don't quite get there, i judge, for the roads are still appealing for aid. perhaps the negro can tell how far it gets. up through a neglected thicket of virginia shrubs and ill-kempt trees you drive to the house. it is a house that would readily command $ , with queer porches to it, and large, airy windows. the top of the whole hill was graded level, or terraced, and an enormous quantity of work must have been required to do it, but jefferson did not care. he did not care for fatigue. with two hundred slaves of his own, and a dowry of three hundred more which was poured into his coffers by his marriage, jeff did not care how much toil it took to polish off the top of a bluff or how much the sweat stood out on the brow of a hill. jefferson wrote the declaration of independence. he sent it to one of the magazines, but it was returned as not available, so he used it in congress and afterward got it printed in the _record_. i saw the chair he wrote it in. it is a plain, old-fashioned wooden chair, with a kind of bosom-board on the right arm, upon which jefferson used to rest his declaration of independence whenever he wanted to write it. there is also an old gig stored in the house. in this gig jefferson used to ride from monticello to washington in a day. this is untrue, but it goes with the place. it takes from : a. m. until noon to ride this distance on a fast train, and in a much more direct line than the old wagon road ran. mr. jefferson was the father of the university of virginia, one of the most historic piles i have ever clapped eyes on. it is now under the management of a classical janitor, who has a tinge of negro blood in his veins, mixed with the rich castilian blood of somebody else. he has been at the head of the university of virginia for over forty years, bringing in the coals and exercising a general oversight over the curriculum and other furniture. he is a modest man, with a tendency toward the classical in his researches. he took us up on the roof, showed us the outlying country, and jarred our ear-drums with the big bell. mr. estes, who has general charge of monticello--called montechello--said that mr. jefferson used to sit on his front porch with a powerful glass, and watch the progress of the work on the university, and if the workmen undertook to smuggle in a soft brick, mr. jefferson, five or six miles away, detected it, and bounding lightly into his saddle, he rode down there to charlottesville, and clubbed the bricklayers until they were glad to pull down the wall to that brick and take it out again. this story is what made me speak of that section a few minutes ago as an outlying country. the other day charles l. seigel told us the confederate version of an attack on fort moultrie during the early days of the war, which has never been printed. mr. seigel was a german confederate, and early in the fight was quartered, in company with others, at the moultrie house, a seaside hotel, the guests having deserted the building. although large soft beds with curled hair mattresses were in each room, the department issued ticks or sacks to be filled with straw for the use of the soldiers, so that they would not forget that war was a serious matter. nobody used them, but they were there all the same. attached to the moultrie house, and wandering about the back-yard, there was a small orphan jackass, a sorrowful little light blue mammal, with a tinge of bitter melancholy in his voice. he used to dwell on the past a good deal, and at night he would refer to it in tones that were choked with emotion. the boys caught him one evening as the gloaming began to arrange itself, and threw him down on the green grass. they next pulled a straw bed over his head, and inserted him in it completely, cutting holes for his legs. then they tied a string of sleighbells to his tail, and hit him a smart, stinging blow with a black snake. [illustration: _then they tied a string of sleighbells to his tail, and hit him a smart, stinging blow with a black snake_ (page )] probably that was what suggested to him the idea of strolling down the beach, past the sentry, and on toward the fort. the darkness of the night, the rattle of hoofs, the clash of the bells, the quick challenge of the guard, the failure to give the countersign, the sharp volley of the sentinels, and the wild cry, "to arms," followed in rapid succession. the tocsin sounded, also the slogan. the culverin, ukase, and door-tender were all fired. huge beacons of fat pine were lighted along the beach. the whole slumbering host sprang to arms, and the crack of the musket was heard through the intense darkness. in the morning the enemy was found intrenched in a mud-hole, south of the fort, with his clean new straw tick spattered with clay, and a wildly disheveled tail. on board the richmond train not long ago a man lost his hat as we pulled out of petersburg, and it fell by the side of the track. the train was just moving slowly away from the station, so he had a chance to jump off and run back after it. he got the hat, but not till we had placed seven or eight miles between us and him. we could not help feeling sorry for him, because very likely his hat had an embroidered hat band in it, presented by one dearer to him than life itself, and so we worked up quite a feeling for him, though of course he was very foolish to lose his train just for a hat, even if it did have the needle-work of his heart's idol in it. later i was surprised to see the same man in columbia, south carolina, and he then told me this sad story: "i started out a month ago to take a little trip of a few weeks, and the first day was very, very happily spent in scrutinizing nature and scanning the faces of those i saw. on the second day out, i ran across a young man whom i had known slightly before, and who is engaged in the business of being a companionable fellow and the life of the party. that is about all the business he has. he knows a great many people, and his circle of acquaintances is getting larger all the time. he is proud of the enormous quantity of friendship he has acquired. he says he can't get on a train or visit any town in the union that he doesn't find a friend. "he is full of stories and witticisms, and explains the plays to theater parties. he has seen a great deal of life and is a keen critic. he would have enjoyed criticising the apostle paul and his elocutionary style if he had been one of the ephesians. he would have criticised paul's gestures, and said, 'paul, i like your epistles a heap better than i do your appearance on the platform. you express yourself well enough with your pen, but when you spoke for the ephesian y. m. c. a., we were disappointed in you and we lost money on you.' "well, he joined me, and finding out where i was going, he decided to go also. he went along to explain things to me, and talk to me when i wanted to sleep or read the newspaper. he introduced me to large numbers of people whom i did not want to meet, took me to see things i didn't want to see, read things to me that i didn't want to hear, and introduced to me people who didn't want to meet me. he multiplied misery by throwing uncongenial people together and then said: 'wasn't it lucky that i could go along with you and make it pleasant for you?' "everywhere he met more new people with whom he had an acquaintance. he shook hands with them, and called them by their first names, and felt in their pockets for cigars. he was just bubbling over with mirth, and laughed all the time, being so offensively joyous, in fact, that when he went into a car, he attracted general attention, which suited him first-rate. he regarded himself as a universal favorite and all-round sunbeam. "when we got to washington, he took me up to see the president. he knew the president well--claimed to know lots of things about the president that made him more or less feared by the administration. he was acquainted with a thousand little vices of all our public men, which virtually placed them in his power. he knew how the president conducted himself at home, and was 'on to everything' in public life. "well, he shook hands with the president, and introduced me. i could see that the president was thinking about something else, though, and so i came away without really feeling that i knew him very well. "then we visited the departments, and i can see now that i hurt myself by being towed around by this man. he was so free, and so joyous, and so bubbling, that wherever we went i could hear the key grate in the lock after we passed out of the door. "he started south with me. he was going to show me all the battle-fields, and introduce me into society. i bought some strychnine in washington, and put it in his buckwheat cakes; but they got cold, and he sent them back. i did not know what to do, and was almost wild, for i was traveling entirely for pleasure, and not especially for his pleasure either. "at petersburg i was told that the train going the other way would meet us. as we started out, i dropped my hat from the window while looking at something. it was a desperate move, but i did it. then i jumped off the train, and went back after it. as soon as i got around the curve i ran for petersburg, where i took the other train. i presume you all felt sorry for me, but if you'd seen me fold myself in a long, passionate embrace after i had climbed on the other train, you would have changed your minds." he then passed gently from my sight. hints for the household iv there are a great many pleasures to which we may treat ourselves very economically if we go at it right. in this way we can, at a slight expense, have those comforts, and even luxuries, for which we should otherwise pay a great price. costly rugs and carpets, though beautiful and rich in appearance, involve such an outlay of money that many hesitate about buying them; but a very tasty method of treating floors inexpensively consists in staining the edge for several feet in width, leaving the center of the room to be covered by a large rug. staining for the floor maybe easily made, by boiling maple bark, twenty parts; pokeberry juice, twenty-five parts; hazel brush, thirty parts, and sour milk, twenty-five parts, until it becomes about the consistency of the theory of infant damnation. let it stand a few weeks, until the rich flavor has died down, so that you can look at it for quite a while without nausea; then add vinegar and copperas to suit the taste, and apply by means of a whisk broom. when dry, help yourself to some more of it. this gives the floor a rich pauper's coffin shade, over which shellac or cod liver oil should be applied. rugs may be made of coffee sacking or turkish gunny-rest sacks, inlaid with rich designs in red yarn, and a handsome fringe can be added by raveling the edges. a beautiful receptacle for soiled collars and cuffs may be made by putting a cardboard bottom in a discarded and shattered coal scuttle, gilding the whole and tying a pale blue ribbon on the bail. a cheap and very handsome easy-chair can be constructed by sawing into a flour barrel and removing less than half the length of staves for one-third the distance around, then fasten inside a canvas or duck seat, below which the barrel is filled with bran. a neat little mackerel tub makes a most appropriate foot-stool for this chair, and looks so unconventional and rustic that it wins every one at once. such a chair should also have a limited number of tidies on its surface. otherwise it might give too much satisfaction. a good style of inexpensive tidy is made by poking holes in some heavy, strong goods, and then darning up these holes with something else. the darned tidy holds its place better, i think, and is more frequently worn away on the back of the last guest than any other. this list might be prolonged almost indefinitely, and i should be glad to write my own experience in the line of experiment, if it were not for the danger of appearing egotistical. for instance, i once economized in the matter of paper-hanging, deciding that i would save the paper-hanger's bill and put the money into preferred trotting stock. so i read a recipe in a household hint, which went on to state how one should make and apply paste to wall paper, how to begin, how to apply the paper, and all that. the paste was made by uniting flour, water and glue in such a way as to secure the paper to the wall and yet leave it smooth, according to the recipe. first the walls had to be "sized," however. i took a tape-measure and sized the walls. next i began to prepare the paste and cook some in a large milk-pan. it looked very repulsive indeed, but it looked so much better than it smelled, that i did not mind. then i put about five cents' worth of it on one roll of paper, and got up on a chair to begin. my idea was to apply it to the wall mostly, but the chair tipped, and so i papered the piano and my wife on the way down. my wife gasped for breath, but soon tore a hole through the paper so she could breathe, and then she laughed at me. that is the reason i took another end of the paper and repapered her face. i can not bear to have any one laugh at me when i am myself unhappy. it was good paste, if you merely desired to disfigure a piano or a wife, but otherwise it would not stick at all. i did not like it. i was mad about it. but my wife seemed quite stuck on it. she hasn't got it all out of her hair yet. [illustration: _my idea was to apply it to the wall mostly, but the chair tipped, and so i papered the piano and my wife on the way down_] (page ) then a man dropped in to see me about some money that i had hoped to pay him that morning, and he said the paste needed more glue and a quart of molasses. i put in some more glue and the last drop of molasses we had in the house. it made a mass which looked like unbaked ginger snaps, and smelled as i imagine the deluge did at low tide. i next proceeded to paper the room. sometimes the paper would adhere, and then again it would refrain from adhering. when i got around the room i had gained ground so fast at the top and lost so much time at the bottom of the walls, that i had to put in a wedge of paper two feet wide at the bottom, and tapering to a point at the top, in order to cover the space. this gave the room the appearance of having been toyed with by an impatient cyclone, or an air of inebriety not in keeping with my poor but honest character. i went to bed very weary, and abraded in places. i had paste in my pockets, and bronze up my nose. in the night i could hear the paper crack. just as i would get almost to sleep, it would pop. that was because the paper was contracting and trying to bring the dimensions of the room i own to fit it. in the morning the room had shrunken so that the carpet did not fit, and the paper hung in large molasses-covered welts on the walls. it looked real grotesque. i got a paper-hanger to come and look at it. he did so. "and what would you advise me to do with it, sir?" i asked, with a degree of deference which i had never before shown to a paper-hanger. "well, i can hardly say at first. it is a very bad case. you see, the glue and stuff have made the paper and wrinkles so hard now, that it would cost a great deal to blast it off. do you own the house?" "yes, sir. that is, i have paid one-half the purchase-price, and there is a mortgage for the balance." "oh. well, then you are all right," said the paper-hanger, with a gleam of hope in his eye. "let it go on the mortgage." then i had to economize again, so i next resorted to the home method of administering the turkish bath. you can get a turkish bath in that way at a cost of four and one-half to five cents, which is fully as good as one that will cost you a dollar or more in some places. i read the directions in a paper. there are two methods of administering the low-price turkish bath at home. one consists in placing the person to be treated in a cane-seat chair, and then putting a pan of hot water beneath this chair. ever and anon a hot stone or hot flat-iron is dropped into the water by means of tongs, and thus the water is kept boiling, the steam rising in thick masses about the person in the chair, who is carefully concealed in a large blanket. every time a hot flat-iron or stone is dropped into the pan it spatters the boiling water on the bare limbs of the person who is being operated upon, and if you are living in the same country with him, you will hear him loudly wrecking his chances beyond the grave by stating things that are really wrong. the other method, and the one i adopted, is better than this. you apply the heat by means of a spirit lamp, and no one, to look at a little fifteen cent spirit lamp, would believe that it had so much heat in it till he has had one under him as he sits in a wicker chair. a wicker chair does not interfere with the lamp at all, or cut off the heat, and one is so swathed in blankets and rubber overcoats that he can't help himself. i seated myself in that way, and then the torch was applied. did the reader ever get out of a bath and sit down on a wire brush in order to put on his shoes, and feel a sort of startled thrill pervade his whole being? well, that is good enough as far as it goes, but it does not really count as a sensation, when you have been through the home treatment turkish bath. my wife was in another room reading a new book in which she was greatly interested. while she was thus storing her mind with information, she thought she smelled something burning. she went all around over the house trying to find out what it was. finally she found out. it was her husband. i called to her, of course, but she wanted me to wait until she had discovered what was on fire. i tried to tell her to come and search my neighborhood, but i presume i did not make myself understood, because i was excited, and my personal epidermis was being singed off in a way that may seem funny to others, but was not so to one who had to pass through it. it bored me quite a deal. once the wicker seat of the chair caught fire. "oh, heavens," i cried, with a sudden pang of horror, "am i to be thus devoured by the fire fiend? and is there no one to help? help! help! help!" i also made use of other expressions but they did not add to the sense of the above. i perspired very much, indeed, and so the bath was, in a measure, a success, but oh, what doth it profit a man to gain a bath if he lose his own soul? a journey westward v i once visited my old haunts in colorado and wyoming after about seven years of absence. i also went to utah, where spring had come in the rich valley of the jordan and the glossy blackbird, with wing of flame, scooted gaily from bough to bough, deftly declaring his affections right and left, and acquiring more wives than he could support, then clearing his record by claiming to have had a revelation which made it all right. one could not shut his eyes to the fact that there was great real estate activity in the west that spring. it took the place of mining and stock, i judge, and everywhere you heard and saw men with their heads together plotting against the poor rich man. in salt lake i saw the sign, "drugs and real estate." i presume it meant medicine and a small residence lot in the cemetery. in early days in denver, henry c. brown, then in the full flush and vigor of manhood, opened negotiations with the agent of the atchison stage line for a ticket back to atchison, as he was heart-broken and homesick. he owned a quarter-section of land, with a heavy growth of prairie dogs on it, and he had almost persuaded the agent to swap him a ticket for this sage brush conservatory, when the ticket seller backed gently out of the trade. mr. brown then sat him down on the sidewalk and cried bitterly. i just tell this to show how easily some men weep. atchison is at present so dead that a good cowboy, with an able mule, could tie his rope to its tail, and, putting his spurs to the mule, jerk loose the entire pelt at any time, while brown's addition to denver is worth anywhere from one and a half to two millions of dollars. when mr. brown weeps now it is because his food is too rich and gives him the gout. he sold prairie dogs enough to fence the land in so that it could not blow into cherry creek vale, and then he set to work earnestly to wait for the property to advance. finding that he could not sell the property at any price, he, with great foresight, concluded to retain it. some men, with no special ability in other directions, have the greatest genius for doing such things, while others, with superior talent in other ways, do not make money in this way. a report once got around that i had made a misguess on some property. this is partly true, only it was my wife who speculated. she had never speculated much before, though she had tried other open air amusements. so she swapped a cottage and lots in hudson, wisconsin, for city lots in minneapolis, employing a man named flinton pansley to work up the trade, look into the title, and do the square thing for her. he was a real good man, with heavenly aspirations and a true sorrow in his heart for the prevalence of sin. still this sorrow did not break in on his business. well, the business was done by correspondence and mr. pansley only charged a reasonable amount, she giving him her new carriage to remunerate him for his brain fag. what the other man paid him for disposing of the lots i do not know. i was away at the time, and having no insect powder with which to take his life i regretfully spared him to his bible class. [illustration: _frogs build their nests there in the spring and rear their young, but people never go there_ (page )] i did send a man over the lots, however, when i returned. they were not really in the city of minneapolis, that is, they were not near enough to worry anybody by the tumult of the town. in fact, they were in another county. you may think i am untruthful about this, but the lots are there, if you have any curiosity to see them. they are not where they were represented to be, however, and the machine shops and gas works and court-house are quite a long distance away. you could cut some hay on these lots, but not enough to pay the interest on the mortgage. frogs build their nests there in the spring and rear their young, but people never go there. two years ago senator washburn killed a bear on one of these lots, but that is all they have ever produced, except a slight coldness on our part toward mr. pansley. he says he likes the carriage real well, and anything he can do for us in the future in dickering for city property will be done with an alacrity that would almost make one's head swim. i must add that i have permission to use this information, as the victim seems to think there is something kind of amusing about it. some people think a thing funny which others can hardly get any amusement out of. what i wonder at is that pansley did not ask for the team when he got the carriage. possibly he did not like the team. i just learned recently that he and the benders used to be very thick in an early day, but after awhile the benders said they guessed they would have to be excused. even the benders had to draw the line somewhere. later i bought property in salt lake. not a heavy venture, you understand. just the box-office receipts for one evening. i saw it stated in the papers at $ , . anyway, i will let that go. that is near enough. when i see anything in the papers i ask no more questions. i do not think it is right. patti and i have both made it a rule to put in at least one evening as an investment where we happen to be. we are almost sure to do well out of it, and we also get better notices in the papers. patti is not looking so well as she did when my father took me to see her in the prime of her life. though getting quite plain, it costs as much to see her as ever it did. her voice has a metallic, or rather bi-metallic, ring to it nowadays, and she misses it by not working in more topical songs and bright italian gags. i asked her about an old singer who used to be with her. she said: "he was remova to ze ocean, where he keepa ze lighthouse. he learn to himself how to manage ze lighthouse one seasong; then he try by himself to star." now, if she would do some of those things on the stage it would pay her first rate. when i was in wyoming on that trip i met many old friends, all of whom shook me warmly by the hand as soon as they saw me. i visited the capitol, and both houses adjourned for an hour out of respect to my memory. i will never again say anything mean of a member of the legislature. a speech of welcome was made by the gentleman from crook county, mr. kellogg, the demosthenes of the coming state. he made statements about me that day which in the paper read almost as good and truthful as an epitaph. going over the hill, at crow creek, whose perfumed waters kiss the livery stables and abattoirs at camp carlin, three slender sarah bernhardt coyotes came towards the train, looking wistfully at me as if to say: "why, partner, how you have fleshed up!" answering them from the platform of the car, i said: "go east, young men, and flesh up with the country." honestly and seriously, i do think that if the coyote would change off and try the soft-shell crab diet for a while, he would pick right up. when i got to laramie city the welcome was so warm that it almost wiped out the memory of my shabby reception in new york harbor last summer, on my return from europe, when even my band went back on me and got drunk at coney island on the very money i had given them to use in welcoming me home again. winter had been a little severe along the cattle ranges, and deceased cattle might be seen extending their swollen carcasses into the bright, crisp air as the train whirled one along at the rate of seven to eight miles per hour. the skinning of a frozen steer is a diverting and unusual proceeding. col. buffalo bill, who served under washington and killed buffalo and baby elephants at valley forge, according to an italian paper, should put this feature into his show. maybe he will when he reads this. the cow gentleman first selects a quick yet steady-going mule; then he looks for a dead steer. he does not have to look very far. he now fastens one end of the deceased to some permanent object. this is harder to find than the steer, however. he then attaches his rope to the hide of the remains, having cut it with his knife first. he next starts the mule off, and a mile or so away he discovers that the hide is entirely free from the cold and pulseless corps. sometimes a cowboy tries to skin a steer before the animal is entirely dead, and when the former gets back to the place from which he was kicked, he finds that he has a brand new set of whiskers with which to surprise his friends. the pacific roads have greatly improved in recent years, and though they do not dazzle one with their speed, they are much more comfortable to pass a few weeks on than they were when the eating-houses, or many of them, were in the hands of people who could not cook very well, but who made a great deal of money. now you can eat in a good buffet-car, or a first-class dining-car, at your leisure, or you can stop off and get a good meal, or you can carry a few hens and eat hard-boiled eggs all over your neighbors. i do not think people on the cars ought to keep hens. it disturbs the other passengers and is anything but agreeable to the hens. close confinement is never good for a hen that is advanced in years, and the cigar smoke from the rear of the car hurts her voice, i think. a prophet and a piute vi i have bought some more real estate. it occurred in oakland, california. in making the purchase i had the assistance of a prophet, and i hope the prophet will not be overbalanced by the loss. it came about in this way: a prophet on a bicycle came to oakland suddenly very hard up a few weeks ago, and began to ride up and down on his two-wheeler, warning the people to flee to the high ground, and thus escape the wrath to come, for, he said, the waters of the great deep would arise at about the middle of the month and smite the people of oakland and slay them, and float the pork barrels out of their cellars, and fill their cisterns with people who had sneered at his prophecy. this gentleman was an industrious prophet and did a good business in his line. he attracted much notice, and had all he could do at his trade for several weeks. many oakland people were frightened, especially as wiggins, the great intellectual sahara of the prophet industry, also prophesied a high wave which would rise at least above the bills at the palace hotel in san francisco. with the aid of these two gifted middle-weight prophets, i was enabled to secure some good bargains in corner lots and improved property in oakland at ten per cent. of the estimated value. in other words, i put my limited powers as a prophet against those of professor wiggins, the painstaking and conscientious seer of canada, and the bicycle prophet of the pacific slope. i am willing to stand or fall by the result. as a prophet i have never attracted attention in this country, mostly because i have been too busy with other things. also because there was so little prophesying to be done in these degenerate days that i did not care to take hold of the industry; but i have ever been ready to purchase at a great discount the desirable residences of those contemplating a general collapse of the universe, or a tidal wave which would wipe out the general government and cover with a placid sea the mighty republic which god has heretofore, for some reason, smiled upon. moreover, i can hardly believe that the deity would commission a man to go out over california on a bicycle to warn people, when a few red messages and a standing notice in the newspapers would do the work in less time. reasoning in this manner with a sturdy logic worthy of my rich and unctious past, i have secured some good trades in down-town property, and shall await the coming devastation with a calm and entirely unruffled breast. california, at any season of the year, is a miracle of beauty, as almost every one knows. nature heightens the effect for the tenderfoot by compelling him to cross the alpine heights of the sierra nevada mountains and freeze approximately to death in the cold heart of a snow blockade. thus, weather-beaten and sore, he reaches the rolling green hills and is greeted with the rich odor of violets. i submitted to the insults of a tottering monopoly for a week, in the heart of the winter, and, tired and sick at soul, with chilblains on my feet and liniment on my other lineaments, i burst forth one bright morning into the realm of eternal summer. the birds sang in my frozen bosom. i shed the gunnysack wraps from my tender feet even as a butterfly or a tramp bursts his hull in the spring time, and i laughed two or three coarse, outdoor laughs, which shook the balmy branches of the tall pomegranate trees and twittered in the dense foliage of the magnolia. the railroad was very kind to me at first. that was when i was buying my ticket. later on it became more harsh and even reproached me at times. conductors woke me up two or three times in the night to gaze fondly on my ticket and look as if they were sorry they ever parted with it. on the central pacific passengers are not permitted to give their tickets to the porter on retiring. you must wake up and converse with the conductor at all hours of the night, and hold a lantern for him while he slowly spells out the hard words on your ticket. i did not like this, and several times i murmured in a querulous tone to the conductor. but he did not mind it. he went on doing the behests of his employer, and in that way endearing himself to the great adversary of souls. i said to an official of the road: "do you not think this is the worst managed road in the united states--always excepting the western north carolina railroad, which is an incorporated insult to humanity?" "well," he replied, "that depends, of course, on the standpoint from which you view it. if we were trying to divert travel to the southern pacific, also the rolling stock, the good-will, the culverts, the dividends, the frogs, the snowsheds, the right of way and the new-laid train figs, everything except the first, second and third mortgages, which would naturally revert to the government, would you not think we were managing the business with a steady hand and a watchful eye?" i said i certainly should. i then wrung his hand softly and stole away, as he also began to do the same thing. [illustration: _i improved the time by cultivating the acquaintance of the beautiful and picturesque outcasts known as the piute indians_ (page )] at reno we had a day or two in which to observe the city from the car platform, while waiting for the blockade to be raised. we could not go away from the train further than five hundred feet, for it might start at any moment. that is one beauty about a snow blockade. it entitles you to a stop-over, but you must be ready to hop on when the train starts. i improved the time by cultivating the acquaintance of the beautiful and picturesque outcasts known as the piute indians. they are a quiet, reserved set of people, who, by saying nothing, sometimes obtain a reputation for deep thought. i always envy anybody who can do that. such men make good presidential candidates. candidates, i say, mind you. the time has come in this country when it is hard to unite good qualifications as a candidate with the necessary qualities for a successful official. the piute, in march or april, does not go down cellar and bring up his gladiolus, or remove the banking from the side of his villa. he does not mulch the asparagus bed, or prune the pie-plant, or rake the front yard, or salt the hens. he does not even wipe his heartbroken and neglected nose. he makes no especial change in his great life-work because spring has come. he still looks serious, and like a man who is laboring under the impression that he is about to become the parent of a thought. these children of the piute brave never mature. they do not take their places in the histories or the school readers of our common country. the piute wears a bright red lap-robe over his person, and generally a stiff quaker hat, with a leather band. his hair is very thick, black and coarse, and is mostly cut off square in the neck, by means of an adz, i judge, or possibly it is eaten off by moths. the piute is never bald during life. after he is dead he becomes bald and beloved. johnson sides is a well-known piute who had the pleasure of meeting me at reno. he said he was a great admirer of mine and had all my writings in a scrap-book at home. he also said that he wished i would come and lecture for his tribe. i afterward learned that he was an earnest and hopeful liar from truckee. he had no scrap-book at all. also no home. mr. sides at one time became quite civilized, distinguishing himself from his tribe by reading the bible and imprisoning the lower drapery of his linen garment in the narrow confines of a pair of cavalry trousers, instead of giving it to the irresponsible breeze, as other piutes did. he then established a hotel up the valley in the sierras, and decided to lead a life of industry. he built a hostelry called the shack-de-poker-huntus, and advertised in the _carson appeal_, a paper which even the editor, sam davis, says fills him with wonder and amazement when he knows that people actually subscribe for it. very soon piutes began to go to the shack to spend the heated term. every piute who took the _appeal_ saw the advertisement, which went on to state that hot and cold water could be got into every room in the house, and that electric bells, baths, silver-voiced chambermaids, over-charges, and everything else connected with a first-class hotel, could be found at that place. so the piute people locked up their own homes, and, ejecting the cat, they spat on the fire, and moved to the new summer hotel. they took their friends with them. they had no money, but they knew johnson sides, and they visited him all summer. in the fall mr. sides closed the house, and resuming his blanket he went back to live with his tribe. when the butcher wagon called the next day the driver found a notice of sale, and in the language of sol smith russell, "good reasons given for selling." mr. sides had been a temperance man now for a year, at least externally, but with the humiliation of this great financial wreck came a wild desire to flee to the maddening bowl, having been monkeying with the madding crowd all summer. so, silently, he obtained a bottle of reno embalming fluid and secreted himself behind a tree, where he was asked to join himself in a social nip. he had hardly wiped away an idle tear with the corner of his blanket and replaced the stopper in his tear jug when the local representative of the u. g. j. e. t. a. of reno came upon him. he was reported to the lodge, and his character bade fair to be smirched so badly that nothing but saltpeter and a consistent life could save it. at this critical stage mr. davis, of the _appeal_, came to his aid, and not only gave him the support and encouragement of his columns, but told mr. sides that he would see that the legislature took speedy action in removing his alcoholic disabilities. through the untiring efforts of mr. davis, therefore, a bill was framed "whereby the drink taken by johnson sides, of nevada, be and is hereby declared null and void." on a certain day mr. davis told him that the bill would come up for final passage and no doubt pass without opposition, but a purse would have to be raised to defray the expenses. the tribe began to collect what money they had and to sell their grasshoppers in order to raise more. johnson sides and his people gathered on the day named, and seated themselves in the galleries. slim old warriors with firm faces and beetling brows, to say nothing of having their hair roached, but yet with no flies on them to speak of, sat in the front seats. large, corpulent squaws, wearing health costumes, secured by telegraph wire, listened to the proceedings, knowing no more of what was going on than other people do who go to watch the legislature. finally, however, sam davis came and told mr. sides that he was now pure as the driven snow. i saw him last week, but it seemed to me it was about time to get some more special legislation for him. once mr. davis met mr. sides on the street and was so glad to see him that he said: "johnson, i like you first-rate, and should always be glad to see you. whenever you can, let me know where you are." the next week sam got quite a lot of telegrams from along the railroad--for the indians ride free on account of their sympathies with the road. these telegrams were dated at different stations. they were hopeful and even cheery, and were all marked "collect." they read about as follows: _sam davis, carson, nev._: winnemucca, nev., march . i am here. johnson sides. every little while for quite a long time mr. davis would get a bright, reassuring telegram, sometimes in the middle of the night, when he was asleep, informing him that johnson sides was "there," and he then would go back to bed cheered and soothed and sustained. the sabbath of a great author vii i awake at an unearthly hour on sunday morning, after which i turn over and go to sleep again. this second, or beauty sleep, i find to be almost invaluable. i do it also with much more earnestness and expression than that in the earlier part of the night. all the other people in the house gradually wake up as i begin to get in my more fancy strokes. by eight o'clock everybody is stirring, and so i get up and glide about in my pajamas, which makes me look almost like the "clémenceau case" in search of an engagement. mr. rogers is going to have me sit to him in my pajamas for a group of statuary. he also wishes to model an iron hitching post from me. on waking i at once take to me tub and give myself a good cold bath. i then put in my teeth. after doing some little studies in chiropody i throw a silk-velvet dressing gown over my shoulders and look at my bright and girlish beauty in a full-length mirror, comparing the dimpling curves, as i see them reflected, with those shown in the morning paper. after reading a little from the chess column of some good author, i descend to the _salon_ and greet my family smilingly in order to open the day auspiciously. we all then sing around the parlor organ a little pean entitled, "it's funny when you feel that way." we now go to the breakfast room, where the children are taught to set aside the daintiest bits for papa, because he might die some time and then it would be a life-long regret to those who are spared that they did not give him the tender part of the steer or the second joint of the hen. after breakfast, which consists of chops, hashed brown potatoes, muffins and coffee, preceded by canteloupe or baked beans, we proceed to quarrel over who shall go to church and who shall remain at home to keep the cattle out of the corn. we then go to church, those who can, at least, whilst the others remain and read something that is improving. sometimes i shave myself on sunday mornings. then it takes me quite a while to get back into a religious frame of mind. i do not manage very well in shaving myself, and people who go by the house are often attracted by my yells. i go to church quite regularly and enjoy the sermon unless it is too firm or personal. if it goes into doctrine too much i am apt to be quite fatigued at its end on account of the mental reservations i have made along through it. i like to go and hear about god's love, but i am rarely benefited by a discourse which enlarges upon his jealousy. when i am told also that god spares no pains in getting even with people, i not only do not enjoy the information, but i would sit up till a late hour at night to doubt it. [illustration: _he sometimes succeeds in getting himself disliked by some other dog and then i can observe the fight_ (page )] i shake hands with the pastor, and after suggesting something for him to preach about on the following sabbath, i go home. in the afternoon i go walking if no one calls. we have dinner at o'clock on sunday, consisting of jerked beef smothered in milk gravy. this is the remove. for side dishes we have squash or meat pie. we sometimes open with soup and then have clean plates all around, with fowl and greens, tapering off with some kind of rich pie. after dinner i sometimes nap a little and then fool with the colt. this is done quietly, however, so as not to break in upon the devotional spirit of the day. after this i go for a walk or converse intelligently with any foreign powers who may be visiting our shores. when i walk i am generally accompanied by a restless queen anne dog, which precedes me about a mile. he sometimes succeeds in getting himself disliked by some other dog and then i can observe the fight when i catch up with him. as the twilight gathers all seem ready again for more food and we begin to clamor for pabulum, keeping it up until either square or round crackers and smearcase are produced. these are washed down with foaming beakers of sarsaparilla. as the evening lamp is now lighted, i produce some good book or pamphlet like "the greatest thing in the world," and read from it, occasionally cuffing a child in order to keep everything calm and reposeful. at o'clock the cat is expelled and the eight-day clock is wound up for the week. gazing up at the bright cold stars after kicking forth the cat, i realize that another sabbath has been filed away in the great big brawny bosom of the past, and with a little remorseful sigh and an incipient sob when i think that i am not making a better record, i drive a fence nail in over the door latch and seek my library which, on being properly approached, opens and becomes a beautiful couch. a flyer in dirt viii i have just returned from a visit to my property at minneapolis, and can not refrain from referring to its marvelous growth. the distance between it and the business center of the city has also grown a good deal since i last saw it. this is the property which i purchased some three years ago of a real good man. his name is pansley--flinton pansley. he has done business in most all the towns of the northwest. perhaps a further word or two about this pious gentleman will not be amiss. entering a place quietly and even meekly, with a letter to the local pastor, he would begin reaching out his little social tendrils by sighing over the lost and undone condition of mankind. after regretting the state in which he had found god's vineyard, he would rent a store and sell goods at a sacrifice, but when the sacrifice was being offered up, a close observer would discover that mr. pansley was not in it. in this way he would build up quite a trade, only sparing a little time each day in which to retire to his closet and sob over the altogether godless condition in which he had found man. he would then make an assignment. pardon me for again referring to the matter, but i do so utterly without malice, and in connection with the unparalleled growth of my property here. so if the gentle and rather attractive reader will excuse a bad pen, and some plain stationery, as my own crested writing-paper is in my trunk, which is now in the possession of a well-known hotel man whose name is suppressed on account of his family, i shall refer again briefly to the property and the circumstances surrounding its purchase. i had intended to put a good fence around it ere this, but with these peculiar circumstances surrounding it, i feel that it is safe from intrusion. the property was sold to my wife by mr. pansley at a sacrifice, but when the burnt offering had ascended, and the atmosphere had cleared, and the ashes on the altar had been blown aside, the suspender buttons of mr. pansley were not there. he had taken his bright red mark-down figures, and a letter to his future pastor, and gone to another town. he is now selling groceries. from town lots to groceries is, to a versatile man, a very small stride. he is in business in st. paul, and that has given minneapolis quite a little spurt of prosperity. we exchanged a cottage for city lots unimproved, as i said in a former article, and got mr. pansley to do it for us. my wife gave him her carriage for acting in that capacity. she was sorry she could not do more for him, because he was a man who had found his fellow-men in such an undone condition everywhere, and had been trying ever since to do them up. the property lies about half-way between the west hotel and the open polar sea, and is in a good neighborhood, looking south; at least it was the other day when i left it. it lies all over the northwest, resembling in that respect the man we bought it of. mr. pansley took the carriage, also the wrench with which i was wont to take off the nuts thereof when i greased it on sabbath mornings. we still go to church, but we walk. occasionally mr. pansley whirls by us, and his dust and debris fall upon my freshly ironed and neat linen coat as he passes by us with a sigh. he said once that he did not care for money if he only could let in the glad sunlight of the gospel upon the heathen. "why," i exclaimed, "why do you wish to let in the glad sunlight of the gospel upon the heathen?" "alas!" he said, brushing away a tear with the corner of a gray shawl which he wore, and wiping his bright, piercing nose on the top rail of my fence, "so that they would not go to hell, mr. nye!" "and do you think that the heathen who knows nothing of god will go to hell, or has been going to hell for, say, ten thousand years, without having seen a daily paper or a testament?" "i do. millions of ignorant people in yet undiscovered lands are going to hell daily without the knowledge of god." with that he turned away, and concealed his emotion in his shawl, while his whole frame shook. "but, even if he should escape by reason of his ignorance, we can not escape the responsibility of shedding the light of the gospel upon his opaque soul," said he. so i gave him $ to assist the poor heathen to a place where he may share the welcome of a cordial and eternal damnation along with the more educated and refined classes. whether the heathen will ever appreciate it or not, i can not tell at this moment. lately i have had a little ray of fear that he might not, and with that fear, like a beam of sunshine, comes the blessed hope that possibly something may have happened to the $ , and that mayhap it did not get there. i went up to see the property with which my wife had been endowed by the generous foresight of mr. pansley, the heathen's friend. i had seen the place before, but not in the autumn. oh, no, i had not saw it in the hectic of the dying year! i had not saw it when the squirrel, the comic lecturer, and the italian go forth to gather their winter hoard of chestnuts. i had not saw it as the god of day paints the royal mantle of the year's croaking monarch and the crow sinks softly onto the swelling bosom of the dead horse. i had only saw it in the wild, wet spring. i had only saw it when the frost and the bullfrog were heaving out of the ground. [illustration: _then rolling my trousers up a yard or two, i struck off into the scrub pine, carrying with me a large board_ (page )] i strolled out there. i rode on the railroad for a couple of hours first, i think. then i got off at a tank, where i got a nice, cool, refreshing drink of as good, pure water as i ever flung a lip over. then rolling my trousers up a yard or two, i struck off into the scrub pine, carrying with me a large board on which i had painted in clear, beautiful characters: for sale. the owner finding it necessary to go to europe for eight or nine years, in order to brush up on the languages of the continent and return a few royal visits there, will sell all this suburban property. terms reasonable. no restrictions except that street-cars shall not run past these lots at a higher rate of speed than sixty miles per hour without permission of the owner. i think that the property looks better in the autumn even than it does in spring. the autumn leaves are falling. also the price on this piece of property. it would be a good time to buy it now. also a good time to sell. i shall add nothing because it has been associated with me. that will cut no figure, for it has not been associated with me so very long, or so very intimately. the place, with advertising and the free use of capital, could be made a beautiful rural resort, or it could be fenced off tastefully into a cheap commodious place in which to store bears for market. but it has grown. it is wider, it seems to me, and there is less to obstruct the view. as soon as commutation or dining trains are put on between minneapolis and sitka, a good many pupils will live on my property and go to school at sitka. trade is quiet in that quarter at present, however, and traffic is practically at a standstill. a good many people have written to me asking about my subdivision and how various branches of industry would thrive there. having in an unguarded moment used the stamps, i hasten to say that they would be premature in going there now, unless in pursuit of rabbits, which are extremely prevalent. trade is very dull, and a first or even a second national bank in my subdivision of the united states would find itself practically out of a job. a good newspaper, if properly conducted, could have some fun and get a good many advertisements by swopping kind words at regular catalogue prices for goods. but a theater would not pay. i write this for the use of a man who has just written to know if a good opera-house with folding seats would pay a fair investment on capital. no, it would not. i will be fair and honest. smarting as i do yet under the cruel injustice done me by the meek and gentle groceryman, who, while he wept upon my corrugated bosom with one hand, softly removed my pelt with the other and sprinkled chili sauce all over me, i will not betray my own friends. even with my still bleeding carcass quivering under the halford sauce of mr. pansley, the "skin" and hypocrite, the friend of the far-distant savage and the foe of those who are his unfortunate neighbors, i will not betray even a stranger. though i have used his postage-stamp i shall not be false to him. an opera-house this fall would be premature. most everybody's dates are booked, anyhow. we could not get francis wilson or nat c. goodwin or lillian russell or henry irving or mr. jefferson, for they are all too busy turning people away, and i would hate to open with james owen o'connor or any other mechanical appliance. no. wait another year at least. at present an opera-house in my subdivision of the solar system would be as useless as a dull thud in the state of new york. one drawback to the immediate prosperity of the place is that commutation rates are yet in their infancy. eighty-seven and one-half cents per ride on trains which run only on tuesdays and fridays is not sufficient compensation for the long and lonely walk and the paucity of some suitable cottages when one gets there. so i will sell the dear old place, with all its associations and the good-will of a thriving young frog conservatory, at the buyer's price. as i say, there has been since i was last there a steady growth, which is mostly noticeable on the mortgage that i secured along with the property. it was on there when i bought it, and as it could not be removed without injury to the realty, according to an old and established law of justinian or coke or littleton, mr. pansley ruled that it was part of the property and passed with its conveyance. it is looking well, with a nice growth of interest around the edges and its foreclosure clause fully an inch and a half long. i shall be willing, in case i do not find a cash buyer, to exchange the property for almost anything i can eat, except paris green. nor should i hesitate to swap the whole thing, to a man whom i felt that i could respect, for a good bird dog. i am also willing to trade the lots for a milk route or a cold storage. it would be a good site for some gentleman in new york to build a country cottage. i should also swap the estate to a man who really means business for a second-hand cellar. call on or address the undersigned early, and please do not push or rudely jostle those in the line ahead of you. cast-off clothing, express prepaid, and free from all contagious diseases, accepted at its full value. anything left by mistake in the pockets will be taken good care of, and, possibly, returned in the spring. gunnysack oleson, who lives eight miles north of the county line, will show you over the grounds. please do not hitch horses to the trees. i will not be responsible for horses injured while tied to my trees. a new railroad track is thinking of getting a right of way next year, which may be nearer by two miles than the one that i have to take, provided they will let me off at the right place. i promise to do all that i can conscientiously for the road, to aid any one who may buy the property, and i will call the attention of all railroads to the advisability of a road in that direction. all that i can honorably do, i will do. my honor is as dear to me as my gas bill every year i live. n. b.--the dead horse on lot , block , nye's addition to the solar system, is not mine. mine died before i got there. a singular "hamlet" ix the closing debut of that great shakespearian humorist and emotional ass, mr. james owen o'connor, at the star theater, will never be forgotten. during his extraordinary histrionic career he gave his individual and amazing renditions of hamlet, phidias, shylock, othello, and richelieu. i think i liked his hamlet best, and yet it was a pleasure to see him in anything wherein he killed himself. encouraged by the success of beautiful but self-made actresses, and hoping to win a place for himself and his portrait in the great soap and cigarette galaxy, mr. o'connor placed himself in the hands of some misguided elocutionist, and then sought to educate the people of new york and elocute them out of their thralldom up into the glorious light of the o'connor school of acting. the first week he was in the hands of the critics, and they spoke quite serenely of his methods. later, it was deemed best to place his merits in the hands of a man who would be on an equal footing with him. what o'connor wanted was one of his peers, who would therefore judge him fairly. i was selected because i know nothing whatever about acting and would thus be on an equality with mr. o'connor. after seeing his hamlet i was of the opinion that he did wisely in choosing new york for debutting purposes, for had he chosen denver, colorado, at the end of the third act kind hands would have removed him from the stage by means of benzine and a rag. i understand that mr. o'connor charged messrs. henry e. abbey and henry irving with using their influence among the masses in order to prejudice said masses against mr. o'connor, thus making it unpleasant for him to act, and inciting in the audience a feeling of gentle but evident hostility, which mr. o'connor deprecated very much whenever he could get a chance to do so. i looked into this matter a little and i do not think it was true. until almost the end of mr. o'connor's career, messrs. abbey and irving were not aware of his great metropolitan success, and it is generally believed among the friends of the two former gentlemen that they did not feel it so keenly as mr. o'connor was led to suppose. but james owen o'connor did one thing which i take the liberty of publicly alluding to. he took that saddest and most melancholy bit of bloody history, trimmed with assassinations down the back and looped up with remorse, insanity, duplicity and unrequited love, and he filled it with silvery laughter and cauliflower and mirth, and various other groceries which the audience throw in from time to time, thus making it more of a spectacular piece than under the conservative management of such old-school men as booth, who seem to think that hamlet should be soaked full of sadness. i went to see hamlet, thinking that i would be welcome, for my sympathies were with james when i heard that mr. irving was picking on him and seeking to injure him. i went to the box office and explained who i was, and stated that i had been detailed to come and see mr. o'connor act; also that in what i might say afterwards my instructions were to give it to abbey and irving if i found that they had tampered with the audience in any way. the man in the box office did not recognize me, but said that mr. fox would extend to me the usual courtesies. i asked where mr. fox could be found, and he said inside. i then started to go inside, but ran against a total stranger, who was "on the door," as we say. he was feeding red and yellow tickets into a large tin oven, and looking far, far away. i conversed with him in low, passionate tones, and asked him where mr. fox could be found. he did not know, but thought he was still in europe. i went back and told the box office that mr. fox was in europe. he said no, i would find him inside. "well, but how shall i get inside?" i asked eagerly, for i could already, i fancied, hear the orchestra beginning to twang its lyre. "walk in," said he, taking in $ and giving back cents in change to a man with a dead cat in his overcoat pocket. i went back, and springing lightly over the iron railing while the gatekeeper was thinking over his glorious past, i went all around over the theater looking for mr. fox. i found him haggling over the price of some vegetables which he was selling at the stage door and which had been contributed by admirers and old subscribers to mr. o'connor at a previous performance. when mr. fox got through with that i presented to him my card, which is as good a piece of job work in colors as was ever done west of the missouri river, and to which i frequently point with pride. mr. fox said he was sorry, but that mr. o'connor had instructed him to extend no courtesies whatever to the press. the press, he claimed, had said something derogatory to mr. o'connor as a tragedian, and while he personally would be tickled to death to give me two divans and a folding-bed near the large fiddle, he must do as mr. o'connor had bid--or bade him, i forget which; and so, restraining his tears with great difficulty, he sent me back to the entrance and although i was already admitted in a general way, i went to the box office and purchased a seat. i believe now that mr. fox thought he had virtually excluded me from the house when he told me i should have to pay in order to get in. i bought a seat in the parquet and went in. the audience was not large and there were not more than a dozen ladies present. pretty soon the orchestra began to ooze in through a little opening under the stage. then the overture was given. it was called "egmont." the curtain now arose on a scene in denmark. i had asked an usher to take a note to mr. o'connor requesting an audience, but the boy had returned with the statement that mr. o'connor was busy rehearsing his soliloquy and removing a shirred egg from his outer clothing. he also said he could not promise an audience to any one. it was all he could do to get one for himself. so the play went on. elsinore, where the first act takes place, is in front of a large stone water tank, where two gentlemen armed with long-handled hay knives are on guard. all at once a ghost who walks with an overstrung chickering action and stiff, jerky, waterbury movement, comes in, wearing a dark mosquito net over his head--so that harsh critics can not truly say there are any flies on him, i presume. when the ghost enters most every one enjoys it. nobody seems to be frightened at all. i knew it was not a ghost as quick as i looked at it. one man in the gallery hit the ghost on the head with a soda cracker, which made him jump and feel of his ear; so i knew then that it was only a man made up to look like a presence. one of the guards, whose name, i think, was smith, had a droop to his legs and an instability about the knees which were highly enjoyable. he walked like a frozen-toed hen, and stood first on one foot and then on the other, with almost human intelligence. his support was about as poor as o'connor's. after awhile the ghost vanished with what is called a stately tread, but i would regard it more as a territorial tread. horatio did quite well, and the audience frequently listened to him. still, he was about the only one who did not receive crackers or cheese as a slight testimonial of regard from admirers in the audience. finally, mr. james owen o'connor entered. it was fully five minutes before he could be heard, and even then he could not. his mouth moved now and then, and a gesture would suddenly burst forth, but i did not hear what he said. at least i could not hear distinctly what he said. after awhile, as people got tired and went away, i could hear better. mr. o'connor introduced into his hamlet a set of gestures evidently intended for another play. people who are going to act out on the stage can not be too careful in getting a good assortment of gestures that will fit the play itself. james had provided himself with a set of gestures which might do for little eva, or "ten nights in a bar-room," but they did not fit hamlet. there is where he makes a mistake. hamlet is a man whose victuals don't agree with him. he feels depressed and talks about sticking a bodkin into himself, but mr. o'connor gives him a light, elastic step, and an air of persiflage, _bonhomie_, and frisk, which do not match the character. mr. o'connor sought in his conception and interpretation of hamlet to give it a free and jaunty kokomo flavor--a nameless twang of tansy and dried apples, which shakespeare himself failed to sock into his great drama. james did this, and more. he took the wild-eyed and morbid blackwell's island hamlet, and made him a $ parlor humorist who could be the life of the party, or give lessons in elocution, and take applause or crackers and cheese in return for the same. there is really a good lesson to be learned from the pitiful and pathetic tale of james owen o'connor. injudicious friends, doubtless, overestimated his value, and unduly praised his smart aleckutionary powers. loving himself unwisely but too extensively, he was led away into the great, untried purgatory of public scrutiny, and the general indictment followed. the truth stands out brighter and stronger than ever that there is no cut across lots to fame or success. he who seeks to jump from mediocrity to a glittering triumph over the heads of the patient student, and the earnest, industrious candidate who is willing to bide his time, gets what james owen o'connor received--the just condemnation of those who are abundantly able to judge. in seeking to combine the melancholy beauty of hamlet's deep and earnest pathos with the gentle humor of "a hole in the ground," mr. o'connor evidently corked himself, as we say at the browning club, and it was but justice after all. before we curse the condemnation of the people and the press, let us carefully and prayerfully look ourselves over, and see if we have not overestimated ourselves. there are many men alive to-day who do not dare say anything without first thinking how it will read in their memoirs--men whom we can not, therefore, thoroughly enjoy until they are dead, and yet whose graves will be kept green only so long as the appropriation lasts. my matrimonial bureau x the following matrimonial inquiries are now in my hands awaiting replies, and i take this method of giving them more air. a few months ago i injudiciously stated that i should take great pleasure in booming, or otherwise whooping up, everything in the matrimonial line, if those who needed aid would send me twenty-five cents, with personal description, lock of hair, and general outline of the style of husband or wife they were yearning for. as a result of thus yielding to a blind impulse and giving it currency through the daily press, i now have a huge mass of more or less soiled postage stamps that look as though they had made a bicycle tour around the world, a haymow full of letters breathing love till you can't rest, and a barrel of calico-colored hair. it is a rare treat to look at this assortment of hair of every hue and degree of curl and coarseness. when i pour it out on the floor it looks like the interior of a western barber shop during a state fair. when i want fun again i shall not undertake to obtain it by starting a matrimonial agency. i have one letter from a man of twenty-seven summers, who pants to bestow himself on some one at as early a date as possible. he tells me on a separate slip of paper, which he wishes destroyed, that he is a little given to "bowling up," a term with which i am not familiar, but he goes on to say that a good, noble woman, with love in her heart and an earnest desire to save a soul, could rush in and gather him in in good shape. he says that he is worthy, and that if he could be snatched from a drunkard's grave in time he believes he would become eminent. he says that several people have already been overheard to say: "what a pity he drinks." from this he is led to believe that a good wife, with some means, could redeem him. he says it is quite a common thing for young women where he lives to marry young men for the purpose of saving them. i think myself that some young girl ought to come forward and snatch this brand at an early date. the great trouble with men who form the bowl habit is that, on the morrow, after they have been so bowling, they awake with a distinct and well-defined sensation of soreness and swollenness about the head, accompanied by a strong desire to hit some living thing with a stove leg. the married man can always turn to his wife in such an emergency, smite her and then go to sleep again, but to one who is doomed to wander alone through life there is nothing to do but to suffer on, or go out and strike some one who does not belong to his family, and so lay himself liable to arrest. this letter is accompanied by a tin-type picture of a young man who shaves in such a way as to work in a streak of whiskers by which he fools himself into the notion that he has a long and luxuriant mustache. he looks like a person who, under the influence of liquor, would weep on the bosom of a total stranger and then knock his wife down because she split her foot open instead of splitting the kindling. he is not a bad-looking man, and the freckles on his hands do not hurt him as a husband. any young lady who would like to save him from a drunkard's grave can address him in my care, inclosing twenty-five cents, a small sum which goes toward a little memorial fund i am getting up for myself. my memory has always been very poor, and if i can do it any good with this fund i shall do so. the lock of hair sent with this letter may be seen at any time nailed up on my woodshed door. it is a dull red color, and can be readily cut by means of a pair of tinman's shears. the two following letters, taken at random from my files, explain themselves: "burnt prairie, near the junction,} "on the road to the court house,} "tennessee, january .} "dear sir--i am in search of a wife and would be willing to settle down if i could get a good wife. i was but twenty-six years of age when my mother died and i miss her sadly for she was oh so good and kind to me her caring son. "i have been wanting for the past year to settle down, but i have not saw a girl that i thought would make me a good, true wife. i know i have saw a good deal of the world, and am inclined to be cynical for i see how hollow everything is, and how much need there is for a great reform. sometimes i think that if i could express the wild thoughts that surges up and down in my system, i could win a deathless name. when i get two or three drinks aboard i can think of things faster than i can speak them, or draw them off for the paper. what i want is a woman that can economize, and also take the place of my lost mother, who loved me and put a better polish on my boots than any other living man. "i know i am gay and giddy in my nature, but if i could meet a joyous young girl just emerging upon life's glad morn, and she had means, i would be willing to settle down and make a good, quiet, every-day husband. "a. j." "ashmead, leduc co., i.t.,} "december .} "dear sir--i have very little time in which to pencil off a few lines regarding a wife. i am a man of business, and i can't fool around much, but i would be willing to marry the right kind of a young woman. i am just bursting forth on the glorious dawn of my sixty-third year. i have been married before, and as i might almost say, i have been in that line man and boy for over forty years. my pathway has been literally decorated with wives ever since i was twenty years old. "i ain't had any luck with my wives heretofore, for they have died off like sheep. i've treated all of them as well as i knew how, never asking of them to do any more than i did, and giving of 'em just the same kind of vittles that i had myself, but they are all gone now. there was a year or two that seemed just as if there was a funeral procession stringing out of my front gate half the time. "what i want is a young woman that can darn a sock without working two or three tumors into it, cook in a plain economical way without pampering the appetites of hired help, do chores around the barn and assist me in accumulating property. i. d. p." this last letter contains a small tress of dark hair that feels like a bunch of barbed wire when drawn through the fingers, and has a tendency to "crock." the hateful hen xi the following inquiries and replies have been awaiting publication and i shall print them here if the reader has no objections. i do not care to keep correspondents waiting too long for fear they will get tired and fail to write me in the future when they want to know anything. mr. earnest pendergast writes from puyallup as follows: "why do you not try to improve your appearance more? i think you could if you would, and we would all be so glad. you either have a very malicious artist, or else your features must pain you a good deal at times. why don't you grow a mustache?" these remarks, of course, are a little bit personal, earnest, but still they show your goodness of heart. i fear that you are cursed with the fatal gift of beauty yourself and wish to have others go with you on the downward way. you ask why i do not grow a mustache, and i tell you frankly that it is for the public good that i do not. i used to wear a long, drooping and beautiful mustache, which was well received in society, and, under the quiet stars and opportune circumstances, gave good satisfaction; but at last the hour came when i felt that i must decide between this long, silky mustache and soft-boiled eggs, of which i am passionately fond. i hope that you understand my position, earnest, and that i am studying the public welfare more than my own at all times. sassafras oleson, of south deadman, writes to know something of the care of fowls in the spring and summer. "do you know," he asks, "anything of the best methods for feeding young orphan chickens? is there any way to prevent hens from stealing their nests and sitting on inanimate objects? tell us as tersely as possible what your own experience has been with hens." to speak tersely of the hen and her mission in life seems to me almost sacrilege. it is at least in poor taste. the hen and her works lie near to every true heart. she does much toward making us better, and she doesn't care who knows it, either. young chicks who have lost their mothers by death, and whose fathers are of a shiftless and improvident nature, may be fed on kumiss, two parts; moxie, eight parts; distilled water, ten parts. mix and administer till relief is obtained. sometimes, however, a guinea hen will provide for the young chicken, and many lives have been saved in this way. whether or not this plan will influence the voice of the rising hen is a question among henologists of the country which i shall not attempt to answer. hens who steal their nests are generally of a secretive nature and are more or less social pariahs. a hen who will do this should be watched at all times and won back by kind words from the step she is about to take. brute force will accomplish little. logic also does not avail. you should endeavor to influence her by showing her that it is honorable at all times to lay a good egg, and that as soon as she begins to be secretive and to seek to mislead those who know and love her, she takes a course which can not end with honor to herself or her descendants. i have made the hen a study for many years, and love to watch her even yet as she resumes her toils on a falling market year after year, or seeks to hatch out a summer hotel by setting on a door knob. she interests and pleases me. careful study of the hen convinces me that her low, retreating forehead is a true index to her limited reasoning faculties and lack of memory, ideality, imagination, calculation and spirituality. she is also deficient in her enjoyment of humor. i once owned a large white draught rooster, who stood about seven hands high, and had feet on him that would readily break down a whole corn-field if he walked through it. yet he lacked the courage of his convictions, and socially was not a success. leading hens regarded him as a good-hearted rooster, and seemed to wonder that he did not get on better in a social way. he had a rich baritone voice, and was a good provider, digging up large areas of garden, and giving the hens what was left after he got through, and yet they gave their smiles to far more dissolute though perhaps brighter minds. so i took him away awhile, and let him see something of the world by allowing him to visit among the neighbors, and go into society a little. then i brought him home again, and one night colored him with diamond dyes so that he was a beautiful scarlet. his name was sumner. i took sumner the following morning and turned him loose among his old neighbors. surprise was written on every face. he realized his advantage, and the first thing he did was to greet the astonished crowd with a gutteral remark, which made them jump. he then stepped over to a hated rival, and ate off about fifteen cents' worth of his large, red, pompadour comb. he now remarked in a courteous way to a small poland-china hen, who seemed to be at the head of all works of social improvement, that we were having rather a backward spring. then he picked out the eye of another rival, much to his surprise, and went on with the conversation. by noon the bright scarlet rooster owned the town. those who had picked on him before had now gone to the hospital, and practically the social world was his. he got so stuck up that he crowed whenever the conversation lagged, and was too proud to eat a worm that was not right off the ice. i never saw prosperity knock the sense out of a rooster so soon. he lost my sympathy at once, and i resolved to let him carve out his own career as best he might. gradually his tail feathers grew gray and faded, but he wore his head high. he was arrogant and made the hens go worming for his breakfast by daylight. then he would get mad at the food and be real hateful and step on the little chickens with his great big feet. but as his new feathers began to come in folks got on to him, as matthew arnold has it, and the other roosters began to brighten up and also blow up their biceps muscles. [illustration: _he looked up sadly at me with his one eye as who should say, "have you got any more of that there red paint left?"_ (page )] one day he was especially mean at breakfast. a large fat worm, brought to him by the flower of his harem, had a slight gamey flavor, he seemed to think, and so he got mad and bit several chickens with his great coarse beak and stepped on some more and made a perfect show of himself. at this moment a small bantam wearing one eye still in mourning danced up and kicked sumner's eye out. then another rival knocked the stuffing for a whole sofa pillow out of sumner, and retired. by this time the surprised and gratified hens stepped back and gave the boys a chance. the bantam now put on his trim little telegraph climbers and, going up mr. sumner's powerful frame at about four jumps, he put in some repairs on the giant's features, presented his bill, and returned. by nine o'clock sumner didn't have features enough left for a sunday paper. he looked as if he had been through the elevated station at city hall and brooklyn bridge. he looked up sadly at me with his one eye as who should say, "have you got any more of that there red paint left?" but i shook my head at him and he went away into a little patch of catnip and stayed there four days. after that you could get that rooster to do anything for you--except lay. he was gentle to a fault. he would run errands for those hens and turn an icecream freezer for them all day on lawn festival days while others were gay. he never murmured nor repined. he was kind to the little chickens and often spoke to them about the general advantages of humility. after many years of usefulness sumner one day thoughtlessly ate the remains of a salt mackerel, and pulling the drapery of his couch about him he lay down to pleasant dreams, and life's fitful fever was over. his remains were given to a poor family in whom i take a great interest, frequently giving them many things for which i have no especial use. this should teach us that some people can not stand prosperity, but need a little sorrow, ever and anon, to teach them where they belong. and, oh! how the great world smiles when a rooster, who has owned the ranch for a year or so, and made himself odious, gets spread out over the united states by a smaller one with less voice. the study of the fowl is filled with interest. of late years i keep fowls instead of a garden. formerly my neighbors kept fowls and i kept the garden. it is better as it is. mertie kersykes, whatcom, washington, writes as follows: "dear mr. nye, does pugilists ever reform? they are so much brought into contax with course natures that i do not see how they can ever, ever become good lives or become professors of religion. do you know if such is the case to the best of your knowledge, and answeer soon as convenient, and so no more at present." as a candidate xii the heat and venom of each political campaign bring back to my mind with wonderful clearness the bitter and acrimonious war, and the savage factional fight, which characterized my own legislative candidacy in what was called the prairie dog district of wyoming, about ten years ago. this district was known far and wide as the battleground of the territory, and generally when the sun went down on the eve of election day the ground had that disheveled and torn-up appearance peculiar to the grave of brigham young the next day after his aggregated widow has held her regular annual sob recital and scalding-tear festival. i hesitated about accepting the nomination because i knew that vituperation would get up on its hind feet and annoy me greatly, and i had reason to believe that no pains would be spared on the part of the management of the opposition to make my existence a perfect bore. this turned out to be the case, and although i was nominated in a way that seemed to indicate perfect harmony, it was not a week before the opposition organ, to which i had frequently loaned print paper when it could not get its own c. o. d. paper out of the express office, said as follows in a startled and double-leaded tone of voice: "humiliating disclosure. "the candidate for assembly in this district, whose trans-missouri name seems to be nye, turns out to be the same man who left penobscot county, maine, in the dark of the moon four years ago. mr. nye's disappearance was so mysterious that prominent penobscoters, especially the sheriff, offered a large reward for his person. it was afterwards learned that he was kidnapped and taken across the canadian line by a high-spirited and high-stepping horse valued at $ , . mr. nye's candidacy for the high office to which he aspires has brought him into such prominence that at the mass meeting held last evening in jimmy avery's barber-shop, he was recognized at once by a maine man while making a telling speech in favor of putting in a stone culvert at the draw above mandel's ranch. the man from maine, who is visiting our thriving little town with a view to locating here and establishing an agency for his world-renowned rock-alum axe-helves, says that mr. nye, in the hurry and rush incident to his departure for canada, overlooked his wife and seven little ones. he also says that the candidate's boasted liberality here is different from the kind he was using while in maine, and quotes the following incident: two years before he went away from penobscot county, one of our present candidate's children was playing on the railroad track of the bangor & moosehead lake railroad, when suddenly there was a wild shriek of the iron-horse, a timid, scared cry of the child, and the rushing train was upon it. spectators turned away in horror. the air was heavy, and the sun seemed to stop its shining. slowly the long freight train, loaded with its rich freight of huckleberries, came to a halt. a glad cry went up from the assembly as the broad-shouldered engineer came out of the tall grass with the crowing child in his arms. then cheer on cheer rent the air, and in the midst of it all, mr. nye appeared. he was told of the circumstance, and, as he wrung the hand of the engineer, tears stood in his eyes. then, reaching in his pocket, he drew forth a card, and writing his autograph on it, he gave it to the astounded engineer, telling him to use it wisely and not fritter it away. 'but are you not robbing yourself?' exclaimed the astonished and delighted engineer. 'no, oh no,' said the munificent parent, 'i have others left.' and this is the man who asks our suffrages! will you vote for him or for alick meyerdinger, the purest one-legged man that ever rapped with his honest knuckles on top of a bar and asked the boys to put a name to it." i was pained to read this, for i had not at that time toyed much with politics, but i went up stairs and practiced an hour or two on a hollow laugh that i thought would hide the pain which seemed to tug at my heart-strings. for the rest of the day i strolled about town bearing a lurid campaign smile that looked about as joyous as the light-hearted gambols of a tin horse. i visited my groceryman, a man whom i felt that i could trust, and who had honored me in the same way. he said that i ought to be indorsed by my fellow-citizens. "what! all of them?" i exclaimed, with a choking sensation, for i had once tried to be indorsed by one of my fellow-citizens and was not entirely successful. "no," said he, "but you ought to be ratified and indorsed by those who know you best and love you most." "well," said i, "will you attend to that?" "yes, of course i will. you must not give up hope. where do you buy your meat?" i told him the name of my butcher. "and do you owe him about the same that you do me?" i said i didn't think there could be $ one way or the other. "well, give me a memorandum of what you can call to mind that you owe around town. i will see all these parties and we will get them together and work up a strong and hearty home indorsement for you, which will enable you to settle with all of us at par in the event of your election." i gave him a list. that evening a load of lumber was deposited on my lawn, and a man came in to borrow a few pounds of fence nails. i asked him what he wanted to do, for i thought he was going to nail a campaign lie or something. he said he was the man who was sent up to build a kind of "trussle" in front of my house. "what for?" i asked, with eyes like a startled fawn. "why, for the speakers to stand on," he said. "it is a kind of a combination racket. something between a home indorsement and a mass-meeting of creditors. you are to be surprised and gratified to-morrow evening, as near as i can make out." he then built a wobbly scaffold, one end of which was nailed to the bay window of the house. the next evening my heart swelled when i heard a campaign band coming up the street, trying to see how little it could play and still draw its salary. the band was followed by men with torches, and speakers in carriages. a messenger was sent into the house to tell me that i was about to be waited upon by my old friends and neighbors, who desired to deliver to me their hearty indorsement, and a large willow-covered two-gallon godspeed as a mark of esteem. [illustration: _"mr. nye, on behalf of this vast assemblage (tremulo), i thank god that you are poor!!!"_ (page )] the spokesman, as soon as i had stepped out on my veranda, mounted the improvised platform previously erected, and after a short and debilitated solo and chorus by the band, said as follows, as near as i can now recall his words: "_mr. nye_-- "sir: we have read with pain the open and venomous attacks of the foul and putrid press of our town, and come here to-night to vindicate by our presence your utter innocence _as_ a man, _as_ a fellow-citizen, _as_ a neighbor, _as_ a father, mother, brother or sister. "no one could look down into your open face, and deep, earnest lungs, and then doubt you _as_ a man, _as_ a fellow-citizen, _as_ a neighbor, _as_ a father, mother, brother or sister. you came to us a poor man, and staked your all on the growth of this town. we like you because you are still poor. you can not be too poor to suit us. it shows that you are not corrupt. "mr. nye, on behalf of this vast assemblage (tremulo), i thank god that you are poor!!!" he then drew from his pocket a little memorandum, and, holding it up to a torch, so that he could see it better, said that mr. limberquid would emit a few desultory remarks. mr. limberquid, to whom i was at that time indebted for past favors in the meat line, or, as you may say, the tenderloin, through no fault of mine, then arose and said, in words and figures as follows, to wit: "sir: i desire to say that we who know mr. nye best are here to say that he certainly has one of the most charming wives in this territory. what do we care for the vilifications of the press--a press, hired, venial, corrupt, reeking in filth and oozy with the slime of its own impaired circulation, snapping at the heels of its superiors, and steeped in the reeking poison and pollution of its own shopworn and unmarketable opinions? "we do not care a cuss! (applause.) what do we care that homely men grudge our candidate his symmetry of form and graceful upholstered carriage? what do we care that calumny crawls out of its hole, calumniates him a couple of times and then goes back? we are here to-night to show by our presence that we like mrs. nye very much. she is a good cook, and she would certainly do honor to this district as a social leader, in case she should go to cheyenne as the wife of our assemblyman. i propose three cheers for her, fellow-citizens." (applause, cheers and throbs of base-drum.) mr. sherrod then said: "feller-citizens: we glory in the fact that whatshisname--nye here, is pore. we like him for the poverty he has made. our idee in runnin' of him fer the legislater, as i take it, is to not only run him along in this here kind of hand-to-mouth poverty, but to kind of give him a chance to accumulate poverty, and have some saved up fer a rainy day. "i kin call to mind how he looked when he come to this territory a pore boy, and took off his coat and went right to work dealin' faro nights, and earning his bread by the sweat of a sweat-board daytimes, for tom dillon, acrost from the express office. and i say he is not a clost man. he gives his money where folks don't git on to it. he don't git out the band when he goes to do a kind act, but kind of sneaks around to people who are in need, and offers to match 'em fer the cigars. "he's a feller of generous impulses, gentlemen, or at least i so regard him, and i say here to-night, that if his other vitals was as big and warm as his heart, he would live to deckorate the graves of nations yet unborn." several people wept here, and wiped their eyes on their alabaster hands. i then sent my maid around through the audience with a bucketful of salt lake cider, and a dishpan full of doughnuts, to restore good feeling. but i can not soon forget how proud i was when i felt the hot tears and doughnut crumbs of my fellow-citizens raining down my back. the band then played, "see the conquering hero comes," and yielding to the pressing demands of the populi, i made a few irrelevant, but low, passionate remarks, as follows: "fellow-citizens and members of the band--we are not here, as i understand it, solely to tickle our palates with the twisted doughnuts of our pampered and sin-cursed civilization, but to unite and give our pledges once more to the support of the best men. in this teacup of foaming and impervious cider from the valley of the jordan i drink to the success of the best men. fellow-citizens and members of the band, we owe our fealty to the old party. let us cling to the old party as long as there is any juice in it and vote for its candidates. let us give our suffrages to men of advanced thought who are loyal to their party but poor. gentlemen, i am what would be called a poor but brainy man. when i am not otherwise engaged you will always find me engaged in thought. i love the excitement of following an idea and chasing it up a tree. it is a great pleasure for me to pursue the red-hot trail of a thought or the intellectual spoor of an idea. but i do not allow this habit to interfere with politics. politics and thought are radically different. why should man think himself weak on these political matters when there are men who have made it their business and life study to do the thinking for the masses? "this is my platform. i believe that a candidate should be poor; that he should be a thinker on other matters, but leave political matters and nominations to professional political ganglia and molders of primaries who have given their lives and the inner coating of their stomachs to the advancement of political methods by which the old, cumbersome and dangerous custom of defending our institutions with drawn swords may be superseded by the modern and more attractive method of doing so with overdrawn salaries. "fellow-citizens and members of the band, in closing let me say that you have seen me placed in the trying position of postmaster for the past year. for that length of time i have stood between you and the government at washington. i have assisted in upholding the strong arm of the government, and yet i have not allowed it to crush you. no man here to-night can say that i have ever, by word or deed, revealed outside the office the contents of a postal card addressed to a member of my own party or held back or obstructed the progress of new and startling seeds sent by our representative from the agricultural department. i am in favor of a full and free interchange of interstate red-eyed and pale beans, and i favor the early advancement and earnest recognition of the merits of the highly offensive partisan. i thank you, neighbors and band (husky and pianissimo), for this gratifying little demonstration. words seem empty and unavailing at this time. will you not accept the hospitality of my home? neighbors, you are welcome to these halls. come in and look at the family album." the meeting then became informal, and the chairman asked me as he came down from his perch how i would be fixed by the first of the month. i told him that i could not say, but hoped that money matters would show less apathy by that time. i have already taken up too much space, however, in this simple recital, and i have only room to say that i was not elected, and that of the seventy-five who came up to indorse me and then go home exhilarated by my cheering doughnuts, forty voted for the other man, thereby electing him by a plurality of everybody. home indorsement, hard-boiled eggs and hot tears of reconciliation can never fool me again. they are as empty as the bass drum by which they are invariably accompanied. a few years ago a majority of the voters of a newly-fledged city in wisconsin signed a petition asking a gentleman named bradshaw to run for the office of mayor. he said he did not want it, but if a majority had signified in writing that they needed him every hour, he would allow his name to be used. they then turned in and defeated him by a handsome majority, thus showing that the average patriotism of the present day has a string to it. who was the first to make the claim that i would surely win the game, but now that dennis is my name? the patriot. who stated that my chance was best, and came and wept upon my breast, only to knock me galley west? the patriot. who told me of the joy he felt, while he upon my merits dwelt? who then turned in and took my pelt? the patriot. summer boarders and others xiii "we kep' summer boarders the past season," said orlando mccusick, of east kortright, to me as we sat in the springhouse and drank cold milk from a large yellow bowl with white stripes around it; "we kep' boarders from town all summer in the catskills, and that is why i don't figger on doing of it this year. you fellers that writes the pieces and makes the pictures of us folks what keeps the boarders has got the laugh on us as a general thing, but i would like to be interviewed a little for the press, so's that i can be set right before the american people." "well, if you will state the case fairly and honestly, i will try to give you a chance." "in the first place," said orlando, taking off his boot and removing his jack-knife which had worked its way through his pocket and down his leg, then squinting along the new "tap" with one eye to see how it was wearing before he put it on, "i did not know how healthy it was here until i read in a railroad pamphlet, i guess you call it, where it says that the relation of temperature to oxygen in a certain quantity of air is of the highest importance. 'in a cubic foot,' it says, 'of air at , feet elevation, with a temperature of degrees, there is as much oxygen as in a like amount of air at sea level with a temperature of degrees. another important fact that should not be lost sight of,' this able feller says, 'by those affected by pulmonary diseases, is that three or four times as much oxygen is consumed in activity as in repose.' (hence the hornet's nests introduced by me last season.) 'then in climates made stimulating by increased electric tension and cold, activity must be followed by an increased endosmose of oxygen." "so you decided to select and furnish endosmose of oxygen to sufferers?" [illustration: ... _'three or four times as much oxygen is consumed in activity as in repose.' (hence the hornet's nests introduced by me last season.)_ (page )] "yes. i went into it with no notions of making a pile of money, but i argued that these folks would give anything for health. we folks are apt to argy that people from town are all well off and liberal, and that if they can come out and get all the buttermilk and straw rides they want, and a little flush of color and a wood-tick on the back of their necks, they don't reck a pesky reck what it costs. this is only occasionly so. ask any doctor you know of if the average man won't give anything to save his life, and then when it's saved put his propity into his womern's name. that's human. you know the good book says a pure man from new york is the noblest work of god." "well, when did this desire to endosmose your fellow-man first break out on you?" "about a year and a half ago it began to rankle in my mind. i read up everything i could get hold of regarding the longevity and such things to be had here. in the winter i sent in a fair, honest, advertisement regarding my place, and, judas h. priest! before i could say 'scat' in the spring, here came letters by the dozen, mostly from school-teachers at first, that had a good command of language, but did not come. i afterwards learned that these letters was frequently wrote by folks that was not able to go into the country, so wrote these letters for mental improvement, hoping also that some one in the country might want them for the refinement they would engender in the family. "i took one young woman from town once, and allowed her per cent. off for her refining influence. her name was etiquette mccracken. she knew very little in the first place, and had added to it a good deal by storing up in her mind a lot of membranous theories and damaged facts that ought to ben looked over and disinfected. she was the most hopeless case i ever saw, mr. nye. she was a metropolitan ass. you know that a town greenhorn is the greenest greenhorn in the world, because he can't be showed anything. he knows it all. well, etiquette mccracken very nigh paralyzed what few manners my children had. she pointed at things at table, and said she wanted some o' that, and she had a sort of a starved way of eating, and short breath, and seemed all the time apprehensive. she probably et off the top of a flour barrel at home. she came and stayed all summer at our house, with a wardrobe which was in a shawl-strap wrapped up in a programme of one of them big theaters on bowery street. i guess she led a gay life in the city. she said she did. she said if her set was at our house they would make it ring with laughter. i said if they did i'd wring their cussed necks with laughter. 'why,' she says, 'don't you like merriment?' 'yes,' i says, 'i like merriment well enough, but the cackle of a vacant mind rattling around in a big farmhouse makes me a fiend, and unmans me, and i gnaw up two or three people a day till i get over it,' i says." "well, what became of miss mccracken?" "oh, she went up to her room in september, dressed herself in a long linen duster, did some laundry work, and the next day, with her little shawl-strap, she lit out for the city, where she was engaged to marry a very wealthy old man whose mind had been crowded out by an intellectual tumor, but who had a kind heart and had pestered her to death for years to marry him and inherit his wealth. i afterwards learned that in this matter she had lied." "did you meet any other pleasant people last season?" "yes. i met some blooded children from several hundred and fifth street. they come here so's they could get a breath of country air and wear out their old cloze. their mother said the poor things wanted to get out of the mawlstrum of meetropolitan life. she said it was awful where they lived. just one round of gayety all the while. they come down and salted my hens, and then took and turned in and chased a new milch cow eight miles, with two of 'em holdin' of her by the tail, and another on top of her with a pair of buffalo bill spurs and a false face, yelling like a volunteer fire company. then the old lady kicked because we run short of milk. said it was great if she couldn't have milk when she come to the wilderness to live and paid her little old $ a week just as regular as saturday night come round. "these boys picked on mine all summer because my boys was plain little fellers with no underwear, but good impulses and a general desire to lay low and eventually git there, understand. my boys is considerable bleached as regards hair, and freckled as to features, and they are not ready in conversation like a town boy, but they would no more drive a dumb animal through the woods till it was all het up, or take a new milch cow and scare the daylights out of her, and yell at her and pull out her tail, and send her home with her pores all open, than they'd be sent to the legislature without a crime. "a neighbor of mine that see these boys when they was scarin' my cow to death said if they'd of been his'n he'd rather foller 'em to their grave than seen 'em do that. that's putting of it rather strong, but i believe i would myself. "we had a nice old man that come out here to attend church, he said. he belonged to a big church in town, where it cost him so much that he could hardly look his maker in the face, he said. last winter, he told us, they sold the pews at auction, and he had an affection for one, 'specially 'cause he and his wife had set in it all their lives, and now that she was dead he wanted it, as he wanted the roof that had been over them all their married lives. so he went down when they auctioned 'em off, as it seems they do in those big churches, and the bidding started moderate, but run up till they put a premium on his'n that froze him out, and he had to take a cheap one where he couldn't hear very well, and it made him sort of bitter. then in may, he says, the palestine rash broke out among the preachers in new york, and most of 'em had to go to the holy land to get over it, because that is the only thing you can do with the palestine rash when it gets a hold on a pastor. so he says to me, 'i come out here mostly to see if i could get any information from the throne of grace.' "he was a rattlin' fine old feller, and told me a good deal about one thing and another. he said he'd seen it stated in the paper that salvation was free, but in new york he said it was pretty well protected for an old-established industry. "he knew deacon decker pretty well. deacon decker was an old playmate of russell sage, but didn't do so well as russ did. he went once to new york after he got along in years, and sage knew him, but he couldn't seem to place sage. 'why, decker,' says sage, 'don't you know me?' decker says, 'that's all right. you bet i know ye. you're one of these fellows that knows everybody. there's another feller around the corner that helps you to remember folks. i know ye. i read the papers. git out. scat. torment ye, i ain't in here to-day buyin' green goods, nor yet to lift a freight bill for ye. so avaunt before i sick the police on ye.' "finally russ identified himself, and shook dice with the deacon to see which should buy the lunch at the dairy kitchen. this is a true story, told me by an old neighbor of deacon decker's. "deacon decker once discovered a loose knot in his pew seat in church, and while considering the plan of redemption, thoughtlessly pushed with considerable force on this knot with his thumb. at first it resisted the pressure, but finally it slipped out and was succeeded by the deacon's thumb. no one saw it, so the deacon, slightly flushed, gave it a stealthy wrench, but the knot-hole had a sharp conical bottom, and the edge soon caught and secured the rapidly swelling thumb of deacon decker. "during the closing prayer he worked at it with great diligence and all the saliva he could spare, but it resisted. it was a sad sight. finally he gave it up, and said to himself the struggle was useless. he tried to be resigned and wait till all had gone. he shook his head when the plate was passed to him, and only bowed when the brethren passed him on the way out. some thought that maybe he was cursed with doubts, but reckoned that they would pass away. "finally he was missed outside. he was generally so chipper and so cheery. so his wife was asked about him. 'why, father's inside. i'll go and get him. i never knew him to miss shaking hands with all the folks.' "so she went in and found deacon decker trying to interest himself with a lesson leaf in one hand, while his other was concealed under his hat. he could fool the neighbors, but he could not fool his wife, and so she hustled around and told one or two, who told their wives, and they all came back to see the deacon and make suggestions to him. "this little incident is true, and while it does not contain any special moral, it goes to show that an honest man gathers no moss, and also explains a large circular hole, and the tin patch over it, which may still be seen in the pew where deacon decker used to sit." three open letters xiv _colonel john l. sullivan, at large:_ dear sir--will you permit me, without wishing to give you the slightest offense, to challenge you to fight in france with bare knuckles and police interference, between this and the close of navigation? i have had no real good fight with anybody for some time, and should be glad to co-operate with you in that direction, preferring, however, to have it attended to in time so that i can go on with my fall plowing. i should also like to be my own stake holder. we shall have to fight at pounds, because i can not train above that figure without extra care and good feeding, while you could train down to that, i judge, if you begin to go without food on receipt of this challenge. i should ask that we fight under the rules of the london prize ring, in the opera house in paris. if you decide to accept, i will engage the house at once and put a few good reading notices in the papers. i should expect a forfeit of $ , to be put up, so that in case you are in jail at the time, i may have something to reimburse me for my trip to paris and the general upheaval of my whole being which arises from ocean travel. i challenge you as a plain american citizen and an amateur, partially to assert the rights of a simple tax-payer and partly to secure for myself a name. i was, as a boy, the pride of my parents, and they wanted me to amount to something. so far, the results have been different. will you not aid me, a poor struggler in the great race for supremacy, to obtain that notice which the newspapers now so reluctantly yield? you are said to be generous to a fault, especially your own faults, and i plead with you now to share your great fame by accepting my challenge and appearing with me in a mixed programme for the evening, in which we will jointly amuse and instruct the people, while at the same time it will give me a chance to become great in one day, even if i am defeated. i have often admired your scholarly and spiritual expressions, and your modest life, and you will remember that at one time i asked you for your autograph, and you told me to go where the worm dieth not and the fire department is ineffectual. will you not, i ask, aid a struggler and panter for fame, who desires the eye of the public, even if his own be italicised at the same time? i must close this challenge, which is in the nature of an appeal to one of america's best-known men. will you accept my humble challenge, so that i can go into training at once? we can leave the details of the fight to the _mail and express_, if you will, and the championship belt we can buy afterward. all i care for is the honor of being mixed up with you in some way, and enough of the gate money to pay for arnica and medical attendance. will you do it? i know the audience would enjoy seeing us dressed for the fray, you so strong and so wide, i so pensive and so flat busted about the chest. let us proceed at once, colonel, to draw up the writings and begin to train. you will never regret it, i am sure, and it will be the making of me. i do not know your address, but trust that this will reach you through this book, for, as i write, you are on you way toward canada, with a requisition and the police reaching after you at every town. i am glad to hear that you are not drinking any more, especially while engaged in sleep. if you only confine your drinking to your waking hours, you may live to be a very old man, and your great, massive brain will continue to expand until your hat will not begin to hold it. what do you think of browning? i should like to converse with you on the subject before the fight, and get your soul's best sentiments on his style of intangible thought wave. i will meet you at havre or calais, and agree with you how hard we shall hit each other. i saw, at a low variety show the other day, two pleasing comedians who welted each other over the stomach with canes, and also pounded each other on the head with sufficient force to explode percussion caps on the top of the skull, and yet without injury. do you not think that a prize-fight could be thus provided for? i will see these men, if you say so, and learn their methods. remember, it is not the punishment of a prize-fight for which i yearn, but the effulgent glory of meeting you in the ring, and having the cables and the press associate my budding name with that of a man who has done so much to make men better--a man whose name will go down to posterity as that of one who sought to ameliorate and mellow and desiccate his fellow-men. i will now challenge you once more, with great respect, and beg leave to remain, yours very truly, bill nye. _hon. ferdinand de lesseps, paris, france:_ dear sir--i have some shares in the canal which you have been working on, and i am compelled to hypothecate them this summer, in order to paint my house. you have great faith in the future of the enterprise, and so i will give you the first chance on this stock of mine. you have suffered so much in order to do this work that i want to see the stock get into your hands. you deserve it. you shall have it. ferdie, if you will send me a post-office money order by return mail, covering the par value of five hundred shares, i will lose the premium, because i am a little pressed for money. the painters will be through next week, and will want their pay. as i say, i want to see you own the canal, for in fancy i can see you as you toiled down there in the hot sun, floating your wheelbarrow and your bonds down the valley with your perspiration. i can see you in the morning, with hot, red hands and a tin dinner pail, going to your toil, a large red cotton handkerchief sticking out of your hip pocket. so i have decided that you ought to have control, if possible, of this great water front; besides, you have a larger family than i have to support. when i heard that you were the father of fifteen little children, and that you were in the sere and yellow leaf, i said to myself, a man with that many little mouths to feed, at the age of eighty, shall have the first crack at my stock. and so, if you will send the face value as soon as possible, i will say bong jaw, messue. yours truly, bill nye. _to the seven haired sisters, 'steenth street, new york:_ mesdames, mamselles and fellow-citizens--i write these few lines to say that i am well and hope this will find you all enjoying the same great blessing. how pleasant it is for sisters to dwell together in unity and beloved by mankind. you must indeed have a good time standing in the window day after day, pulling your long hair through your fingers with pride. when i first saw you all thus engaged, for the benefit of the public, i thought it was a candy pull. i now write to say that the hair promoter which you sold me at the time is not up to its work. it was a year ago that i bought it, and i think that in a year something ought to show. it is a great nuisance for a public man who is liable to come home late at night to have to top-dress his head before he can retire. your directions involve great care and trouble to a man in my position, and still i have tried faithfully to follow them. what is the result? nothing but disappointment, and not so very much of that. you said, if you remember, that your father was a bald-headed clergyman, but one day, with a wild shriek of "eureka!" he discovered this hair encourager, and for the rest of his life filled his high hat with hair every time he put it on. you said that at first a fine growth of down, like the inside of a mouse's ear, would be seen, after that the blade, then the stalk, and the full corn in the ear. in a pig's ear, i am now led to believe. fair, but false seven-haired sisters, i now bid you adieu. you have lost in me a good, warm, true-hearted, and powerful friend. ask me not for my indorsement, or for my before and after taking pictures to use in your circulars; i give my kind words and photographs hereafter to the soap men. they are what they seem. you are not. when a woman betrays me she must beware. and when seven of them do so, it is that much worse. you fooled me with smiles and false promises, and now it will be just as well for you to look out. i would rather die than be betrayed. it is disagreeable. it sours one, and also embitters one. here at this point our ways will diverge. the roads fork at this place. i shall go on upward and onward hairless and cappy, also careless and happy, to my goal in life. i do not know whether each or either of you have provided yourselves with goals or not, but if not you will do well now to select some. the world may smile upon you, and gold pour into your coffers, but the day will come when you will have to wrap the drapery of your hair about you and lie down to pleasant dreams. then will arise the thought, alas!--then you'll remember me. i now close this letter, leaving you to the keen pangs of remorse and the cruel jabs of unavailing regret. some people are born bald, others acquire baldness, whilst still others have baldness thrust upon them with a paint brush. some are bald on the outside of their heads, others on the inside. but oh, girls, beware of baldness on the soul. i ask you, even if you are the daughters of a clergyman, to think seriously of what i have said. yours truly, bill nye. the dubious future xv without wishing to alarm the american people, or create a panic, i desire briefly and seriously to discuss the great question, "whither are we drifting, and what is to be the condition of the coming man?" we can not shut our eyes to the fact that mankind is passing through a great era of change; even womankind is not built as she was a few brief years ago. and is it not time, fellow citizens, that we pause to consider what is to be the future of the american? food itself has been the subject of change both in the matter of material and preparation. this must affect the consumer in such a way as to some day bring about great differences. take, for instance, the oyster, one of our comparatively modern food and game fishes, and watch the effects of science upon him. at one time the oyster browsed around and ate what he could find in neptune's back-yard, and we had to eat him as we found him. now we take a herd of oysters off the trail, all run down, and feed them artificially till they swell up to a fancy size, and bring a fancy price. where will this all lead at last, i ask as a careful scientist? instead of eating apples, as adam did, we work the fruit up into apple-jack and pie, while even the simple oyster is perverted, and instead of being allowed to fatten up in the fall on acorns and ancient mariners, spurious flesh is put on his bones by the artificial osmose and dialysis of our advanced civilization. how can you make an oyster stout or train him down by making him jerk a health lift so many hours every day, or cultivate his body at the expense of his mind, without ultimately not only impairing the future usefulness of the oyster himself, but at the same time affecting the future of the human race who feed upon him? i only use the oyster as an illustration, and i do not wish to cause alarm, but i say that if we stimulate the oyster artificially and swell him up by scientific means, we not only do so at the expense of his better nature and keep him away from his family, but we are making our mark on the future race of men. oyster-fattening is now, of course, in its infancy. only a few years ago an effort was made at st. louis to fatten cove oysters while in the can, but the system was not well understood, and those who had it in charge only succeeded in making the can itself more plump. but now oysters are kept on ground feed and given nothing to do for a few weeks, and even the older and overworked sway-backed and rickety oysters of the dim and murky past are made to fill out, and many of them have to put a gore in the waistband of their shells. i only speak of the oyster incidentally, as one of the objects toward which science has turned its attention, and i assert with the utmost confidence that the time will come, unless science should get a set-back, when the present hunting-case oyster will give place to the open-face oyster, grafted on the octopus and big enough to feed a hotel. further than that, the oyster of the future will carry in a hip-pocket a flask of vinegar, half a dozen lemons and two little japanese bottles, one of which will contain salt and the other pepper, and there will be some way provided by which you can tell which is which. but are we improving the oyster now? that is a question we may well ask ourselves. is this a healthy fat which we are putting on him, or is it bloat? and what will be the result in the home-life of the oyster? we take him from all domestic influences whatever in order to make a swell of him by our modern methods, but do we improve his condition morally, and what is to be the great final result on man? the reader will see by the questions i ask that i am a true scientist. give me an overcoat pocket full of lower-case interrogation marks and a medical report to run to, and i can speak on the matter of science and advancement till reason totters on her throne. but food and oysters do not alone affect the great, pregnant future. our race is being tampered with not only by means of adulterations, political combinations and climatic changes, but even our methods of relaxation are productive of peculiar physical conditions, malformations and some more things of the same kind. cigarette smoking produces a flabby and endogenous condition of the optic nerve, and constant listening at a telephone, always with the same ear, decreases the power of the other ear till it finally just stands around drawing its salary, but actually refusing to hear anything. carrying an eight-pound cane makes a man lopsided, and the muscular and nervous strain that is necessary to retain a single eyeglass in place and keep it out of the soup, year after year, draws the mental stimulus that should go to the thinker itself, until at last the mind wanders away and forgets to come back, or becomes atrophied, and the great mental strain incident to the work of pounding sand or coming in when it rains is more than it is equal to. playing billiards, accompanied by the vicious habit of pounding on the floor with the butt of the cue ever and anon, produces at last optical illusions, phantasmagoria and visions of pink spiders with navy-blue abdomens. base-ball is not alone highly injurious to the umpire, but it also induces crooked fingers, bone spavin and hives among habitual players. jumping the rope induces heart disease. poker is unduly sedentary in its nature. bicycling is highly injurious, especially to skittish horses. boating induces malaria. lawn tennis can not be played in the house. archery is apt to be injurious to those who stand around and watch the game, and pugilism is a relaxation that jars heavily on some natures. [illustration: _playing billiards, accompanied by the vicious habit of pounding on the floor with the butt of the cue ever and anon, produces at last optical illusions_ (page )] foot-ball produces what may be called the endogenous or ingrowing toenail, stringhalt and mania. copenhagen induces a melancholy, and the game of bean bag is unduly exciting. horse racing is too brief and transitory as an outdoor game, requiring weeks and months for preparation and lasting only long enough for a quick person to ejaculate "scat!" the pitcher's arm is a new disease, the outgrowth of base-ball; the lawn-tennis elbow is another result of a popular open-air amusement, and it begins to look as though the coming american would hear with one overgrown telephonic ear, while the other will be rudimentary only. he will have an abnormal base-ball arm with a lawn-tennis elbow, a powerful foot-ball-kicking leg with the superior toe driven back into the palm of his foot. he will have a highly trained biceps muscle over his eye to retain his glass, and that eye will be trained to shoot a curved glance over a high hat and witness anything on the stage. other features grow abnormal, or shrink up from the lack of use, as a result of our customs. for instance, the man whose business it is to get along a crowded street with the utmost speed will have, finally, a hard, sharp horn growing on each elbow, and a pair of spurs growing out of each ankle. these will enable him to climb over a crowd and get there early. constant exposure to these weapons on the part of the pedestrian will harden the walls of the thorax and abdomen until the coming man will be an impervious man. the citizen who avails himself of all modern methods of conveyance will ride from his door on the horse car to the elevated station, where an elevator will elevate him to the train and a revolving platform will swing him on board, or possibly the street car will be lifted from the surface track to the elevated track, and the passenger will retain his seat all the time. then a man will simply hang out a red card, like an express card, at his door, and a combination car will call for him, take him to the nearest elevated station, elevate him, car and all, to the track, take him where he wants to go, and call for him at any hour of the night to bring him home. he will do his exercising at home, chiefly taking artificial sea baths, jerking a rowing machine or playing on a health lift till his eyes hang out on his cheeks, and he need not do any walking whatever. in that way the coming man will be over-developed above the legs, and his lower limbs will look like the desolate stems of a frozen geranium. eccentricities of limb will be handed over like baldness from father to son among the dwellers in the cities, where every advantage in the way of rapid transit is to be had, until a metropolitan will be instantly picked out by his able digestion and rudimentary legs, just as we now detect the gentleman from the interior by his wild endeavors to overtake an elevated train. in fact, mr. edison has now perfected, or announced that he is on the road to the perfection of, a machine which i may be pardoned for calling a storage think-tank. this will enable a brainy man to sit at home, and, with an electric motor and a perfected phonograph, he can think into a tin dipper or funnel, which will, by the aid of electricity and a new style of foil, record and preserve his ideas on a sheet of soft metal, so that when any one says to him, "a penny for your thoughts," he can go to his valise and give him a piece of his mind. thus the man who has such wild and beautiful thoughts in the night and never can hold on to them long enough to turn on the gas and get his writing materials, can set this thing by the head of his bed, and, when the poetic thought comes to him in the stilly night, he can think into a hopper, and the genius of franklin and edison together will enable him to fire it back at his friends in the morning while they eat their pancakes and glucose syrup from vermont, or he can mail the sheet of tinfoil to absent friends, who may put it into their phonographs and utilize it. in this way the world may harness the gray matter of its best men, and it will be no uncommon thing to see a dozen brainy men tied up in a row in the back office of an intellectual syndicate, dropping pregnant thoughts into little electric coffee mills for a couple of hours a day, after which they can put on their coats, draw their pay, and go home. all this will reduce the quantity of exercise, both mental and physical. two men with good brains could do the thinking for , , of people and feel perfectly fresh and rested the next day. take four men, we will say, two to do the day thinking and two more to go on deck at night, and see how much time the rest of the world would have to go fishing. see how politics would become simplified. conventions, primaries, bargains and sales, campaign bitterness and vituperation--all might be wiped out. a pair of political thinkers could furnish , , of people with logical conclusions enough to last them through the campaign and put an unbiased opinion into a man's house each day for less than he now pays for gas. just before election you could go into your private office, throw in a large dose of campaign whisky, light a campaign cigar, fasten your buttonhole to the wall by an elastic band, so that there would be a gentle pull on it, and turn the electricity on your mechanical thought supply. it would save time and money, and the result would be the same as it is now. this would only be the beginning, of course, and after a while every qualified voter who did not feel like exerting himself so much, need only give his name and proxy to the salaried thinker employed by the national think retort and supply works. we talk a great deal about the union of church and state, but that is not so dangerous, after all, as the mixture of politics and independent thought. will the coming voter be an automatic, legless, hairless mollusk with an abnormal ear constantly glued to the tube of a big tank full of symmetrical ideas furnished by a national bureau of brains in the employ of the party in power? earning a reward xvi those were troublous times indeed. all-wool justice in the courts was impossible. the vigilance committee, or salvation army, as it called itself, didn't make much fuss about its work, but we all knew that the best citizens belonged to it, and were in good standing. it was in those days that young stewart was short-handed for a sheep-herder, and had to take up with a sullen, hairy vagrant called by the other boys, "esau." esau hadn't been on the ranch a week before he made trouble with the proprietor and got from stewart the red-hot blessing he deserved. then esau got madder and skulked away down the valley among the little sage brush hummocks and white alkali wasteland, to nurse his wrath. when stewart drove into the corral that night, esau rose up from behind an old sheep dip-tank, and without a word except what may have growled around in his black heart, he leveled a spencer rifle and shot his young employer dead. that was the tragedy of that week only. others had occurred before and others would probably occur again. tragedy was getting too prevalent for comfort. so as soon as a quick cayuse and a boy could get down into town, the news spread and the authorities began in the routine manner to set the old legal mill to running. some one had to go down to "the tivoli" and find the prosecuting attorney, then a messenger had to go to "the alhambra" for the justice of the peace. the prosecuting attorney was "full," and the judge had just drawn one card to complete a straight flush, and had succeeded. so it took time to get square-toed justice ready and arm the sheriff with the proper documents. in the meantime the salvation army was fully half way to clugston's ranch. they had started out, as they said, "to see that esau didn't get away." they were also going to see that esau was brought into town. what happened after they got out there i only know from hearsay, for i was not a member of the salvation army at that time. but i learned from one of those present, that they found esau down in the sage brush on the bottoms that lie between the abrupt corner of sheep mountain and the little laramie river. they captured him but he died soon after, as it was told me, from the effects of opium taken with suicidal intent. i remember seeing esau the next morning, and i thought i noticed signs of ropium, as there was a purple streak around the neck of the deceased, together with other external phenomena not peculiar to opium. but the grand difficulty with the salvation army was that it didn't want to bring esau into town. a long, cold night ride with a person in esau's condition was disagreeable. twenty miles of lonely road with a deceased murderer in the bottom of the wagon is depressing. those of my readers who have tried it will agree with me that it is not calculated to promote hilarity. [illustration: _mr. whatley hadn't gone more than half a mile when he heard the wild and disappointed yells of the salvation army_ (page )] so the salvation army stopped at whatley's ranch to get warm, hoping that some one would steal the remains and elope with them. they stayed some time and managed to "give away" the fact that there was a reward of $ , out for esau, dead or alive. the salvation army even went so far as to betray a good deal of hilarity over the easy way it had nailed the reward or would as soon as said remains were delivered up and identified. mr. whatley thought that the salvation army was having a kind of walk away, so he slipped out at the back door of the ranch, put esau into his own wagon and drove off to town. remember, this is the way it was told to me. mr. whatley hadn't gone more than half a mile when he heard the wild and disappointed yells of the salvation army. he put the buckskin on the back of his horse without mercy, urged on by the enraged shouts and yells of his infuriated pursuers. he reached town about midnight, and his pursuers disappeared. but what was he to do with esau? he drove around all over town trying to find the official who signed for the deceased. he went from house to house like a vegetable vender, seeking sadly for the party who would give him a $ , check for esau. nothing could be more depressing than to wake up one man after another out of a sound sleep, and invite him to come out to the buggy and identify the remains. one man went out and looked at him. he said he didn't know how others felt about it, but he allowed that anybody who would pay $ , for such a remains as esau's could not have very good taste. gradually it crept through mr. whatley's wool that the salvation army had been working him, so he left esau at the engine house and went home. on his ranch he nailed up a large board, on which had been painted in antique characters, with a paddle and tar, the following: [finger right] vigilance committees, salvation armies, morgues, or young physicians who may have deceased people on their hands, are requested to refrain from conferring them on to the undersigned. [finger right] people who contemplate shuffling off their own or other people's mortal coils will please not do so on these grounds. [finger right] the salvation army of the rocky mountains is especially hereby warned to keep off the grass! james whatley. a plea for justice xvii _to the honorable mayor of new york:_ sir--i suppose you are mayor of this whole town, and if so you are the mayor of the hosspitals as well as of the municipality of new york. i am a citizen of this place that has always been square towards every man and paid my bills as they accrewed. i now ask you, in return for same, to intervene and protect me in my rights. the millishy has never been called out to suppress me. i have never been guilty of rebellyun or open difyance off the law, and yet i am unable to get a square deal and i write this brief note and enclose a two-cent stamp, to ascertain whether, as mayor, you are for me or agin me. [illustration: ... _i was in a large, cool hosspital which smelt strong of some forrin substans. the hed doctor had been breathing on me and so i come too_ (page )] three years ago i entered your town from a westerly direction. i done so quietly and i presume that few will remember the sircumstans, yet such was so. i had not been here two weeks when i was run into, knocked over and tromped onto by the bay team of a purse-proud producer of beer. i was dashed to earth and knocked galley west on broadway st. looking north by sed horses and i was wrecked while peasably on my way to my place of business. when i come to myself i was in a large, cool hosspital which smelt strong of some forrin substans. the hed doctor had been breathing on me and so i come too. when i looked around me i decided to murmur "where am i at?" which i did. i soon learned that i was in a hosspital, and that kind friends had removed one of my legs. i will not take up your time, sir, by touching on my sufferings. suphice it to say that i went foarth at last a blasted man, with a cork leg that don't look no more like my own once leg which i was torn away from, in spite of the old harry. it is too late to repine over a wooden leg, unless it is a pine leg, but i come to you, sir, to interfear on behalf of another matter which i will now aprooch. sorrows at that time come on me thick and fast. during that fall i lost my wife and two dogs by deth. this was the third wife i have been called on to bury. it has been my blessed privilidge to mourn the loss of three as good wives as i ever shook a stick at. i have got them all in one cool, roomy toom, with a verse on the door of same and their address, so that they will not delay the resurrection. under the verse that was engraved on the slab, some low cuss has wrote three verses of poetry with a chorus to each verse which winds up with the words: tit, tat, toe, three in a row. but all this is only introductory. sir, it has long been my heart's desire that all my beloved dead should repose together. i have a large lot in the semmetery, and last week a movement was placed on foot to inter my late leg by the sides of my deceased wives. i applied to the hosspital for said leg, having got a permit to bury same. i was pleasant and corechus to the authoritis there, saying that my name was gray and i was there to procure my leg, whereupon a young meddicle cuss said to the head ampitater: "here's de man that wants to plant gray's l-e-g in a churchyard." he then laughed a hoarse laugh and went on preserving a polapus in a big glass fruit can with alkohall in it. wherever i went i met with a general disposition to fool with a stricken and one-legged man. i went from ward to ward, looking at suffering and smelling kloryform till i was sick at heart. i was referred from dan to beersheby, from the janiter up to the chief tongue inspector, and one place where i went into they seemed to be picking bone splinters out from among a gentleman's brains. i made bold to tell my business, but with small hopes. "this is the man i told you about, doc," said a young man who was filing and setting a small bone handsaw. "this is that matter of gray, the man who wants his leg." "damn your gray matter," says this doctor, whereupon the rest bust into ribald mirth. i was insulted right and left for a whole forenoon, and came away shocked and pained. will you assist me? there is no reverence among doctors any more and they have none of the finer feelings. some asked me if i had a check for my leg. some said they thought it had escaped from the hosspital and gone on the stage, and one feller said that this hosspital would not be responsible for the legs of guests unless deposited in the office safe. i like fun just as well as anybody, mr. mayor, but i don't think any one should be youmerous over the cold dead features of a leg from which i have been ruthlessly snatched. i now beg, sir, to dror this hasty letter to an untimely end, hoping that you will make it hot for this blooming hosspital and make them fork over said leg. yours, with kindest regards, a. pittsfield gray. grains of truth xviii a young friend has written to me as follows: "could you tell me something of the location of the porcelain works in sèvres, france, and what the process is of making those beautiful things which come from there? how is the name of the town pronounced? can you tell me anything of the history of mme. pompadour? who was the dauphin? did you learn anything of louis xv whilst in france? what are your literary habits?" it is with a great, bounding joy that i impart the desired information. sèvres is a small village just outside of st. cloud (pronounced san cloo). it is given up to the manufacture of porcelain. you go to st. cloud by rail or river, and then drive over to sèvres by diligence or voiture. some go one way and some go the other. i rode up on the seine, aboard of a little, noiseless, low-pressure steamer about the size of a sewing machine. it was called the silvoo play, i think. the fare was thirty centimes--or, say, three cents. after paying my fare and finding that i still had money left, i lunched at st. cloud in the open air at a trifling expense. i then took a bottle of milk from my pocket and quenched my thirst. traveling through france, one finds that the water is especially bad, tasting of the dauphin at times, and dangerous in the extreme. i advise those, therefore, who wish to be well whilst doing the continent, to carry, especially in france, as i did, a large, thick-set bottle of milk, or kumiss, with which to take the wire edge off one's whistle whilst being yanked through the louvre. st. cloud is seven miles west of the center of paris and almost ten miles by rail on the road to versailles--pronounced vairsi. st. cloud belongs to the canton of sèvres and the arrondissement of versailles. an arrondissement is not anything reprehensible. it is all right. you, yourself, could belong to an arrondissement if you lived in france. st. cloud is on the beautiful hill slope, looking down the valley of the seine, with paris in the distance. it is peaceful and quiet and beautiful. everything is peaceful in paris when there is no revolution on the carpet. the steam cars run safely and do not make so much noise as ours do. the steam whistle does not have such a hold on people as it does here. the adjutant-general at the depot blows a little tin bugle, the admiral of the train returns the salute, the adjutant-general says "allons!" and the train starts off like a somewhat leisurely young man who is going to the depot to meet his wife's mother. one does not realize what a fourth of july racket we live in and employ in our business till he has been the guest of a monarchy of europe between whose toes the timothy and clover have sprung up to a great height. and yet it is a pleasing change, and i shall be glad when we as a republic have passed the blow-hard period, laid aside the ear-splitting steam whistle, settled down to good, permanent institutions, and taken on the restful, sootheful, boston air which comes with time and the quiet self-congratulation that one is born in a bible land and with gospel privileges, and where the right to worship in a strictly high-church manner is open to all. the palace of st. cloud was once the residence of napoleon i in summer-time. he used to go out there for the heated term, and folding his arms across his stomach, have thought after thought regarding the future of france. yet he very likely never had an idea that some day it would be a thrifty republic, engaged in growing green peas, or pulling a soiled dove out of the seine, now and then, to add to the attractions of her justly celebrated morgue. louis xviii also put up at the palace in st. cloud several summers. he spelled it "palais," which shows that he had very poor early english advantages, or that he was, as i have always suspected, a native of quebec. charles x also changed the bedding somewhat, and moved in during his reign. he also added a new iron sink and a place in the barn for washing buggies. louis philippe spent his summers here for a number of years, and wrote weekly letters to the paris papers, signed "uno," in which he urged the taxpayers to show more veneration for their royal nibs. napoleon iii occupied the palais in summer during his lifetime, availing himself finally of the use of mr. bright's justly celebrated disease and dying at the dawn of better institutions for beautiful but unhappy france. i visited the palais (pronounced pallay), which was burned by the prussians in . the grounds occupy acres, which i offered to buy and fit up, but probably i did not deal with responsible parties. this part of france reminds me very much of north carolina. i mean, of course, the natural features. man has done more for france, it seems to me, than for the tar heel state, and the cities of asheville and paris are widely different. the police of paris rarely get together in front of the court-house to pitch horseshoes or dwell on the outlook for the goober crop. and yet the same blue, ozonic sky, if i may be allowed to coin a word, the same soft, restful, dolce frumenti air of gentle, genial health, and of cark destroying, magnetic balm to the congested soul, the inflamed nerve and the festering brain, are present in asheville that one finds in the quiet drives of san cloo with the successful squirt of the mighty fountains of vairsi and the dark and whispering forests of fon-taine-_bloo_. the palais at san cloo presents a rather dejected appearance since it was burned, and the scorched walls are bare, save where here and there a warped and wilted water pipe festoons the blackened and blistered wreck of what was once so grand and so gay. san cloo has a normal school for the training of male teachers only. i visited it, but for some cause i did not make a hit in my address to the pupils until i began to speak in their own national tongue. then the closest attention was paid to what i said, and the keenest delight was manifest on every radiant face. the president, who spoke some english, shook hands with me as we parted, and i asked him how the students took my remarks. he said: "they shall all the time keep the thinkness--what you shall call the recollect--of monsieur's speech in preserves, so that they shall forget it not continualle. we shall all the time say we have not witness something like it since the time we come here, and have not so much enjoy ourselves since the grand assassination by the guillotine. come next winter and be with us for one week. some of us will remain in the hall each time." at san cloo i hired of a quiet young fellow about thirty-five years of age, who kept a very neat livery stable there, a sort of victoria and a big percheron horse, with fetlock whiskers that reminded me of the sutherland sisters. as i was in no hurry i sat on an iron settee in the cool court of the livery stable, and with my arm resting on the shoulder of the proprietor i spoke of the crops and asked if generally people about there regarded the farmer movement as in any way threatening to the other two great parties. he did not seem to know, and so i watched the coachman who was to drive me, as he changed his clothes in order to give me my money's worth in grandeur. one thing i liked about france was that the people were willing, at a slight advance on the regular price, to treat a very ordinary man with unusual respect and esteem. this surprised and delighted me beyond measure, and i often told people there that i did not begrudge the additional expense. the coachman was also hostler, and when the carriage was ready he altered his attire by removing a coarse, gray shirt or tunic and putting on a long, olive green coachman's coat, with erect linen collar and cuffs sewed into the collar and sleeves. he wore a high hat that was much better than mine, as is frequently the case with coachmen and their employers. my coachman now gives me his silk hat when he gets through with it in the spring and fall, so i am better dressed than i used to be. but we were going to say a word regarding the porcelain works at sèvres. it is a modern building and is under government control. the museum is filled with the most beautiful china dishes and funny business that one could well imagine. besides, the pottery ever since its construction has retained its models, and they, of course, are worthy of a day's study. the "sèvres blue" is said to be a little bit bluer than anything else in the known world except the man who starts a nonpareil paper in a pica town. i was careful not to break any of these vases and things, and thus endeared myself to the foreman of the place. all employes are uniformed and extremely deferential to recognized ability. practically, for half a day, i owned the place. a cattle friend of mine who was looking for a dynasty whose tail he could twist while in europe, and who used often to say over our glass of vin ordinaire (which i have since learned is not the best brand at all), that nothing would tickle him more than "to have a little deal with a crowned head and get him in the door," accidentally broke a blue crock out there at sèvres which wouldn't hold over a gallon, and it took the best part of a car load of cows to pay for it, he told me. the process of making the sèvres ware is not yet published in book form, especially the method of coloring and enameling. it is a secret possessed by duly authorized artists. the name of the town is pronounced save. mme. pompadour is said to have been the natural daughter of a butcher, which i regard as being more to her own credit than though she had been an artificial one. her name was jeanne antoinette poisson le normand d'etioles, marchioness de pompadour, and her name is yet used by the authorities of versailles as a fire escape, so i am told. she was the mistress of louis xv, who never allowed her to put her hands in dishwater during the entire time she visited at his house. d'etioles was her first husband, but she left him for a gay but rather reprehensible life at court, where she was terribly talked about, though she is said not to have cared a cent. she developed into a marvelous politician, and early seeing that the french people were largely governed by the literary lights of that time, she began to cultivate the acquaintance of the magazine writers, and tried to join the authors' club. she then became prominent by originating a method of doing up the hair, which has since grown popular among people whose hair has not, like my own, been already "done up." this style of mme. pompadour's was at once popular with the young men who ran the throttles of the soda fountains of that time, and is still well spoken of. a young friend of mine trained his hair up from his forehead in that way once and could not get it down again. during his funeral his hair, which had been glued down by the undertaker, became surprised at something said by the clergyman and pushed out the end of his casket. the king tired in a few years of mme. pompadour and wished that he had not encouraged her to run away from her husband. she, however, retained her hold upon the blasé and alcoholic monarch by her wonderful versatility and genius. when all her talents as an artiste and politician palled upon his old rum-soaked and emaciated brain, and ennui, like a mighty canker, ate away large corners of his moth-eaten soul, she would sit in the gloaming and sing to him, "hard times, hard times, come again no more," meantime accompanying herself on the harpsichord or the sackbut or whatever they played in those days. then she instituted theatricals, giving, through the aid of the nobility, a very good version of "peck's bad boy" and "lend me five centimes." she finally lost her influence over looey the xv, and as he got to be an old man the thought suddenly occurred to him to reform, and so he had mme. pompadour beheaded at the age of forty-two years. this little story should teach us that no matter how gifted we are, or how high we may wear our hair, our ambitions must be tempered by honor and integrity; also that pride goeth before destruction and a haughty spirit before a plunk. a scamper through the park xix last week colonel bill root, formerly duke of council bluffs, paid me a visit, and as i desired to show him central park, i took him to fifty-eighth street and hired a carriage, my own team being at my country place. i also engaged the services of a dark-eyed historical student, who is said to know more about central park than any other man in new york, having driven through it, as he has, for years. he was a plain, sad man, with a mustache which was mostly whiskers. he dressed carelessly in a négligé suit of neutral-tinted clothes, including a pair of trousers which seemed to fit him in that shy and reluctant manner which characterized the fit of the late lamented jumbo's clothes after he had been indifferently taxidermed. colonel root and i called him "governor," and thereby secured knowledge which could not be obtained from books. colonel root is himself no kindergarten savant, being the author and discoverer of a method of breaking up a sitting-hen by first calling her away from her deep-seated passion, tying a red-flannel rag around her leg, and then still further turning her attention from her wild yearning to hatch out a flock of suburban villas by sitting on a white front-door knob. this he does by deftly inserting the hen into a joint of stove-pipe and then cementing both ends of the same. colonel root is also the discoverer of a cipher which shows that julius cæsar's dying words were: "et tu brute. verily the tail goeth with the hide." after a while the driver paused. colonel root asked him why he tarried. "i wanted to call your attention," said the governor, "to the casino, a place where you can provide for the inner man or any other man. you can here secure soft-shell crabs, boiled lobster, low-neck clams, hamburger steaks, chicken salad, miscellaneous soups, lobster salad with machine-oil on it, neapolitan ice-cream, santa cruz rum, cincinnati sec, pie, tooth-picks, and finger-bowls." [illustration: _said the governor as he swung around with his feet over in our part of the carriage and asked me for a light_ (page )] "how far does the waiter have to go to get these things cooked?" inquired colonel root, looking at his valuable watch. "that," said the governor, as he swung around with his feet over in our part of the carriage and asked me for a light, "depends on how you approach him. if you slip a half dollar up his coat-sleeve without his knowledge he will get your twenty-five cent meal cooked somewhere near by, but otherwise i have known him to go away and come back with gray side-whiskers and cobwebs on the pie instead of the wine." we went in and told the proprietor to see that our driver had what he wanted. he did not want much, aside from a whisky sour, a plate of terrapin, a pint of mr. pommery's secretary's beverage, and a baked duck. we had a little calves' liver and custard pie. then we visited cleopatra's needle. "and who in creation was cleopatra?" asked colonel root. "cleopatra," said the driver, "was a goodlooking queen of egypt. she was eighteen years old when her father left the throne, as it was screwed down to the dais, and died. he left the kingdom to cleopatra, in partnership with ptolemy, her brother. ptolemy, in b. c., deprived her of the throne, leaving cleopatra nothing but the tidy. she appealed to julius cæsar, who hired a man to embalm ptolemy, and restored egypt to his sister, who was as likely a girl as julius had ever met with. she accompanied him to rome in b. c., and remained there a couple of years. when cæsar was assassinated by a delegation of roman tax-payers who desired a change, cleopatra went back and began to reign over egypt again. she also attracted the attention of antony. he thought so much of her that he would frequently stay away from a battle and deny himself the joys of being split open with a dull stab-knife in order to hang around home and hold cleopatra's hand, and, though she was a widow practically, she was the amélie rives style of widow, and he said that it had to be an all-fired good battle that could make him put on his iron ulster and fight all day on the salary he was getting. she pizened herself thirty years before christ, at the age of thirty-nine years, rather than ride around rome in a gingham dress as a captive of augustus. she died right in haying time, and augustus said he'd ruther of lost the best horse in rome. this is her needle. it was brought to new york mostly by water, and looks well here in the park. she was said to be as likely a queen as ever jerked a sceptre over egypt or any other place. everybody that saw her reign said that the country never had a magneticker queen." as we rode swiftly along, the slight, girlish figure of a middle-aged woman might have been seen striving hurriedly to cross the driveway. she screamed and beckoned to a park policeman, who rushed leisurely in and caught her by the arm, rescuing her from the cruel feet of our mad chargers, and then led her to a seat. as we paused to ask the policeman if the lady had been injured, he came up to the side of the carriage and whispered to me behind his hand: "that woman i have rescued between thirty and forty times this year, and it is only the first of july. every pleasant day she comes here to be rescued. one day, when business was a little dull and we didn't have any teams on the drive, and time seemed to hang heavy on her hands, she told me her sad history. before she was eighteen years of age she had been disappointed in love and prevented from marrying her heart's choice, owing to the fact that the idea of the union did not occur to him. he was not, in fact, a union man. time passed on, from time to time, glad spring, and bobolinks, and light underwear succeeded stern winter, frost, and heavy flannels, and yet he cometh not, she sayed. no one had ever caught her in his great strong arms in a quick embrace that seemed to scrunch her whole being. summer came and went. the dews on the upland succeeded the frost on the pumpkin. the grand ratification of the partridge ushered in the wail of the turtle dove and the brief plunk of the muskrat in the gloaming. and yet no man had ever dast to come right out and pay attention to her or keep company with her. she had an emotional nature that just seemed to get up on its hind feet and pant for recognition and love. she could have almost loved a well-to-do man who had, perhaps, sinned a few times, but even the tough and erring went elsewhere to repent. one day she came to town to do some trading. she had priced seven dollars and fifty cents' worth of goods, and was just crossing broadway to price some more, when the gay equipage of a wealthy humorist, with silver chains on the neck-yoke and foam-flecks acrost the bosom of the nigh hoss, came plunging down the street. "the red nostrils of the spirited brutes were above her. their hot breath scorched the back of her neck and swayed the red-flannel pompon on her bonnet. every one on broadway held his breath, with the exception of a man on the front stoop of the castor house, whose breath had got beyond his control. every one was horrified and turned away with a shudder, which rattled the telegraph wires for two blocks. "just then a strong, brave policeman rushed in and knocked down both horses and the driver, together with his salary. he caught the woman up as though she had been no more than a feather's weight. he bore her away to the post-office pavement, where it is still the custom to carry people who are run over and mangled. he then sought to put her down, but, like a bad oyster, she would not be put down. she still clung about his neck, like the old party who got acquainted with sinbad the sailor, though, of course, in a different manner. it took quite a while to shake her off. the next day she came back and was almost killed at the same crossing. it went on that way until the policeman had his beat changed to another part of town. finally, she came up here to get her summer rescuing done. i do it when it falls to my lot, but my heart is not in the work. sometimes the horrible thought comes over me that i may be too late. several times i have tried to be too late, but i haven't the heart to do it." he then walked to a sparrow that refused to keep off the grass and brained it with his club. hints to the traveler xx every thinkful student has doubtless noticed that when he enters the office, or autograph department, of an american inn, a lithe and alert male person seizes his valise or traveling-bag with much earnestness. he then conveys it to some sequestered spot and does not again return. he is the porter of the hotel or inn. he may be a modest porter just starting out, or he may be a swollen and purse-proud porter with silver in his hair and also in his pocket. i speak of the porter and his humble lot in order to show the average american boy who may read these lines that humor is not the only thing in america which yields large dividends on a very small capital. to be a porter does not require great genius, or education, or intellectual versatility; and yet, well attended to, the business is remunerative in the extreme and often brings excellent returns. it shows that any american boy who does faithfully and well the work assigned to him may become well-to-do and prosperous. recently i shook hands with a conductor on the milwaukee and st. paul railroad, who is the president of a bank. there is a general impression in the public mind that conductors all die poor, but here is "jerry," as everybody calls him, a man of forty-five years of age, perhaps, with a long head of whiskers and the pleasant position of president of a bank. as he thoughtfully slams the doors from car to car, collecting fares on children who are no longer young and whose parents seek to conceal them under the seats, or as he goes from passenger to passenger sticking large blue checks in their new silk hats, and otherwise taking advantage of people, he is sustained and soothed by the blessed thought that he has done the best he could, and that some day when the summons comes to lay aside his loud-smelling lantern and make his last run, he will leave his dear ones provided for. perhaps i ought to add that during all these years of jerry's prosperity the road has also managed to keep the wolf from the door. i mention it because it is so rare for the conductor and the road to make money at the same time. i knew a conductor on the union pacific railroad, some years ago, who used to make a great deal of money, but he did not invest wisely, and so to-day is not the president of a bank. he made a great deal of money in one way or another while on his run, but the man with whom he was wont to play poker in the evening is now the president of the bank. the conductor is in the purée. it was in minneapolis that mr. cleveland was once injudicious. he and his wife were pained to read the following report of their conversation in the paper on the day after their visit to the flour city: "yes, i like the town pretty well, but the people, some of 'em, are too blamed fresh." "do you think so, grover? i thought they were very nice, indeed, but still i think i like st. paul the best. it is so old and respectable." "oh, yes, respectability is good enough in its place, but it can be overdone. i like washington, where respectability is not made a hobby." "but are you not enjoying yourself here, honey?" "no, i am not. to tell you the truth, i am very unhappy. i'm so scared for fear i'll say something about the place that will be used against me by the st. paul folks, that i most wish i was dead, and everybody wants to show me the new bridge and the waterworks, and speak of 'our great and phenomenal growth,' and show me the population statistics, and the school-house, and the washburn residence, and doc ames and ole forgerson, and the saw-mill, and the boom, and then walk me up into the thirteenth story of a flour mill and pour corn meal down my back, and show me the wonderful increase of the city debt and the sewerage, and the west hotel, and the glorious ozone and things here, that it makes me tired. and i have to look happy and shake hands and say it knocks st. paul silly, while i don't think so at all, and i wish i could do something besides be president for a couple of weeks, and quit lying almost entirely, except when i go a-fishing." "but don't you think the people here are very cordial, dawling?" "yes, they're too cordial for me altogether. instead of talking about the wonderful hit i have made as a president and calling attention to my remarkable administration, they talk about the flour output and the electric plant and other crops here, and allude feelingly to 'number one hard' and chintz bugs and other flora and fauna of this country, which, to be honest with you, i do not and never did give a damn for." "grover!" "well, i beg your pardon, dear, and i oughtn't to speak that way before you, but if you knew how much better i feel now you would not speak so harshly to me. it is indeed hard to be ever gay and joyous before the great masses who as a general thing, do not know enough to pound sand, but who are still vested with the divine right of suffrage, and so must be treated gently, and loved and smiled at till it makes me ache." mr. cleveland was greatly annoyed by the publication of this conversation, and could not understand it until this fall, when a minneapolis man told him that the pale, haughty coachman who drove the presidential carriage was a reporter. he could handle a team with one hand and remember things with the other. and so i say that as a president we can not be too careful what we say. i hope that the little boys and girls who read this, and who may hereafter become presidents or wives of presidents, will bear this in mind, and always have a kind word for one and all, whether they feel that way or not. but i started out to speak of porters and not reporters. i carry with me, this year, a small, sorrel bag, weighing a little over twenty ounces. it contains a slight bottle of horse medicine and a powder rag. sometimes it also contains a costly robe de nuit, when i do not forget and leave said robe in a sleeping car or hotel. i am not overdrawing this matter, however, when i say honestly that the shrill cry of fire at night in most any hotel in the united states would now bring to the fire-escape from one to six employes of said hotel wearing these costly vestments with my brief but imperishable name engraven on the bosom. this little traveling bag, which is not larger than a man's hand, is rudely pulled out of my grasp as i enter an inn, and it has cost me $ to get it back again from the porter. besides, i have paid $ . for new handles to replace those that have been torn off in frantic scuffles between the porter and myself to see which would get away with it. yesterday i was talking with a reformed lecturer about this peculiarity of the porters. he said he used to lecture a great deal at moderate prices throughout the country, and after ten years of earnest toil he was enabled to retire with a rich experience and $ in money. he lectured on phrenology and took his meals with the chairman of the lecture committee. in ouray, colorado, the baggageman allowed his trunk to fall from a great height, and so the lid was knocked off and the bust which the professor used in his lecture was busted. he therefore had to borrow a bald-headed man to act as bust for him in the evening. after the close of the lecture the professor found that the bust had stolen the gross receipts from his coat tail pocket while he was lecturing. the only improbable feature about this story is the implication that a bald-headed man would commit a crime. but still he did not become soured. he pressed on and lectured to the gentle janitors of the land in piercing tones. he was always kind to every one, even when people criticised his lecture and went away before he got through. he forgave them and paid his bills just the same as he did when people liked him. once a newspaper man did him a great wrong by saying that "the lecture was decayed, and that the professor would endear himself to every one if some night at his hotel, instead of blowing out the gas and turning off his brains as he usually did, he would just turn off the gas and blow out his brains." but the professor did not go to the newspaper man's office and shoot holes in his person. he spoke kindly to him always, and once when the two met in a barber shop, and it was doubtful which was "next," as they came in from opposite ends of the room, the professor gently yielded the chair to the man who had done him the great wrong, and while the barber was shaving him eleven tons of ceiling peeled off and fell on the editor who had been so cruel and so rude, and when they gathered up the debris, a day or two afterward, it was almost impossible to tell which was ceiling and which was remains. [illustration: _he therefore had to borrow a bald-headed man to act as bust for him in the evening_ (page )] so it is always best to deal gently with the erring, especially if you think it will be fatal to them. the reformed lecturer also spoke of a discovery he made, which i had never heard of before. he began, during the closing years of his tour, to notice mysterious marks on his trunk, made with chalk generally, and so, during his leisure hours, he investigated them and their cause and effect. he found that they were the symbols of the independent order of porters and baggage bursters. he discovered that it was a species of language by which one porter informed the next, without the expense of telegraphing, what style of man owned the trunk and the prospects for "touching" him, as one might say. the professor gave me a few of these signs from an old note-book, together with his own interpretation after years of close study. i reproduce them here, because i know they will interest the reader as they did me. [illustration] this trunk, if handled gently and then carefully unstrapped in the owner's room, so as to open comfortably without bursting the wall or giving the owner vertigo, is good for a quarter. [illustration] this man is a good, kind-hearted man generally, but will sometimes escape. better not let him have his hand baggage till he puts up. [illustration] this trunk belongs to a woman who may possibly thank you if you handle the baggage gently and will weep if you knock the lid off. kind words can never die. (n. b. nyether can they procure groceries.) [illustration] this trunk belongs to a traveling man who weighs pounds. if you have no respect for the blamed old fire-proof safe itself, please respect it for its gentle owner's sake. he can not bear to have his trunk harshly treated, and he might so far forget himself as to kill you. it is better to be alive and poor than it is to be wealthy and dead. it is better to do a kind act for a fellow-being than it is to leave a desirable widow for some one else to marry. [illustration] if you will knock the top off this trunk you will discover the clothing of a mean man. in case you can not knock the lid entirely off, burst it open a little so that the great, restless, seething traveling public can see how many hotel napkins and towels and cakes of soap he has stolen. [illustration] this is the trunk of a young girl, and contains the poor but honest garb she wore when she ran away from home. also the gay clothes she bought after a wicked ambition had poisoned her simple heart. they are the gaudy garments and flashy trappings for which she exchanged her honest laugh and her bright and beautiful youth. handle gently the poor little trunk, as you would touch her sad little history, for her father is in the second-class coach, weeping softly into his coarse red handkerchief, and she, herself, is going home on the same train in her cheap little coffin in the baggage car to meet her sorrowing mother, who will go up into the garret many rainy afternoons in the days to come, to cry over this poor little trunk and no one will know about it. it will be a secret known only to her sorrowing heart and to god. a medieval discoverer xxi galilei, commonly called galileo, was born at pisa on the th day of february, . he was the man who discovered some of the fundamental principles governing the movements, habits, and personal peculiarities of the earth. he discovered things with marvelous fluency. born as he was, at a time when the rotary motion of the earth was still in its infancy and astronomy was taught only in a crude way, galileo started in to make a few discoveries and advance some theories of which he was very fond. he was the son of a musician and learned to play several instruments himself, but not in such a way as to arouse the jealousy of the great musicians of his day. they came and heard him play a few selections, and then they went home contented with their own music. galileo played for several years in a band at pisa, and people who heard him said that his manner of gazing out over the pisan hills with a far-away look in his eye after playing a selection, while he gently up-ended his alto horn and worked the mud-valve as he poured out about a pint of moist melody that had accumulated in the flues of the instrument, was simply grand. at the age of twenty galileo began to discover. his first discoveries were, of course, clumsy and poorly made, but very soon he commenced to turn out neat and durable discoveries that would stand for years. it was at this time that he noticed the swinging of a lamp in a church, and, observing that the oscillations were of equal duration, he inferred that this principle might be utilized in the exact measurement of time. from this little accident, years after, came the clock, one of the most useful of man's dumb friends. and yet there are people who will read this little incident and still hesitate about going to church. [illustration: _it was at this time that he noticed the swinging of a lamp in a church, and observing that the oscillations were of equal duration_ (page )] galileo also invented the thermometer, the microscope and the proportional compass. he seemed to invent things not for the money to be obtained in that way, but solely for the joy of being first on the ground. he was a man of infinite genius and perseverance. he was also very fair in his treatment of other inventors. though he did not personally invent the rotary motion of the earth, he heartily indorsed it and said it was a good thing. he also came out in a card in which he said that he believed it to be a good thing, and that he hoped some day to see it applied to the other planets. he was also the inventor of a telescope that had a magnifying power of thirty times. he presented this to the venetian senate, and it was used in making appropriations for river and harbor improvements. by telescopic investigation galileo discovered the presence of microbes in the moon, but was unable to do anything for it. i have spoken of mr. galileo, informally calling him by his first name, all the way through this article, for i feel so thoroughly acquainted with him, though there was such a striking difference in our ages, that i think i am justified in using his given name while talking of him. galileo also sat up nights and visited with venus through a long telescope which he had made himself from an old bamboo fishing-rod. but astronomy is a very enervating branch of science. galileo frequently came down to breakfast with red, heavy eyes, eyes that were swollen full of unshed tears. still he persevered. day after day he worked and toiled. year after year he went on with his task till he had worked out in his own mind the satellites of jupiter and placed a small tin tag on each one, so that he would know it readily when he saw it again. then he began to look up saturn's rings and investigate the freckles on the sun. he did not stop at trifles, but went bravely on till everybody came for miles to look at him and get him to write something funny in their autograph albums. it was not an unusual thing for galileo to get up in the morning, after a wearisome night with a fretful, new-born star, to find his front yard full of albums. some of them were little red albums with floral decorations on them, while others were the large plush and alligator albums of the affluent. some were new and had the price-mark still on them, while others were old, foundered albums, with a droop in the back and little flecks of egg and gravy on the title-page. all came with a request for galileo "to write a little, witty, characteristic sentiment in them." galileo was the author of the hydrostatic paradox and other sketches. he was a great reader and a fluent penman. one time he was absent from home, lecturing in venice for the benefit of the united aggregation of mutual admirers, and did not return for two weeks, so that when he got back he found the front room full of autograph albums. it is said that he then demonstrated his great fluency and readiness as a thinker and writer. he waded through the entire lot in two days with only two men from west pisa to assist him. galileo came out of it fresh and youthful, and all of the following night he was closeted with another inventor, a wicker-covered microscope, and a bologna sausage. the investigations were carried on for two weeks, after which galileo went out to the inebriate asylum and discovered some new styles of reptiles. galileo was the author of a little work called "i discarsi e dimas-trazioni matematiche intorus a due muove scienze." it was a neat little book, of about the medium height, and sold well on the trains, for the pisan newsboys on the cars were very affable, as they are now, and when they came and leaned an armful of these books on a passenger's leg and poured into his ear a long tale about the wonderful beauty of the work, and then pulled in the name of the book from the rear of the last car, where it had been hanging on behind, the passenger would most always buy it and enough of the name to wrap it up in. he also discovered the isochronism of the pendulum. he saw that the pendulum at certain seasons of the year looked yellow under the eyes, and that it drooped and did not enter into its work with the old zest. he began to study the case with the aid of his new bamboo telescope and a wicker-covered microscope. as a result, in ten days he had the pendulum on its feet again. galileo was inclined to be liberal in his religious views, more especially in the matter of the scriptures, claiming that there were passages in the bible which did not literally mean what the translator said they did. this was where galileo missed it. so long as he discovered stars and isochronisms and such things as that, he succeeded, but when he began to fool with other people's religious beliefs he got into trouble. he was forced to fly from pisa, we are told by the historian, and we are assured at the same time that galileo, who had always been far, far ahead of all competitors in other things, was equally successful as a fleer. galileo received but sixty scudi per year as his salary while at pisa, and a part of that he took in town orders, worth only sixty cents on the scudi. how to pick out a birthplace xxii every american youth has been told repeatedly by his parents and his teachers that he must be a good boy and an exemplary young man in order to become the president of the united states. there is nothing new in this statement, and i do not print it because i regard it in the light of a "scoop." but i desire to go a trifle further, and call the attention of the american youth to the fact that he must begin at a much earlier date to prepare himself for the presidency than has been generally taught. he must not only acquire all the knowledge within reach, and guard his moral character night and day through life, or at least up to the time of his election, but he must be a self-made man, and he should also use the utmost care and discretion in the selection of his birthplace. a boy may thoughtlessly select the wrong state, or even a foreign country, as the site for his birthplace, and then the most exemplary life will not avail him. but hardest of all, perhaps, for one who aspires to the highest office within the gift of the people, is the selection of a house in which to be born. for this reason i have selected a few specimen birthplaces for the guidance of those who may be ignorant of the points which should be possessed by a birthplace. take, for instance, the residence of andrew jackson. no one has ever retained a stronger hold upon the tendrils of the democratic heart than andrew jackson. his name appears more frequently to-day in papers for which he never subscribed than that of any other president who has passed away. andrew jackson was a poor boy, whose father was a farm laborer and died before andrew's birth, thus leaving the boy perfectly free to choose the site of his birthplace. [illustration] he did not care much about books, but felt confident at the start that he had chosen a good place to be born at, and therefore could not be defeated in his race for the presidency. here in this house a. jackson first saw the light, and here his excellency sent up his first democratic whoop. here, on the back stoop, was where he was sent sorrowing at night to wash his chapped feet with soft soap before his mother would allow him to go to bed. here andrew turned the grindstone in the shed, while a large, heavy neighbor got on and rode for an hour or two. here the future president sprouted potatoes in the dark and noisome cellar, while other boys, who cared nothing for the presidency, drowned out woodchucks and sucked eggs in open defiance of the pulpit and press of the country. [illustration: _here andrew turned the grindstone in the shed, while a large, heavy neighbor got on and rode for an hour or two_ (page )] and yet, what a quiet, peaceful, unostentatious home, with its little windows opening out upon the snow in winter and upon bare ground in summer. how peaceful it looks! who would believe that up in the dark corner of the gable end it harbors a large iron-gray hornets' nest with brocaded hornets in it? and still it is so quiet that, on hot summer afternoons, while the bees are buzzing around the petunias and the regular breathing of the sandy-colored shoat in the back lot shows that all nature is hushed and drugged into a deep and oppressive repose, the old hen, lulled into a sense of false security, walks into the "setting room," eats the seeds out of several everlasting flowers, samples a few varnished acorns on an ornamental photograph frame in the corner, and then goes out to the kitchen, where she steps into the dough that is set behind the stove to raise. here in this quiet home, far from the enervating poussé café and carte blanche, where he had pork rind tied on the outside of his neck for sore throat, and where pepper, new orleans molasses and vinegar, together with other groceries calculated to discourage illness, were put inside, he laid the foundation of his future greatness. later on, the fever of ambition came upon him, and he taught school where the big girls snickered at him and the big boys went so far away at noon that they couldn't hear the bell and were glad of it, and came back an hour late with water in both ears and crawfish in their pockets. after that he learned to be a saddler, fought in the revolutionary war, afterward writing it up for the papers in a graphic way, showing how it happened that most everybody was killed but himself. here the reader is given an excellent view of the birthplace of president lincoln. [illustration] the artist has very wisely left out of the picture several people who sought to hand themselves down to posterity by being photographed in various careless attitudes in the foreground. in this house mr. lincoln determined to establish for himself a birthplace and to remain for eight years afterwards. in fancy, the reader can see little abraham running about the humble cot, preceded by his pale, straw-colored kentucky dog, or perhaps standing in "the branch," with the soothing mud squirting gently up between his dimpled toes. here a great heart first learned to beat in unison with all humanity. late one night, after the janitor had retired, he pulled the latch-string of this humble place and asked if the proprietor objected to children. learning that he did not, the little emancipator deposited on the desk a small parcel consisting of several rectangular cotton garments done up in a shawl-strap, and asked for a room with a bath. [illustration] our next illustration shows the birthplace of president garfield. he was born plainly at orange, cuyahoga county, ohio. here he spent his childhood in preparing for the presidency, lying on his stomach for hours by the light of a pine-knot, studying all about the tariff, and ascertaining how many would remain if william had seven apples and gave three to henry and two to jane. he soon afterward went to work on a canal as boatswain of a mule. it was here he learned that profanity could be carried to excess. he very early found that by coupling the mule to the boat by the use of a cistern pole, instead of coming into direct contact with the accursed yet buoyant end of the animal, he could bring with him a better record to the class-meeting than otherwise. he then taught school, and was beloved by all as a tutor. many of his pupils grew up to be ornaments to society, and said they had never seen tuting that could equal that of their old tutor. mr. garfield availed himself of the above birthplace on the th of november, a. d. . he then utilized it as a residence. here we are given a fine view of the birthplace of president cleveland. it is a plain structure, containing windows through which those who are inside may look out, while those who are on the outside may readily look in. [illustration] under this roof the idea first came to mr. cleveland that some day he might fill the presidential chair to overflowing. if the reader will go around to the door of the shed on the other side of the house, he will see little grover just coming out and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. on the door of the barn can be seen the following legend, scratched on its surface with a nail: "i druther be born lucky than blong to a nold ristocratic fambly. s. g. c." [illustration] here we have an excellent view of mr. harrison's birthplace from the main road. it hardly seems possible that a man who now lives in a large house, with a spare room to it, gas in all parts of it, and wool carpets on the floor, should have once lived in such a plain structure as this. it shows that america is the place for the poor boy. here he can rise to a great height by his own powers. little did bennie think at one time that people would some day come from all quarters of the united states to see him and take him kindly by the hand and say that they were well acquainted with his folks when they were poor. these various birthplaces prove to us what style is best calculated for a presidential candidate. they demonstrate that poverty is no drawback, and that frequently it is a good stimulant for the right kind of a boy. i once knew a poor boy whose clothes did not fit him very well when he was little, and now that he is grown up it is the same way. that poor boy was myself. but i can not close this research without saying that the boys alone can not claim the glory in america. the girls are entitled to recognition. [illustration] permit me, therefore, to present the birthplace of belva a. lockwood. i do not speak of it because i desire to treat the matter lightly, but to call attention to little belva's sagacity in selecting the same style of birthplace as that chosen by other presidential candidates. she very truly said in the course of a conversation with the writer: "my theory as to the selection of a birthplace is, first be sure you are right and then go ahead." we should learn from all the above that a humble origin does not prevent a successful career. had abraham lincoln been wealthy, he would have been taught, perhaps, a style of elocution and gesture that would have taken first rate at a parlor entertainment, and yet he might never have made his gettysburg speech. while he was president he never looked at his own hard hands and knotted knuckles that he was not reminded of his toiling neighbors, whose honest sweat and loyal blood had made this mighty republic a source of glory and not of shame forever. so, in the future, whether it be a grover, a benjamin, or a belva, may the president of the united states be ever ready to remove the cotton from his ears at the first cry of the oppressed and deserving poor. on broadway xxiii once when in new york i observed a middle-aged man remove his coat at the corner of fulton street and broadway and wipe the shoulders thereof with a large red handkerchief of the thurman brand. there was a dash of mud in his whiskers and a crick in his back. he had just sought to cross broadway, and the disappointed ambulance had gone up street to answer another call. he was a plain man with a limited vocabulary, but he spoke feelingly. i asked him if i could be of any service to him, and he said no, not especially, unless i would be kind enough to go up under the back of his vest and see if i could find the end of his suspender. i did that and then held his coat for him while he got in it again. he afterward walked down the east side of broadway with me. [illustration: _a man that crosses broadway for a year can be mayor of boston, but my idee is that he's a heap more likely to be mayor of new jerusalem_ (page )] "that's twice i've tried to git acrost to take the cortlandt street ferry boat sence one o'clock, and hed to give it up both times," he said, after he had secured his breath. "so you don't live in town?" "no, sir, i don't, and there won't be anybody else livin' in town, either, if they let them crazy teamsters run things. look at my coat! i've wiped the noses of seventy-nine single horses and eleven double teams sence one o'clock, and my vitals is all a perfect jell. i bet if i was hauled up right now to be postmortumed the rear breadths of my liver would be a sight to behold." "why didn't you get a policeman to escort you across?" "why, condemb it, i did futher up the street, and when i left him the policeman reckoned his collar-bone was broke. it's a blamed outrage, i think. they say that a man that crosses broadway for a year can be mayor of boston, but my idee is that he's a heap more likely to be mayor of the new jerusalem." "where do you live, anyway?" "well, i live near pittsburg, p. a., where business is active enough to suit 'most anybody, 'specially when a man tries to blow out a natural-gast well, but we make our teamsters subservient to the constitution of the united states. we don't allow this juggernaut business the way you fellers do. there a man would drive clear round the block ruther than to kill a child, say nuthin of a grown person. here the hubs and fellers of these big drays and trucks are mussed up all the time with the fragments of your best people. look at me. what encouragement is there for a man to come here and trade? folks that live here tell me that they do most of their business by telephone in the daytime, and then do their runnin' around at night, but i've got apast that. time was when i could run around nights and then mow all day, but i can't do it now. people that leads a suddentary life, i s'pose, demands excitement, and at night they will have their fun; but take a man like me--he wants to transact his business in the daytime by word o' mouth, and then go to bed. he don't want to go home at o'clock with a plug hat full of digestive organs that he never can possibly put back just where they was before. "no, i don't want to run down a big city like new york and nuther do i want to be run down myself. they tell me i can go up town on this side and take the boat so as to get to jersey city that way, and i'm going to do it ruther than to go home with a neck yoke run through me. folks say that jurden is a hard road to travel, but i'm positive that a man would get jerked up and fined for driving as fast there as they do on broadway; and then another thing, i s'pose there's a good deal less traffic over the road." he then went down wall street to the hanover square station and i saw him no more. my trip to dixie xxiv i once took quite a long railway trip into the south in search of my health. i called my physicians together, and they decided by a rising vote that i ought to go to a warmer clime, or i should enjoy very poor health all winter. so i decided to go in search of my health, if i died on the trail. i bought tickets at cincinnati of a pale, sallow liar, who is just beginning to work his way up to the forty-ninth degree in the order of ananias. he will surely be heard from again some day, as he has the elements that go to make up a successful prevaricator. he said that i could go through from cincinnati to asheville, north carolina, with only one easy change of cars, and in about twenty-three hours. it took me twice that time, and i had to change cars three times in the dead of night. the southern railroad is not in a flourishing condition. it ought to go somewhere for its health. anyway, it ought to go somewhere, which at present it does not. according to the old latin proverb, i presume we should say nothing but good of the dead, but i am here to say that the railroad that knocked my spine loose last week, and compelled me to carry lunch baskets and large norman two-year-old gripsacks through the gloaming, till my arms hung down to the ground, does not deserve to be treated well, even after death. i do not feel any antipathy toward the south, for i did not take any part in the war, remaining in canada during the whole time, and so i can not now be accused of offensive partisanship. i have always avoided anything that would look like a settled conviction in any of these matters, retaining always a fair, unpartisan and neutral idiocy in relation to all national affairs, so that i might be regarded as a good civil service reformer, and perhaps at some time hold an office. to further illustrate how fair-minded i am in these matters, i may say i have patiently read all the war articles written by both sides, and i have not tried to dodge the foot-notes or the marginal references, or the war maps or the memoranda. i have read all these things until i can't tell who was victorious, and if that is not a fair and impartial way to look at the war, i don't know how to proceed in order to eradicate my prejudices. but a railroad is not a political or sectional matter, and it ought not to be a local matter unless the train stays at one end of the line all the time. this road, however, is the one that discharged its engineer some years ago, and when he took his time-check he said he would now go to work for a sure-enough road with real iron rails to it, instead of two streaks of rust on a right of way. all night long, except when we were changing cars, we rattled along over wobbling trestles and third mortgages. the cars were graded from third-class down. the road itself was not graded at all. they have the same old air in these coaches that they started out with. different people, with various styles of breath, have used this air and then returned it. they are using the same air that they did before the war. it is not, strictly speaking, a national air. it is more of a languid air, with dark circles around its eyes. at one place where i had an engagement to change cars, we had a wait of four hours, and i reclined on a hair-cloth lounge at the hotel, with the intention of sleeping a part of the time. dear, patient reader, did you every try to ride a refractory hair-cloth lounge all night, bare back? did you ever get aboard a short, old-fashioned, black, hair-cloth lounge, with a disposition to buck? i was told that this was a kind, family lounge that would not shy or make trouble anywhere, but i had only just closed my dark-red and mournful eyes in sleep when this lounge gently humped itself, and shed me as it would its smooth, dark hair in the spring, tra la. the floor caught me in its great strong arms and i vaulted back upon the polished bosom of the hair-cloth lounge. it was made for a man about fifty-three inches in length, and so i had to sleep with my feet in my pistol pockets and my nose in my bosom up to the second joint. i got so that i could rise off the floor and climb on the lounge without waking up. it grew to be second nature to me. i did it just as a man who is hungry in his sleep bites off large fragments of the air and eats it involuntarily and smacks his lips and snorts. so i arose and deposited myself again and again on that old swayback but frolicsome wreck without waking. but i couldn't get aboard softly enough to avoid waking the lounge. it would yawn and rumble inside and rise and fall like the deep rolling sea, till at last i gave up trying to sleep on it any more, and curled up on the floor. [illustration: _i bought tickets at cincinnati of a pale, sallow liar, who is just beginning to work his way up to the forty-ninth degree in the order of ananias_ (page )] the hair-cloth lounge, in various conditions of decrepitude, maybe found all through this region. its true inwardness is composed of spiral springs which have gnawed through the cloth in many instances. these springs have lost none of their old elasticity of spirits, and cordially corkscrew themselves into the affections of the man who sits down on them. if anything could make me thoroughly attached to the south it would be one of these spiral springs bored into my person about a foot. but that is the only way to remain on a hair-cloth chair or sofa. no man ever successfully sat on one of them for any length of time unless he had a strong pair of pantaloons and a spiral spring twisted into him for some distance. in private houses hair-cloth sofas may be found in a domesticated state, with a pair of dark, reserved chairs, waiting for some one to come and fall off them. in hotels they go in larger flocks, and graze together in the parlor. the thought clothier xxv general dado has been sharply criticised--roundly abused, even--for making a claim against the grant estate for alleged assistance in preparing the "memoirs" that have added to that estate some half-million of dollars. the philadelphia _bulletin_ says:--"there is no mark of contempt so strong that it ought not to be fixed on so shameless and unblushing an ingrate." and it is this--the man's ingratitude--that most offends. general grant's unswerving loyalty to dado, his zeal in giving places to him so long as he had them to give, and in soliciting others to give them when it was no longer in his own power to do so, was an offense in the nostrils of most americans. his intimacy with dado was one of the causes of grant's being in bad odor, as it were, at a certain period of his career; and the present unpleasantness is a part of the penalty for taking such a man into his bosom. the claimant is getting the worst of it, however, and we are tempted to overlook his ingratitude for the sake of the following skit called forth by his appearance as a thinker and clothier of thoughts.--_the critic_. there is something slightly pathetic in the delayed statement that some of general grant's best thoughts were supplied by general adam dado. while it is a great credit to any man to do the meditating, pondering, and word-painting necessary for a book which can attain such a sale as grant's "memoirs," it shows a condition of affairs which every literary man or woman must sadly deplore. who of us is now safe? while the warrior, as a warrior, has nothing to do but continue victorious through life, he can not safely write a book for posterity. literature is at all times more or less hazardous under present copyright regulations, but it becomes doubly so when our estates have to reimburse some silent thinker who thought things for us while amanuensing in our employ. even though we may have told him not to think thoughts for us, even though we asked him as a special favor to avoid putting his own clothing on our poor, little, shivering, naked facts, there is no law which can prevent his making that claim after we are dead. and how can a court of law or an intelligent jury judge such a matter? a great man thinks a thought in the presence of two amanuenses, provided i am right in spelling the plural in that way. he thinks a thought, i say, surrounded by those two gentlemen and an improved typewriter. he gives utterance to the thought and dies. one of the amanuensisters then states to the jury that he thought it himself, and that his comrade clothed it. the estate is then asked to pay so much per think for the thoughts and so much at war prices for clothing the ideas. who is able, unless it be an intelligent jury, to arrive at the truth? the first question to ask ourselves is this: was general grant in the habit of calling in a thinker whenever he wanted anything done in that line? he says distinctly in his letter that he was not. he could not do it. it was impracticable. supposing in the crash of battle and in the moment of victory your short, hard thinker has his head shot off and it falls in a pumpkin orchard, where there is naturally more or less delay in identifying it, what can you do? suppose that you were the president of the united states, and your think-supply got snow-bound at newark in a vestibule train, and congress were waiting for you to veto a bill. you could not think the thought in the first place, and even if you could you would hate to send it to congress until it was properly clothed. i am told that nothing shocks congress so much as the sudden appearance "in its midst" of a naked and new-born thought. but general dado has the advantage over general grant in one respect. he can not be injured much. otherwise the case is against him. but the matter will be watched with careful interest by literary people generally, and especially by soldiers and magazines with a war history. it is a warning to those who think their thoughts in unguarded moments while stenographers may be near to take them down and claim them afterwards. it is also a warning to people who thoughtlessly expose naked facts in the presence of word-painters and thought-clothiers, who may decorate and outfit these children of the brain and charge it up to the estate. is the time coming when general dealers in apparel and gents' furnishing goods for the use of bare facts, and men who attend to the costuming, draping, and swaddling of nude ideas, will compete so closely with each other that, before a think has its eyes fairly open, one of these gentlemen will slap a suit of clothes on it, with a waterbury watch in each pocket, and have a boy half way to the office with the bill? a rubber esophagus. xxvi puget sound is undoubtedly one of the most beautiful sheets of water in the world. its bosom is as unruffled as that of an angel who is opposed to ruffles on general principles. to say that real estate was once active at certain places on its shores is just simply about as powerful as the remark made by the frontiersman who came home from his haying one afternoon and found that the indians had burned up his buildings, massacred his wife, driven off his milch cows and killed his children. he looked over the bloody scene and then said to himself with great feeling; "this, it seems to me, is perfectly ridiculous." i once drove about seattle for two days with a real estate man, not buying, but just riding and enjoying the scenery while we allowed prices gently to advance and our whiskers to grow. finally i asked him if he knew of a real "snap," as herbert spencer would call it, within the reach of a poor man. he said that there was a bargain out towards lake washington, and if i wanted to see it we could go out there. i said i should like to see it, for, if really desirable, i might buy some outside property. we drove quite awhile through the primeval forest, and after baiting our team and eating some lunch which we had with us, we resumed our journey, scaring up a bear on the way, which i was assured, however, was a tame bear. at last we tied the team, and, walking over the ridge, we found a lot facing west, seventy-three feet front, which could be had then at $ , . i don't suppose you could get it at that price now, for it is within a stone's throw of the power house and cable running from the city to lake washington. a friend of mine once told me how he lost a trade in spokane falls. he had the refusal for a week of a twenty-four-foot business lot "at $ ." he thought and worried and prayed over it, and wrote home about it, and finally decided to take it. on the last day of grace he counted up his money and finding that he had just the amount, he went over to the agent's office with it to close the trade. "have you the currency with you to make the trade all cash?" asked the agent. "yes, sir, i have the whole $ in currency," said my friend, drawing himself up to his full height and putting his cigar back a little further in his cheek. "five hundred dollars!" exclaimed the agent with a low, gurgling laugh; "the lot is $ per front foot. i didn't suppose you were pan-american ass enough to think you could get a business lot in spokane for $ . you can't get a load of sand for your children to play in at that rate." once as my train passed a little red depot i saw a young squaw leaning up against the building, and crying. as we moved along i saw a plain black coffin--a cheap affair of pine, daubed with walnut stain to make it look still cheaper, i presume. i had never seen an indian--even a squaw--weeping before, and so the picture remained with me a long time, and may for a long time yet to come. i've never been a pronounced friend of the indian, as those who know me best will agree. i have claimed that though he was first to locate in this country, he did not develop the lead or do assessment work even, so the thing was open to re-location. the white man has gone on and found mineral in many places, made a big output, and is still working day and night shifts, while the indian is shiftless day and night, so far as i have observed. but when we see the poor devils buying our coffins for their dead, even though they may go very hungry for days afterwards, and, as they fade away forever as a people, striving to conform to our customs and wear suspenders and join in prayer, common humanity leads us to think solemnly of their melancholy end. on that trip i met with a medical and surgical curiosity while on the cars. it consisted of a young man who was compelled to take his nourishment through a rubber tube which led directly into his stomach through his side. i had heard of something like it and in my extensive medical library had read of cases resembling it, but not entirely the same. the conductor, who had shown me a great many little courtesies already, invited me into the baggage car, where he had the young man, in order that i might see him. the subject was a german about twenty years of age, of dark complexion and phlegmatic temperament. he stood probably about five feet four inches high in his stocking feet and did not attract me as a person of prominence until the conductor informed me that he ate through the side of his vest. it seems that about two years ago the boy had some little gastric disturbance resulting from eating a nocturnal watermelon or callow cucumber. as i understand it, he, in an unguarded moment, called a physician who aimed to be his own worst enemy, but who contrived to work in the public on the same basis, using no favoritism whatever. he was a doctor who has since gone into the gibbering industry in alcoholic circles. so it happened that on the day he was called to the bedside of this plain, juvenile colic, the enemy he had taken into his mouth the evening before had, as a matter of fact, rifled his pseudo-brains, and being bitterly disappointed in them, had no doubt failed to return them. therefore "doc," as he was affectionately called by the widowers throughout the neighborhood, was entirely unfit to prescribe. he did so, however, just the same. that kind of a doctor is generally willing to rush in where angels fear to tread. he cheerfully prescribed for the boy, and, in fact, filled the prescription himself. the principal ingredient of this compound was carbolic acid. a man who can, by mistake, administer carbolic acid and not even smell it, must do his thinking by means of a sort of intellectual wart. but he did it, anyhow. so, after great suffering, the young fellow lost the use of his entire esophagus, the lining coming off as a result of this liquid holocaust, and then afterwards growing together again. the parents now decided to change physicians. so after giving "doc" a cow and settling up with him, another physician was called in. he said there was no way to reach the stomach but from the exterior, and, although hazardous, it might save the patient's life. speedy action must be taken, however, as the young man was already getting up quite an appetite. i can imagine old man gastric waiting there patiently, day after day, every little while looking at his watch, wondering, and singing: we are waiting, waiting, waiting, finally, as he sits near the cardial orifice, where the sign has been recently put up, the elevator is not running, a light bursts through the walls of his house and he hears voices. hastily throwing one of the coats of the stomach over his shoulders, he springs to his feet just in time to catch about a nickel's worth of warm beef tea down the back of his neck. the patient now wears about two feet of inch hose, one end of which is introduced into the upper and anterior lobe of the stomach. the other he has embellished with a plain cork stopper. i asked him if he would join me in a drink of water from the ice-cooler, and he said he would, under the circumstances. he said that he had just taken one, but would not mind taking one more with me. he then removed the stopper from his new goodyear esophagus, inserted a neat little tin funnel, with which he was able to introduce the water. it gently settled down and disappeared in his depths, and then, putting away the garden hose, he accepted a dollar and gave me a history of the case as i have set it forth above, or substantially so, at least. i could not help thinking of him afterward. i tried to imagine him on his way to europe over a stormy sea; the surprise of his stomach when it found itself frustrated and beaten at its own game, and all that. then i thought of him as the honored guest of some great corporation or club, and at the banquet, when the president, in a few well-chosen words, apparently born of the moment but really wearing trousers, says, "gentlemen, we have with us this evening," etc., etc.; and then rising, all the members join in a toast to the guest. touching his glass to theirs, and then gracefully unreeling his garden hose, he takes from his pocket the small funnel, and, gently sipping the generous wine through his tin pharynx, he begins his well-digested response. nature did not do much for this poor lad, but science has stepped in and made him a man of mark. he went to bed unknown. he awoke to find himself noted. he went to sleep with ordinary tastes. he arose with no taste at all. thus, through the medical treatment of a typhoid idiot, for a disease which was in no way malignant, or, as i might say, therapeutic, he became a man of parts and stands next to the nobility of europe, not having to work. afterward, in paris, i saw on the street a man who played the trombone by means of a bullet-hole in his trachea, but i do not think it elevated me and spurred me on to nobler endeavor and made a better man of me, as did this simple-hearted young gentleman who made a living by eating publicly through a tin horn, and who actually earned his bread by eating it. i hope that the medical fraternity will make his case a study and try to do better next time. that is the only moral i can think of in connection with this story. advice to a son xxvii my dear son: i just came here to new york on business, and thought i would write to you a few lines, as i have a little time that is not taken up. i came here on a train from chicago the other day. before i started, i got a lower berth in a sleeping car, but when i went to put my sachel in it, before i left chicago, there were two women and a little girl there, and so i told the porter i would wait until they moved before i put my baggage in the section, for of course i thought they were just sitting there for a minute to rest. hours rolled by and they did not move. i kept on sitting in the smoking-room, but they stayed. by and by the porter came and asked me if i had "lower four." i said yes--i paid for it, but i couldn't really say i had it in my possession. he then said that two ladies and a little girl had "upper four," and asked if i would mind swapping with them. i said that i would do so, for i didn't see how a whole family circle could climb up into the upper berth and remain there, and i would rather give them the lower one than spend the night picking up different members of the family and replacing them in the home nest after they had fallen out. i had a bad cold, and though i knew that sleeping in the upper berth would add to it, i did not murmur. but little did i realize that they would hold the whole thing all of two days, and fill it full of broken crackers and banana peels, and leave me to ride backward in the smoking-room from chicago to new york, after i had paid five dollars for a seat and lower berth. woman is a poor, frail vessel, henry, but she manages to arrive at her destination all right. she buys an upper berth and then swaps it with an old man for his lower berth, giving to boot a half-smothered sob and two scalding tears. then she says "thank you," if she feels like it at the end of the road, though these women did not. i have pneuemonia in its early stages, but i have done a kind act, which i shall probably have to do over again when i return. if you ever become the parent of a daughter, henry, and you like her pretty well, i hope you will teach her to acknowledge a courtesy, instead of looking upon the earth and the fullness thereof as a partnership property, owned jointly by herself and the lord. a woman who has traveled a good deal is generally polite, and knows how to treat her fellow passengers and the porter, but people who are making their first or second trip, i notice, most generally betray the fact by tramping all over the other passengers. another mistake, henry, which i hope you will not make, is that of taking very small children to travel. children should remain at home until they are at least two or three days old, otherwise they are troublesome to their parents and also bother the other passengers. there ought to be a law, too, that would prevent parents from taking larger children who should be in the reform school. some parents seem to think that what their children do is funny, when, instead of humor, it is really felony. it does not entirely set matters right, for instance, when a child has torn off a gentleman's ear, merely to make the child return it to the owner, for you can never put an ear back in its place after it has been torn off and stepped on, in such a way as to make it look the same as it did at first. i heard a mother say on the train that her little boy never was quite himself while traveling, because he wasn't well. she feared it was the change in the water that made him sick. he had then drank a whole ice-water tank empty, and was waiting impatiently till we got to pittsburg, so that he could drink out of the hydrant. queer people also ride on the elevated trains here in new york. it is a singular experience to a stranger to ride on these cars. it made me ill at first, but after awhile i got so mad that i forgot about it. for instance, at places like fourteenth street, and twenty-third street, and park place, there are generally several people who want to get aboard a little before the passengers get off. two or three times i was carried by because the guards wouldn't enforce the rule, and i had a good deal of trouble, till i took an old pair of mexican spurs out of my trunk and strapped them on my elbows. after that i could stroll along broadway, or get off a train when i got ready, and have some comfort. the gates on the elevated trains get shet rather sudden sometimes, and once they shet in a part of a man, i was told, and left the rest of him on the outside, so that after a while he fell off over the trestle, because there was more of him on the outside than on the inside, and he didn't seem to balance somehow. it was rare sport for the guards to watch the man scraping along the side of the road and sweeping off the right of way. one day, when i was on board, there was a crowd at one of the stations, and an old man and a little girl tried to get on. she was looking out for the old man, and seemed to kind of steer him on the platform. just as he stepped on the train, the guard shut the gate and left the little girl outside. she looked so scart and pitiful, as the train left her, that i'll never forget it to my dying day, and as we left the platform i saw her wring her poor little hands, and i heard her cry, "oh, mister, let me go with him. my poor grandpa is blind." sure enough, the old man groped around almost crazy on that swaying train, without knowing where he was, and feeling through the empty air for the gentle hand of the little girl who had been left behind. two or three of us took care of the old man and got him off at the next station, where we waited till she came; but it was the most touching thing i ever saw outside of a book. another day the cars were full till you couldn't seem to get even an umbrella into the aisle, i thought, but yet the guards told people to step along lively, and encouraged them by prodding and pinching till most everybody was fighting mad. then a pale girl, with a bundle of sewing in her hand, and a hollow cough that made everybody look that way, got into the aisle. she could just barely get hold of the strap, and that was all. she wore a poor, black cotton jersey, and when she reached up so high, the jersey part would not stay where it belonged, and at the waist seemed to throw off all responsibility. she realized it, and bit her lips, and two red spots came on her pale face, and the tears came into her eyes, but she couldn't let go of her bundle, and she couldn't let go of the strap, for already the train threw her against a soiled man on one side and a tough on the other. it was pitiful enough, so that men who had their seats began to read advertisements and other things with their papers wrong side up, in order to seem thoroughly engrossed in their business. but two pretty young men, with real good clothes, and white, soft hands, had a great deal of fun over it, and every time the train would lurch and throw the poor girl's jersey a little more out of plumb, they would jab each other in the ribs, and laugh very hearty. i felt sorry that i wasn't young again, so that i could go over there and kick both of them. henry, if i thought you would do a thing like that, or allow it done on the same block where you happened to be, i would give my estate to a charitable object, and refuse to recognize you in paradise. just then an oldish man of a chunky build, and with an eye as black as the driven tomcat, reached through the crowded aisle with his umbrella and touched the girl. she looked around, and he told her to come and take his seat. as she squeezed through, and he rose to seat her, a large man with black whiskers gently dropped into the vacant seat with a sigh of relief, and began to read a two-year-old paper with much earnestness, just as if he hadn't noticed the whole performance. the stout man was thunderstruck. he said: "excuse me, sir; i didn't leave my seat." "yes, you did," says the black-whiskered pachyderm. "you can't expect to keep a seat here and leave it too." "well, but i rose to put this young lady in it, and i must ask you to be kind enough to let her have it." "excuse me," said the microbe, with a little chuckle of cussedness, "you will have to take your chances, and wait for a vacant seat, same as i did." that was all the conversation there was, but just then the short fat man ran his thumb down inside the shirt collar of the yellow fever germ, and jerked him so high that i could see the nails on the bottoms of his boots. then, with the other hand, he socked the young lady into his seat, and took hold of a strap, where he hung on white and mad, but victorious. after that there was a loud hurrah, and general enthusiasm and hand clapping, and cries of "good!" "good!" and in the midst of it the sporadic hog and the two refined young men got off the train. as the black and white poland swine went out the door i noticed that there was blood on the back of his neck, and later on i saw the short, stout old gentleman remove a large mole or birthmark, which he really had no use for, from under his thumb nail. on a harlem train, as they call it, i saw a drunken young man in one of the seats yesterday. he wasn't noisy, but he felt pretty fair. next to him was a real good young man, who seemed to feel his superiority a great deal. very soon the car got jammed full, and an old lady, poorly dressed, but a mighty good, motherly old woman, i'll bet a hundred dollars, got in. her husband asked the good young man if he would kindly give his wife a seat. he did not apparently hear at all, but got all wrapped up in his paper, just as every man in a car does when he is ashamed of himself. but the inebriated young man heard, and so he said: "here, mister, take my seat for the old lady; any seat is good enough for me." whereupon he sat down in the lap of the good young man, and so remained till he got to his station. this is a good town to study human nature in, henry, and you would do well to come here before your vacation is over, just to see what kind of people the lord allows to encumber the earth. it will show you how many human brutes there are loose in the world who don't try any longer to appear decent when they think their identity is swallowed up in the multitude of a great city. there are just as selfish folks in the smaller towns, but they are afraid to give themselves up to it, because somebody in the crowd would be sure to recognize them. here a man has the advantage of a perpetual _nom de plume_, and he is tempted to see how pusillanimous he can be even when he is just here on a visit. i'm going home next week, before i completely wreck my immortal soul. i left your mother pretty comfortable at home, but i haven't heard from her since i left. your father, bill nye. the automatic bell boy xxviii little did b. franklin wot when he baited his pin hook with a good conductor and tapped the low browed and bellowing storm nimbus with his buoyant kite, thus crudely acquiring a pickle jar of electricity, that the little start he then made would be the egg from which inventors and scientists would hatch out the system which now not only encircles the globe with messages swifter than the flight of phoebus, but that anon the light of day would be filtered through a cloud of cables loaded with destruction sufficient for a whole army, and the air be filled with death-dealing, dangling wires. little did he know that he was bottling an agent which has since pulled out the stopper with its teeth and grown till it overspreads the sky, planting its bare, bleak telegraph poles along every highway, carrying day messages by night and night messages when it gets ready, filling the air with its rusty wings--provided, of course, that such agents wear wings--and with the harsh, metallic, ghoulish laughter of the signal-key, all the while resting one foot on the neck of the sender and one on the neck of the recipient, defying aggregated humanity to do its worst, and commanding all civilization, in terse, well-chosen terms, to either fish, cut bait or go ashore. could benjamin have known all this at the time, possibly he might have considered it wisdom to go in when it rained. i am not an old fogy, though i may have that appearance, and i rejoice to see the world move on. one by one i have laid aside my own encumbering prejudices in order to keep up with the procession. have i not gradually adopted everything that would in any way enhance my opportunities for advancement, even through tedious evolution, from the paper collar up to the finger bowl, eyether, and nyether? this should convince the reader that i am not seeking to clog the wheels of progress. i simply look with apprehension upon any great centralization of wealth or power in the hands of any one man who not only does as he pleases with said wealth and power, but who, as i am informed, does not read my timely suggestions as to how he shall use them. to return, however, to the subject of electricity. i have recently sought to fathom the style and _motif_ of a new system which is to be introduced into private residences, hotels, and police headquarters. in private houses it will be used as a burglar's welcome. in hotels it will take the mental strain off the bell-boy, relieving him also of a portion of his burdensome salary at the same time. in the police department it will do almost everything but eat peanuts from the corner stands. i saw this system on exhibition in a large room, with the signals or boxes on one side and the annunciator or central station on the other. by walking from one to the other, a distance in all of thirty or forty miles, i was enabled to get a slight idea of the principle. [illustration: in hotels it will take the mental strain off the bell-boy, relieving him also of a portion of his burdensome salary at the same time (page )] it is certainly a very intelligent system. i never felt my own inferiority any more than i did in the presence of this wonderful invention. it is able to do nearly anything, it seems to me, and the main drawback appears to be its great versatility, on account of which it is so complex that in order to become at all intimate with it a policeman ought to put in two years at yale and at least a year at leipsic. an extended course of study would perfect him in this line, but he would not then be content to act as a policeman. he would aspire to be a scientist, with dandruff on his coat collar and a far-away look in his eye. then, again, take the hotel scheme, for instance. we go to a dial which is marked room . there we find that by treating it in a certain way it will announce to the clerk that room wants a fire, ice-water, pens, ink, paper, lemons, towels, fire-escape, milwaukee sec, pillow-shams, a copy of this book, menu, croton frappé, carriage, laundry, physician, sleeping-car ticket, berth-mark for same, halford sauce, hot flat-iron for ironing trousers, baggage, blotter, tidy for chair, or any of those things. in fact, i have not given half the list on this barometer because i could not remember them, though i may have added others which are not there. the message arrives at the office, but the clerk is engaged in conversation with a lady. he does not jump when the alarm sounds, but continues the dialogue. another guest wires the office that he would like a copy of the _congressional record_. the message is filed away automatically, and the thrilling conversation goes on. then no. - / asks to have his mail sent up. no. wants to know what time the 'bus leaves the house for the train going east, and whether that train will connect at alliance, ohio, with a tide-water train for cleveland in time to catch the lake shore train which will bring him into new york at : , and whether all those trains are reported on time or not, and if not will the office kindly state why? other guests also manifest morbid curiosity through their transmitters, but the clerk does not get excited, for he knows that all these remarks are filed away in the large black walnut box at the back of the office. when he gets ready, provided he has been through a course of study in this brand of business, he takes one room at a time, and addressing a pale young "banister polisher" by the name of "front," he begins to scatter to their destinations, baggage, towels, morning papers, time-tables, etc., all over the house. it is also supposed to be a great time-saver. for instance, no. wants to know the correct time. he moves an indicator around like the combination on a safe, reads a few pages of instructions, and then pushes a button, perhaps. instead of ringing for a boy and having to wait some time for him, then asking him to obtain the correct time at the office and come back with the information, conversing with various people on his way and expecting compensation for it, the guest can ask the office and receive the answer without getting out of bed. you leave a call for a certain hour, and at that time your own private gong will make it so disagreeable for you that you will be glad to rise. again, if you wish to know the amount of your bill, you go through certain exercises with the large barometer in your room; and, supposing you have been at the house two days and have had a fire in your room three times, and your bill is therefore $ . , the answer will come back and be announced on your gong as follows: _one_, pause, _three_, pause, _two_, pause, _one_, pause, _eight_. when there is a cipher in the amount i do not know what the method is, but by using due care in making up the bill this need not occur. for police and fire purposes the system shows a wonderful degree of intelligence, not only as a speedy means of conveying calls for the fire department, health department, department of street cleaning, department of interior and good of the order, but it furnishes also a method of transmitting emergency calls, so that no citizen--no matter how poor or unknown--need go without an emergency. the citizen has only to turn the crank of the little iron marten-house till the gong ceases to ring, then push on the "citizens' button," and he can have fun with most any emergency he likes. should he decide, however, to shrink from the emergency before it arrives, he can go away from there, or secrete himself and watch the surprise of the ambulance driver or the fire department when no mangled remains or forked fire fiend is found in that region. this system is also supposed to keep its eye peeled for policemen and inform the central station where each patrolman is all the time; also as to his temperature, pulse, perspiration and breath. it keeps a record of this at the main office on a ticker of its own, and the information may be published in the society columns of the papers in the morning. it enables a citizen to use his own discretion about sounding an alarm. he has only to be a citizen. he need not be a tax-payer or a vox populi. should he be a citizen, or declare his intention to become such, or even though he be a voter only, without any notion of ever being a citizen, he can help himself to the fire department or anything else by ringing up the central station. electricity and spiritualism have arrived at that stage of perfection where a coil of copper wire and a can of credulity will accomplish a great deal. the time is coming when even more surprising wonders will be worked, and with electric wires, the rapid transit trains, and the english sparrows all under the ground, the dawn of a better and brighter day will be ushered in. the car-driver and the truck-man will then lie down together, boston will not rise up against london, he that heretofore slag shall go forth no more for to slug, and the czar will put aside his tailor-made boiler-iron underwear and fearlessly canvass the nihilist wards in the interest of george kennan and reform, nit. the end. * * * * * an article on the writings of james whitcomb riley by "chelifer" the ambrosia of james whitcomb riley. "chelifer" in "the bookery."--godey's magazine. there are writers that take pegasus on giddier flights of fancy, and writers that sit him more grandly, and writers that put him through daintier paces, and writers that burden him with anguish nearer that of the dread rider of the white horse, and there are writers that make him a very bucking broncho of wit, but there is no one that turns pegasus into just such an ambling nag of lazy peace and pastoral content as james--i had almost said joshua whitcomb--riley. if you want a panacea for the bitterness and the fret and the snobbishness and pretension and unsympathy and the commercial ambition and worry and the other cankers that gnaw and gnaw the soul, just throw a leg over the back of riley's pegasus, "perfectly safe for family driving," let the reins hang loose as you sag limply in your saddle, and gaze through drowsy eyes while the amiable old beast jogs down lanes blissful with rural quietude, through farmyards full of picturesque rustics and through the streets of quaint villages. then utter rest and a peace akin to bliss will possess your soul. to make readers content with life and glad to live is one of the most dazzlingly magnificent deeds in the power of an artist. this is too little appreciated in the melodramatic theatricism of our life. this genius for soothing the reader with a pathos that is not anguish and a humor that is not cynicism, this genius belongs to mr. riley in a degree i have found in no other writer in all literature. of course, mr. riley is essentially a lyric poet. but his spirit is that of walt whitman; he speaks the universal democracy, the equality of man, the hatred of assumption and snobbery, that our republic stands for, if it stands for anything. now downright didacticism in a poet is an abomination. but if a poet has no right to ponder the meanings of things, the feelings of man for man and the higher "criticism of life," then no one has. if to pope's "the proper study of mankind is man," you add "nature" and "nature's god," you will fairly well outline the poet's field. mere art (heaven save the "mere"!) is not, and has never been, enough to place a poet among the great spirits of the world. it has furnished a number of nimble mandolinists and exquisite dilettants for lazy moods. but great poetry must always be something more than sweetmeats; it must be food--temptingly cooked, winningly served, well spiced and well accompanied, but yet food to strengthen the blood and the sinews of the soul. therefore i make so bold as to insist that even in a lyrist there should be something more than the prosperity or the dirge of personal _amours_: there should be a sympathy with the world-joy, the world-suffering, and the world-kinship. it is this attitude toward lyric poetry that makes me think mr. riley a poet whose exquisite art is lavished on humanity so deep-sounding as to commend him to the acceptance of immortality among the highest lyrists. horace was an acute thinker and a frank speaker on the problems of life. this didacticism seems not to have harmed his artistic welfare, for he has undoubtedly been the most popular poet that ever wrote. consider the magnitude and the enthusiasm of his audience! he has been the personal chum of everyone that ever read latinity. but horace, when not exalted with his inspired preachments on the art of life and the arts of poetry and love, was a bitter cynic redeemed by great self-depreciation and joviality. the son of a slave, he was too fond of court life to talk democracy. bobby burns was a thorough child of the people, and is more like mr. riley in every way than any other poet. yet he, too, had a vicious cynicism, and he never had the polished art that enriches some of mr. riley's non-dialectic poetry, as in parts of his fairy fancy, "the flying islands of the night." burns never had the versatility of sympathy that enables mr. riley to write such unpastoral masterpieces as "anselmo," "the dead lover," "a scrawl," "the home-going," some of his sonnets, and the noble verses beginning "a monument for the soldiers! and what will ye build it of?" yet it must be owned that burns is in general mr. riley's prototype. mr. riley admits it himself in his charming verses "to robert burns." "sweet singer, that i lo'e the maist o' ony, sin' wi' eager haste i smacket bairn lips ower the taste o' hinnied sang." the classic pastoral poets, theokritos, vergandil, the others, sang with an exquisite art, indeed, yet their farm-folk were really dresden-china shepherds and shepherdesses speaking with affected simplicity or with impossible elegance. theokritos, like burns and riley, wrote partly in dialect and partly in the standard speech, and to those who are never reconciled to anything that can quote no "authority," there should be sufficient justification for dialect poetry in this divine sicilian musician of whom his own goatherd might have said: "full of fine honey thy beautiful mouth was, thyrsis, created full of the honeycomb; figs Ægilean, too, mayest thou nibble, sweet as they are; for ev'n than the locust more bravely thou singest." i have no room to argue the _pro's_ of dialect here, but it always seems strange that those lazy critics who are unwilling to take the trouble to translate the occasional hard words in a dialect form of their own tongue, should be so inconsistent as ever to study a foreign language. then, too, dialect is necessary to truth, to local color, to intimacy with the character depicted. besides, it is delicious. there is something mellow and soul-warming about a plebeian metathesis like "congergation." what orthoepy could replace lines like these?: "worter, shade and all so mixed, don't know which you'd orter say, th' _worter_ in the shadder--_shadder_ in the _worter_!" one thing about mr. riley's dialect that may puzzle those not familiar with the living speech of the hoosiers, is his spelling, which is chiefly done as if by the illiterate speaker himself. thus "rostneer-time" and "ornry" must be Æolic greek to those barbarians who have never heard of "roasting-ears" of corn or of that contemptuous synonym for "vulgar," "common," which is smoothly elided, "or(di)n(a)ry." both of these words could be spelled with a suggestive and helpful use of apostrophes: "roast'n'-ear," and or'n'ry. jumbles like "jevver" for "did you ever?" and the like can hardly be spelled otherwise than phonetically, but a glossary should be appended as in lowell's "biglow papers," for the poems are eminently worth even lexicon-thumbing. another frequent fault of dialect writers is the spelling phonetically of words pronounced everywhere alike. thus "enough" is spelled "enuff," and "clamor," "clammer," though dr. johnson himself would never have pronounced them otherwise. in these misspellings, however, mr. riley excuses himself by impersonating an illiterate as well as a crude-speaking poet. but even then he is inconsistent, and "hollowing" becomes "hollerin'," with an apostrophe to mark the lost "g"--that abominable imported harshness that ought to be generally exiled from our none too smooth language. mr. riley has written a good essay in defense of dialect, which enemies of this form of literature might read with advantage. but mr. riley has written a deal of most excellent verse that is not in dialect. one whole volume is devoted to a fairy extravaganza called "the flying islands of the night," a good addition to that quaint literature of lace to which "the midsummer night's dream," herrick's "oberon's epithalamium," or whatever it is called, drake's "culprit fay," and other bits of most exquisite foolery belong. while hardly a complete success, this diminutive drama contains some curiously delightful conceits like this "improvisation:" "her face--her brow--her hair unfurled!-- and o the oval chin below, carved, like a cunning cameo, with one exquisite dimple, swirled with swimming shine and shade, and whirled the daintiest vortex poets know-- the sweetest whirlpool ever twirled by cupid's finger-tip--and so, the deadliest maelstrom in the world!" it is a strange individuality that mr. riley has, suggesting numerous other masters--whose influence he acknowledges in special odes--and yet all digested and assimilated into a marked individuality of his own. he has studied the english poets profoundly and improved himself upon them, till one is chiefly impressed, in his non-dialectic verse, with his refinement, subtlety, and ease. he has a large vocabulary, and his felicity is at times startling. thus he speaks of water "chuckling," which is as good as horace's ripples that "gnaw" the shore. note the mastery of such lines as "and the dust of the road is like velvet." "nothin' but green woods and clear skies and unwrit poetry by the acre!" "then god smiled and it was morning!" life is "a poor pale yesterday of death." "and o i wanted so to be felt sorry for!" "always suddenly they are gone, the friends we trusted and held secure." "at utter loaf." "knee-deep in june." --but i can not go on quoting forever. technically, mr. riley is a master of surpassing finish. his meters are perfect and varied. they flow as smoothly as his own indiana streams. his rimes are almost never imperfect. to prove his own understanding he has written one _scherzo_ in technic that is a delightful example of bad rime, bad meter, and the other earmarks of the poor poet. it is "ezra house," and begins: "come listen, good people, while a story i do tell of the sad fate of one i knew so passing well!" the "do" and the "so" are the unfailing index of crudity. then we have rimes like "long" and "along" (it is curious that modern english is the only tongue that finds this repetition objectionable); "moon" and "tomb," "well" and "hill," and "said" and "denied" are others, and the whole thing is an enchanting lesson in how poetry should not be written. mr. riley is fond of dividing words at the ends of lines, but always in a comic way, though horace, you remember, was not unwilling to use it seriously, as in his "----u- xorius amnis." mr. riley's animadversions on "addeliney bowersox" constitute a fascinating study in this effect. he is also devoted to dividing an adjective from its noun by a line-end. this is a trick of poe's, whose influence mr. riley has greatly profited by. in his dialect poetry mr. riley gets just the effect of the jerky drawl of the hoosier by using the end of a line as a knife, thus: "the wood's green again, and sun feels good's june!" his masterly use of the cæsura is notable, too. see its charming despotism in "griggsby station." but it is not his technic that makes him ambrosial, not the loving care _ad unguem_ that smooths the uncouthest dialect into lilting tunefulness without depriving it of its colloquial verisimilitude--it is none of these things of mechanical inspiration, but the spirit of the man, his democracy, his tenderness, the health and wealth of his sympathies. if he uses "memory" a little too often as a vehicle for his rural pictures, the utter charm of the pictures is atonement enough. he has caught the real american. he is the laureate of the bliss of laziness. his child poems are the next best thing to the child itself; they have all the infectious essence of gayety, and all the _naïveté_, and all the knife-like appeal. it could not reasonably be demanded that his prose should equal the perfection of his verse, but nothing more eerie has ever been done than the little story, "where is mary alice smith?" with its strange use of rime at the end. of all dialect writers he has been the most versatile. think of the author of "the raggedy man" or "orphant annie" writing one of the finest sonnets in the language! this one which i must quote here as a noble ending to my halt praise: "being his mother, when he goes away i would not hold him overlong, and so sometimes my yielding sight of him grows o so quick of tears, i joy he did not stay to catch the faintest rumor of them! nay, leave always his eyes clear and glad, although mine own, dear lord, do fill to overflow; "let his remembered features, as i pray, smile ever on me. ah! what stress of love thou givest me to guard with thee thiswise: its fullest speech ever to be denied mine own--being his mother! all thereof thou knowest only, looking from the skies as when not christ alone was crucified." life is the more tolerable, the more full of learned sympathy, and thereby of joy and value, for the very existence of such a man. * * * * * list of mr. riley's books. a child world. (new.) tales in verse of childhood days. cloth, mo, $ . . half calf, $ . . hand-made paper edition, bound uniform with "old fashioned roses," $ . neghborly poems, including "the old swimmin' hole," by benjamin f. johnson, of boone (james whitcomb riley.) cloth, illustrated, mo, $ . . half calf, $ . . sketches in prose, and occasional verses. cloth, $ . . half calf, $ . . afterwhiles. sixtieth thousand. with portrait. cloth, $ . . half calf, $ . . pipes o' pan at zekesbury. five sketches and fifty poems. cloth, $ . . half calf, $ . . rhymes of childhood. dialect and other verses. with portrait. cloth, $ . . half calf, $ . . the flying islands of the night. a fantastic drama in verse. cloth, $ . . half calf, $ . . green fields and running brooks. dialect and serious poems. with portrait. cloth, illustrated, $ . . half calf, $ . . armazindy. hoosier harvest airs, feigned forms, and child rhymes. cloth, $ . . half calf, $ . . old fashioned roses. a selection of popular poems, from mr. riley's works. printed in england. mo, uncut, $ . . an old sweetheart of mine. illustrated in colors. oblong to, $ . . a uniform edition of mr. riley's works in volumes, mo, cloth, per set, $ . . half calf, volumes, mo, per set, $ . . published by the bowen-merrill co., indianapolis and kansas city. sent post-paid to any address on receipt of the price. mr. dooley says by the author of "mr. dooley in peace and in war," "mr. dooley in the hearts of his countrymen", etc. new york, charles scribner's sons contents page divorce glory woman suffrage the bachelor tax the rising of the subject races panics ocean travel work drugs a broken friendship the army canteen things spiritual books the tariff the big fine expert testimony the call of the wild the japanese scare the hague conference turkish politics vacations mr. dooley says divorce "well, sir," said mr. dooley, "i see they've been holdin' a divoorce congress." "what's that?" asked mr. hennessy. "ye wudden't know," said mr. dooley. "divoorce is th' on'y luxury supplied be th' law that we don't injye in ar-rchey road. up here whin a marrid couple get to th' pint where 'tis impossible f'r thim to go on livin' together they go on livin' together. they feel that way some mornin' in ivry month, but th' next day finds thim still glarin' at each other over th' ham an' eggs. no wife iver laves her husband while he has th' breath iv life in him, an' anny gintleman that took a thrip to reno in ordher to saw off th' housekeepin' expinses on a rash successor wud find throuble ready f'r him whin he come back to ar-rchey road. no, sir, whin our people grab hands at th' altar, they're hooked up f'river. there's on'y wan decree iv divoorce that th' neighbors will recognize, an' that's th' wan that entitles ye to ride just behind th' pall bearers. that's why i'm a batch. 'tis th' fine skylark iv a timprary husband i'd make, bringin' home a new wife ivry foorth iv july an' dischargin' th' old wan without a charackter. but th' customs iv th' neighbors are agin it. "but 'tis diff'rent with others, hinnissy. down be mitchigan avnoo marredge is no more bindin' thin a dhream. a short marrid life an' an onhappy wan is their motto. off with th' old love an' on with th' new an' off with that. 'till death us do part,' says th' preacher. 'or th' jury,' whispers th' blushin' bride. "th' divoorce congress, hinnissy, that i'm tellin' ye about was assembled to make th' divoorce laws iv all th' states th' same. it's a tur-rble scandal as it is now. a man shakes his wife in wan state on'y to be grabbed be her an' led home th' minyit he crosses th' border. there's no safety f'r anny wan. in some places it's almost impossible f'r a man to get rid iv his fam'ly onless he has a good raison. there's no regularity at all about it. in kentucky baldness is grounds f'r divoorce; in ohio th' inclemency iv th' weather. in illinye a woman can be freed fr'm th' gallin' bonds iv mathrimony because her husband wears congress gaiters; in wisconsin th' old man can get his maiden name back because his wife tells fortunes in th' taycup. "in nebrasky th' shackles ar-re busted because father forgot to wipe his boots; in new york because mother knows a judge in south dakota. ye can be divoorced f'r annything if ye know where to lodge th' complaint. among th' grounds ar-re snorin', deefness, because wan iv th' parties dhrinks an' th' other doesn't, because wan don't dhrink an' th' other does, because they both dhrink, because th' wife is addicted to sick headaches, because he asked her what she did with that last $ he give her, because he knows some wan else, because she injyes th' society iv th' young, because he f'rgot to wind th' clock. a husband can get a divoorce because he has more money thin he had; a wife because he has less. ye can always get a divoorce f'r what hogan calls incompatibility iv temper. that's whin husband an' wife ar-re both cross at th' same time. ye'd call it a tiff in ye'er fam'ly, hinnissy. "but, mind ye, none iv these raisons go in anny two states. a man that wants to be properly divoorced will have to start out an' do a tour iv our gr-reat republic, an' be th' time he's thurly released he may want to do it all over agin with th' second choice iv his wild, glad heart. "it wud be a grand thing if it cud be straightened out. th' laws ought to be th' same ivrywhere. in anny part iv this fair land iv ours it shud be th' right iv anny man to get a divoorce, with alimony, simply be goin' befure a justice iv th' peace an' makin' an affydavit that th' lady's face had grown too bleak f'r his taste. be hivens, i'd go farther. rather than have people endure this sarvichood i'd let anny man escape be jumpin' th' conthract. all he'd have to do if i was r-runnin' this governmint wud be to put some clothes in th' grip, write a note to his wife that afther thinkin' it over f'r forty years he had made up his mind that his warm nature was not suited to marredge with th' mother iv so manny iv his childher, an' go out to return no more. "i don't know much about marrid life, except what ye tell me an' what i r-read in th' pa-apers. but it must be sad. all over this land onhappily mated couples ar-re sufferin' almost as much as if they had a sliver in their thumb or a slight headache. th' sorrows iv these people ar-re beyond belief. i say, hinnissy, it is th' jooty iv th' law to marcifully release thim. "ye take th' case iv me frind fr'm mud center that i was readin' about th' other day. there was a martyr f'r ye. poor fellow! me eyes filled with tears thinkin' about him. whin a young man he marrid. he was a fireman in thim days, an' th' objict iv his etarnal affection was th' daughter iv th' most popylar saloon keeper in town. a gr-reat socyal gulf opened between thim. he had fine prospects iv ivinchooly bein' promoted to two-fifty a day, but she was heiress to a cellar full iv monongahela rye an' a pool table, an' her parents objicted, because iv th' diffrence in their positions. but love such as his is not to be denied. th' bold suitor won. together they eloped an' were marrid. "f'r a short time all wint well. they lived together happily f'r twinty years an' raised wan iv th' popylous fam'lies iv people who expect to be supported in their old days. th' impechuse lover, spurred on be th' desire to make good with his queen, slugged, cheated, an' wurruked his way to th' head iv th' railroad. he was no longer greasy bill, th' oil can, but hinnery aitch bliggens, th' prince iv industhree. all th' diff'rent kinds iv money he iver heerd iv rolled into him, large money an' small, other people's money, money he'd labored f'r an' money he'd wished f'r. whin he set in his office countin' it he often left a call f'r six o'clock f'r fear he might be dhreamin' an' not get to th' roundhouse on time. "but, bein' an american citizen, he soon felt as sure iv himsilf as though he'd got it all in th' probate coort, an' th' arly spring saw him on a private car speedin' to new york, th' home iv mirth. he was received with open ar-rms be ivry wan in that gr-reat city that knew the combynation iv a safe. he was taken f'r yacht rides be his fellow kings iv fi-nance. he was th' principal guest iv honor at a modest but tasteful dinner, where there was a large artificyal lake iv champagne into which th' comp'ny cud dive. in th' on'y part iv new york ye iver read about--ar-re there no churches or homes in new york, but on'y hotels, night resthrants, an' poolrooms?--in th' on'y part iv new york ye read about he cud be seen anny night sittin' where th' lights cud fall on his bald but youthful head. "an' how was it all this time in dear old mud center? it is painful to say that th' lady to whom our frind was tied f'r life had not kept pace with him. she had taught him to r-read, but he had gone on an' taken what hogan calls th' postgrajate coorse. women get all their book larnin' befure marredge, men afther. she'd been pretty active about th' childher while he was pickin' up more iddycation in th' way iv business thin she'd iver dhream iv knowin'. she had th' latest news about th' throuble in th' methodist church, but he had a private wire into his office. "a life spint in nourishin' th' young, hinnissy, while fine to read about, isn't anny kind iv a beauty restorer, an' i've got to tell ye that th' lady prob'bly looked diff'rent fr'm th' gazelle he use to whistle three times f'r whin he wint by on number iliven. it's no aisy thing to rock th' cradle with wan hand an' ondylate th' hair with another. be th' time he was gettin' into th' upper classes in new york she was slowin' down aven f'r mud center. their tastes was decidedly dissimilar, says th' pa-aper. time was whin he carrid th' wash pitcher down to th' corner f'r a quart iv malt, while she dandled th' baby an' fried th' round steak at th' same time. that day was past. she hadn't got to th' pint where she cud dhrink champagne an' keep it out iv her nose. th' passin' years had impaired all possible foundations f'r a new crop iv hair. sometimes conversation lagged. "mud center is a long way fr'm th' casino. th' last successful exthravaganza that th' lady had seen was a lecture be jawn b. gough. she got her eyetalian opry out iv a music box. what was there f'r this joynt intelleck an' this household tyrant to talk about? no wondher he pined. think iv this light iv th' tendherloin bein' compelled to set down ivry month or two an' chat about a new tooth that hiven had just sint to a fam'ly up th' sthreet! nor was that all. she give him no rest. time an' time again she asked him was he comin' home that night. she tortured his proud spirit be recallin' th' time whin she used to flag him fr'm th' window iv th' room where papa had locked her in. she aven wint so far as to dhraw on him th' last cow'rdly weapon iv brutal wives--their tears. one time she thravelled to new york an' wan iv his frinds seen her. oh, it was crool, crool. hinnissy, tell me, wud ye condim this gr-reat man to such a slavery just because he'd made a rash promise whin he didn't have a cent in th' wurruld? th' law said no. whin th' gr-reat fi-nanceer cud stand it no longer he called upon th' judge to sthrike off th' chains an' make him a free man. he got a divoorce. "i dare ye to come down to my house an' say thim things," said mr. hennessy. "oh, i know ye don't agree with me," said mr. dooley. "nayether does th' parish priest. he's got it into his head that whin a man's marrid he's marrid, an' that's all there is to it. he puts his hand in th' grab-bag an' pulls out a blank an' he don't get his money back. "'ill-mated couples?' says he. 'ill-mated couples? what ar-re ye talkin' about? ar-re there anny other kinds? ar-re there anny two people in th' wurruld that ar-re perfectly mated?' he says. 'was there iver a frindship that was annything more thin a kind iv suspension bridge between quarrels?' he says. 'in ivry branch iv life,' says he, 'we leap fr'm scrap to scrap,' he says. 'i'm wan iv th' best-timpered men in th' wurruld, am i not? ('ye are not,' says i.) i'm wan iv th' kindest iv mortals,' he says, 'but put me in th' same house with saint jerome,' he says, 'an' there'd be at laste wan day in th' month whin i'd answer his last wurrd be slammin' th' dure behind me,' he says. 'man is nachrally a fightin' an quarrelin' animal with his wife. th' soft answer don't always turn away wrath. sometimes it makes it worse,' he says. 'th' throuble about divoorce is it always lets out iv th' bad bargain th' wan that made it bad. if i owned a half in a payin' business with ye, i'd niver let th' sun go down on a quarrel,' he says. 'but if ye had a bad mouth i'd go into coort an' wriggle out iv th' partnership because ye'ar a cantankerous old villain that no wan cud get on with,' he says. 'if people knew they cudden't get away fr'm each other they'd settle down to life, just as i detarmined to like coal smoke whin i found th' collection wasn't big enough to put a new chimbley in th' parish house. i've acchally got to like it,' he says. 'there ain't anny condition iv human life that's not endurable if ye make up ye'er mind that ye've got to endure it,' he says. 'th' throuble with the rich,' he says, 'is this, that whin a rich man has a perfectly nachral scrap with his beloved over breakfast, she stays at home an' does nawthin' but think about it, an' he goes out an' does nawthin but think about it, an' that afthernoon they're in their lawyers' office,' he says. 'but whin a poor gintleman an' a poor lady fall out, the poor lady puts all her anger into rubbin' th' zinc off th' wash-boord an' th' poor gintleman aises his be murdhrin' a slag pile with a shovel, an' be th' time night comes ar-round he says to himself: well, i've got to go home annyhow, an' it's no use i shud be onhappy because i'm misjudged, an' he puts a pound iv candy into his coat pocket an' goes home an' finds her standin' at th' dure with a white apron on an' some new ruching ar-round her neck,' he says. "an' there ye ar-re. two opinions." "i see on'y wan," said mr. hennessy. "what do ye raaly think?" "i think," said mr. dooley, "if people wanted to be divoorced i'd let thim, but i'd give th' parents into th' custody iv th' childher. they'd larn thim to behave." glory "hogan has been in here this afthernoon, an' i've heerd more scandal talked thin i iver thought was in the wurrld." "hogan had betther keep quiet," said mr. hennessy. "if he goes circulatin' anny stories about me i'll--" "ye needn't worry," said mr. dooley. "we didn't condiscend to talk about annywan iv ye'er infeeryor station. if ye want to be th' subjick iv our scand'lous discoorse ye'd betther go out an' make a repytation. no, sir, our talk was entirely about th' gr-reat an' illusthrees an' it ran all th' way fr'm julius cayzar to ulysses grant. "dear, oh dear, but they were th' bad lot. thank th' lord nobody knows about me. thank th' lord i had th' good sinse to retire f'rm pollyticks whin me repytation had spread as far as halsted sthreet. if i'd let it go a block farther i'd've been sorry f'r it th' rest iv me life an' some years afther me death. "i wanted to be famous in thim days, whin i was young an' foolish. 'twas th' dhream iv me life to have people say as i wint by: 'there goes dooley, th' gr-reatest statesman iv his age,' an' have thim name babies, sthreets, schools, canal boats, an' five-cent seegars afther me, an' whin i died to have it put in th' books that 'at this critical peeryod in th' history of america there was need iv a man who combined strenth iv charackter with love iv counthry. such a man was found in martin dooley, a prom'nent retail liquor dealer in ar-rchey road.' "that's what i wanted, an' i'm glad i didn't get me wish. if i had, 'tis little attintion to me charackter that th' books iv what hogan calls bi-ography wud pay, but a good deal to me debts. though they mintioned th' fact that i resked death f'r me adopted fatherland, they'd make th' more intherestin' story about th' time i almost met it be fallin' down stairs while runnin' away fr'm a polisman. f'r wan page they'd print about me love iv counthry, they'd print fifty about me love iv dhrink. "th' things thim gr-reat men done wud give thim a place in byrnes's book. if julius caysar was alive to-day he'd be doin' a lockstep down in joliet. he was a corner loafer in his youth an' a robber in his old age. he busted into churches, fooled ar-round with other men's wives, curled his hair with a poker an' smelled iv perfumery like a saturday night car. an' his wife was a suspicyous charackter an' he turned her away. "napolyon bonypart, impror iv th' fr-rinch, was far too gay aven f'r thim friv'lous people, an' had fits. his first wife was no betther than she shud be, an' his second wife didn't care f'r him. willum shakespeare is well known as an author of plays that no wan can play, but he was betther known as a two-handed dhrinker, a bad actor, an' a thief. his wife was a common scold an' led him th' life he desarved. they niver leave th' ladies out iv these stories iv th' gr-reat. a woman that marries a janius has a fine chance iv her false hair becomin' more immortal thin his gr-reatest deed. it don't make anny difference if all she knew about her marital hero was that he was a consistent feeder, a sleepy husband, an' indulgent to his childher an' sometimes to himsilf, an' that she had to darn his socks. nearly all th' gr-reat men had something th' matther with their wives. i always thought mrs. wash'nton, who was th' wife iv th' father iv our counthry, though childless hersilf, was about right. she looks good in th' pitchers, with a shawl ar-round her neck an' a frilled night-cap on her head. but hogan says she had a tongue sharper thin george's soord, she insulted all his frinds, an' she was much older thin him. as f'r george, he was a case. i wish th' counthry had got itsilf a diff'rent father. a gr-reat moral rellijous counthry like this desarves a betther parent. "they were all alike. i think iv bobby burns as a man that wrote good songs, aven if they were in a bar'brous accint, but hogan thinks iv him as havin' a load all th' time an' bein' th' scandal iv his parish. i remimber andhrew jackson as th' man that licked th' british at noo orleans be throwin' cotton bales at thim, but hogan remimbers him as a man that cudden't spell an' had a wife who smoked a corncob pipe. i remimber abraham lincoln f'r freein' th' slaves, but hogan remimbers how he used to cut loose yarns that made th' bartinder shake th' stove harder thin it needed. i remimber grant f'r what he done ar-round shiloh whin he was young, but hogan remimbers him f'r what he done arr-ound new york whin he was old. "an' so it goes. whin a lad with nawthin' else to do starts out to write a bi-ography about a gr-reat man, he don't go to th' war departmint or th' public library. no, sir, he begins to search th' bureau dhrawers, old pigeon-holes, th' records iv th' polis coort, an' th' recollections iv th' hired girl. he likes letters betther thin annything else. he don't care much f'r th' kind beginning: 'dear wife, i'm settin' in front iv th' camp fire wearin' th' flannel chest protector ye made me, an' dhreamin' iv ye,' but if he can find wan beginnin': 'little bright eyes: th' old woman has gone to th' counthry,' he's th' happiest bi-ographer ye cud see in a month's thravel. "hogan had wan iv thim books in here th' other day. 'twas written by a frind, so ye can see it wasn't prejudiced wan way or another. 'at this time,' says the book, 'an ivint happened that was destined to change th' whole coorse iv our hero's life. wan day, while in a sthreet car, where he lay dozin' fr'm dhrink, he awoke to see a beautiful woman thryin' to find a nickel in a powder puff. th' brutal conductor towered over her, an' it was more thin th' gin'ral cud bear. risin' to his feet, with an oath, he pulled th' rope iv th' fare register an' fell off th' car. "th' incident made a deep impression on th' gin'ral. i have no doubt he often thought iv his beautiful madonna iv th' throlly, although he niver said so. but wan night as he staggered out iv th' dinin'-room at th' german ambassadure's, who shud he run acrost but th' fair vision iv th' surface line. she curtsied low an' picked him up, an' there began a frindship so full iv sorrow an' happiness to both iv thim. he seldom mintioned her, but wan night he was heard to mutter: 'her face is like wan iv rembrand's saints.' a few historyans contind that what he said was: 'her face looks like a remnant sale,' but i cannot believe this. "they exchanged brilliant letters fr manny years, in fact ontil th' enchanthress was locked up in an insane asylum. i have not been able to find anny iv his letters, but her's fell into th' hands iv wan iv his faithful servants, who presarved an' published thim. (love an' letters iv gin'ral dhreadnaught an' alfaretta agonized; stolen, collected an' edited be james snooper.) * * * next year was mim'rable f'r his gloryous victhry at punkheim, all th' more wondherful because at th' time our hero was sufferin' fr'm deleeryyum thremens. "it shows th' fortitude iv th' gin'ral an' that he was as gr-reat a liar as i have indicated in th' precedin' pages, that with th' cheers iv his sojers ringin' in his ears, he cud still write home to his wife: 'ol' girl--i can't find annything fit to dhrink down here. can't ye sind me some cider fr'm th' farm.' * * * in he was accused iv embezzlemint, but th' charges niver reached his ears or th' public's ontil eight years afther his death. * * * in ' his foster brother, that he had neglected in kansas city, slipped on his ballroom flure an' broke his leg. * * * in ' his wife died afther torturin' him f'r fifty years. they were a singularly badly mated couple, with a fam'ly iv fourteen childher, but he did not live long to enjoy his happiness. f'r some reason he niver left his house, but passed away within a month, one of th' gr-reatest men th' cinchry has projooced. for further details iv th' wrong things he done see th' notes at th' end iv th' volume.' it seems to me, hinnissy, that this here thing called bi-ography is a kind iv an offset f'r histhry. histhry lies on wan side, an' bi-ography comes along an' makes it rowl over an' lie on th' other side. th' historyan says, go up; th' bi-ographer says, come down among us. i don't believe ayether iv thim. "i was talkin' with father kelly about it afther hogan wint out. 'were they all so bad, thim men that i've been brought up to think so gloryous?' says i. 'they were men,' says father kelly. 'ye mustn't believe all ye hear about thim, no matther who says it,' says he. 'it's a thrait iv human nature to pull down th' gr-reat an' sthrong. th' hero sthruts through histhry with his chin up in th' air, his scipter in his hand an' his crown on his head. but behind him dances a boot-black imitatin' his walk an' makin' faces at him. fame invites a man out iv his house to be crowned f'r his gloryous deeds, an' sarves him with a warrant f'r batin' his wife. 'tis not in th' nature iv things that it shudden't be so. we'd all perish iv humilyation if th' gr-reat men iv th' wurruld didn't have nachral low-down thraits. if they don't happen to possess thim, we make some up f'r thim. we allow no man to tower over us. wan way or another we level th' wurruld to our own height. if we can't reach th' hero's head we cut off his legs. it always makes me feel aisier about mesilf whin i r-read how bad julius cayzar was. an' it stimylates compytition. if gr-reatness an' goodness were hand in hand 'tis small chance anny iv us wud have iv seem' our pitchers in th' pa-apers.' "an' so it is that the battles ye win, th' pitchers ye paint, th' people ye free, th' childher that disgrace ye, th' false step iv ye'er youth, all go thundherin' down to immortality together. an' afther all, isn't it a good thing? th' on'y bi-ography i care about is th' one mulligan th' stone-cutter will chop out f'r me. i like mulligan's style, f'r he's no flatthrer, an' he has wan model iv bi-ography that he uses f'r old an' young, rich an' poor. he merely writes something to th' gin'ral effect that th' deceased was a wondher, an' lets it go at that." "which wud ye rather be, famous or rich?" asked mr. hennessy. "i'd like to be famous," said mr. dooley, "an' have money enough to buy off all threatenin' bi-ographers." woman suffrage "i see be th' pa-apers that th' ladies in england have got up in their might an' demanded a vote." "a what?" cried mr. hennessy. "a vote," said mr. dooley. "th' shameless viragoes," said mr. hennessy. "what did they do?" "well, sir," said mr. dooley, "an immense concoorse iv forty iv thim gathered in london an' marched up to th' house iv commons, or naytional dormytory, where a loud an' almost universal snore proclaimed that a debate was ragin' over th' bill to allow english gintlemen to marry their deceased wife's sisters befure th' autopsy. in th' great hall iv rufus some iv th' mightiest male intellecks in britain slept undher their hats while an impassioned orator delivered a hem-stitched speech on th' subject iv th' day to th' attintive knees an' feet iv th' ministhry. it was into this here assimbly iv th' first gintlemen iv europe that ye see on ye'er way to france that th' furyous females attimpted to enter. undaunted be th' stairs iv th' building or th' rude jeers iv th' multichood, they advanced to th' very outside dures iv th' idifice. there an overwhelmin' force iv three polismen opposed thim. 'what d'ye want, mum?' asked the polls. 'we demand th' suffrage,' says th' commander iv th' army iv freedom. "the brutal polis refused to give it to thim an' a desp'rate battle followed. th' ladies fought gallantly, hurlin' cries iv 'brute,' 'monster,' 'cheap,' et cethry, at th' constablry. hat pins were dhrawn. wan lady let down her back hair; another, bolder thin th' rest, done a fit on th' marble stairs; a third, p'raps rendered insane be sufferin' f'r a vote, sthruck a burly ruffyan with a japanese fan on th' little finger iv th' right hand. thin th' infuryated officers iv th' law charged on th' champeens iv liberty. a scene iv horror followed. polismen seized ladies be th' arms and' led thim down th' stairs; others were carried out fainting by th' tyrants. in a few minyits all was over, an' nawthin' but three hundhred hairpins remained to mark th' scene iv slaughter. thus, hinnissy, was another battle f'r freedom fought an' lost." "it sarves thim right," said mr. hennessy. "they ought to be at home tindin' th' babies." "a thrue statement an' a sound argymint that appeals to ivry man. p'raps they havn't got any babies. a baby is a good substichoot f'r a ballot, an' th' hand that rocks th' cradle sildom has time f'r anny other luxuries. but why shud we give thim a vote, says i. what have they done to injye this impeeryal suffrage that we fought an' bled f'r? whin me forefathers were followin' george wash'nton an' sufferin' all th' hardships that men endure campin' out in vacation time, what were th' women doin'? they were back in matsachoosetts milkin' th' cow, mendin' socks, followin' th' plow, plantin' corn, keepin' store, shoein' horses, an' pursooin' th' other frivvlous follies iv th' fair but fickle sect. afther th' war our brave fellows come back to boston an' as a reward f'r their devotion got a vote apiece, if their wives had kept th' pilgrim fathers that stayed at home fr'm foreclosin' th' morgedge on their property. an' now, be hivens, they want to share with us what we won. "why, they wudden't know how to vote. they think it's an aisy job that anny wan can do, but it ain't. it's a man's wurruk, an' a sthrong man's with a sthrong stomach. i don't know annything that requires what hogan calls th' exercise iv manly vigor more thin votin'. it's th' hardest wurruk i do in th' year. i get up befure daylight an' thramp over to th' timple iv freedom, which is also th' office iv a livery stable. wan iv th' judges has a cold in his head an' closes all th' windows. another judge has built a roarin' fire in a round stove an' is cookin' red-hots on it. th' room is lit with candles an' karosene lamps, an' is crowded with pathrites who haven't been to bed. at th' dure are two or three polismen that maybe ye don't care to meet. dock o'leary says he don't know annything that'll exhaust th' air iv a room so quick as a polisman in his winter unyform. all th' pathrites an', as th' pa-apers call thim, th' high-priests iv this here sacred rite, ar-re smokin' th' best seegars that th' token money iv our counthry can buy. "in th' pleasant warmth iv th' fire, th' harness on th' walls glows an' puts out its own peculiar aromy. th' owner iv th' sanchoo-ary iv liberty comes in, shakes up a bottle iv liniment made iv carbolic acid, pours it into a cup an' goes out. wan iv th' domestic attindants iv th' guests iv th' house walks through fr'm makin' th' beds. afther a while th' chief judge, who knows me well, because he shaves me three times a week, gives me a contimchous stare, asks me me name an' a number iv scand'lous questions about me age. "i'm timpted to make an angry retort, whin i see th' polisman movin' nearer, so i take me ballot an' wait me turn in th' booth. they're all occypied be writhin' freemen, callin' in sthrangled voices f'r somewan to light th' candle so they'll be sure they ain't votin' th' prohybition ticket. th' calico sheets over th' front iv th' booths wave an' ar-re pushed out like th' curtains iv a pullman car whin a fat man is dhressin' inside while th' thrain is goin' r-round a curve. in time a freeman bursts through, with perspyration poorin' down his nose, hurls his suffrage at th' judge an' staggers out. i plunge in, sharpen an inch iv lead pencil be rendin' it with me teeth, mutilate me ballot at th' top iv th' dimmycratic column, an' run f'r me life. "cud a lady do that, i ask ye? no, sir, 'tis no job f'r th' fair. it's men's wurruk. molly donahue wants a vote, but though she cud bound kamachatka as aisily as ye cud this precint, she ain't qualified f'r it. it's meant f'r gr-reat sturdy american pathrites like mulkowsky th' pollacky down th' sthreet. he don't know yet that he ain't votin' f'r th' king iv poland. he thinks he's still over there pretindin' to be a horse instead iv a free american givin' an imytation iv a steam dhredge. "on th' first choosday afther th' first monday in november an' april a man goes ar-round to his house, wakes him up, leads him down th' sthreet, an' votes him th' way ye'd wather a horse. he don't mind inhalin' th' air iv liberty in a livery stable. but if molly donahue wint to vote in a livery stable, th' first thing she'd do wud be to get a broom, sweep up th' flure, open th' windows, disinfect th' booths, take th' harness fr'm th' walls, an' hang up a pitcher iv niagary be moonlight, chase out th' watchers an' polis, remove th' seegars, make th' judges get a shave, an' p'raps invalydate th' iliction. it's no job f'r her, an' i told her so. "'we demand a vote,' says she. 'all right,' says i, 'take mine. it's old, but it's trustworthy an' durable. it may look a little th' worse f'r wear fr'm bein' hurled again a republican majority in this counthry f'r forty years, but it's all right. take my vote an' use it as ye please,' says i, 'an' i'll get an hour or two exthry sleep iliction day mornin',' says i. 'i've voted so often i'm tired iv it annyhow,' says i. 'but,' says i, 'why shud anny wan so young an' beautiful as ye want to do annything so foolish as to vote?' says i. 'ain't we intilligent enough?' says she. 'ye'ar too intilligent,' says i. 'but intilligence don't give ye a vote.' "'what does, thin,' says she. 'well,' says i, 'enough iv ye at wan time wantin' it enough. how many ladies ar-re there in ye'er woman's rights club?' 'twinty,' says she. 'make it three hundher,' says i, 'an' ye'll be on ye'er way. ye'er mother doesn't want it, does she? no, nor ye'er sister katie? no, nor ye'er cousin, nor ye'er aunt? all that iliction day means to thim is th' old man goin' off in th' mornin' with a light step an' fire in his eye, an' comin' home too late at night with a dent in his hat, news-boys hollerin' exthries with th' news that fifty-four votes had been cast in th' third precint in th' sivinth ward at o'clock, an' packy an' aloysius stealin' bar'ls fr'm th' groceryman f'r th' bone-fire. if they iver join ye an' make up their minds to vote, they'll vote. ye bet they will.' "'ye see, 'twas this way votin' come about. in th' beginnin' on'y th' king had a vote, an' ivrybody else was a chinyman or an indyan. th' king clapped his crown on his head an' wint down to th' polls, marked a cross at th' head iv th' column where his name was, an' wint out to cheer th' returns. thin th' jooks got sthrong, an' says they: votin' seems a healthy exercise an' we'd like to thry it. give us th' franchise or we'll do things to ye. an' they got it. thin it wint down through th' earls an' th' markises an' th' rest iv th' dooley fam'ly, till fin'lly all that was left iv it was flung to th' ign'rant masses like hinnissy, because they made a lot iv noise an' threatened to set fire to th' barns.' "'an' there ye ar-re. ye'll niver get it be askin' th' polis f'r it. no wan iver got his rights fr'm a polisman, an' be th' same token, there ar-re no rights worth havin' that a polisman can keep ye fr'm gettin'. th' ladies iv london ar-re followin' the right coorse, on'y there ain't enough iv thim. if there were forty thousand iv thim ar-rmed with hat pins an' prepared to plunge th' same into th' stomachs iv th' inimies iv female suffrage, an' if, instead iv faintin' in th' ar-rms iv th' constablry, they charged an' punctured thim an' broke their way into th' house iv commons, an' pulled th' wig off the speaker, an' knocked th' hat over th' eyes iv th' prime ministher it wudden't be long befure some mimber wud talk in his sleep in their favor. ye bet! if ye'er suffrage club was composed iv a hundhred thousand sturdy ladies it wudden't be long befure bill o'brien wud be sindin' ye a box iv chocolate creams f'r ye'er vote.' "'some day ye may get a vote, but befure ye do i'll r-read this in th' pa-apers: a hundhred thousand armed an' detarmined women invaded th' capital city to-day demandin' th' right to vote. they chased th' polis acrost th' pottymac, mobbed a newspaper that was agin th' bill, an' tarred an' feathered sinitor glue, th' leader iv th' opposition. at o'clock a rumor spread that th' prisident wud veto th' bill, an' instantly a huge crowd iv excited females gathered in front of the white house, hurlin' rocks an' cryin' 'lynch him!' th' tumult was on'y quelled whin th' prisident's wife appeared on th' balcony an' made a brief speech. she said she was a mimber iv th' local suffrage club, an' she felt safe in assuring her sisters that th' bill wud be signed. if nicissry, she wud sign it hersilf. (cheers.) th' prisident was a little onruly, but he was frequently that way. th' marrid ladies in th' aujeence wud undherstand. he meant nawthin'. it was on'y wan iv his tantrums. a little moral suasion wud bring him ar-round all right. at prisint th' chief magistrate was in th' kitchen with his daughter settin' on his head. "'th' speech was received with loud cheers, an' th' mob proceeded down pinnslyvanya avnoo. be noon all enthrances to th' capital were jammed. congressmen attimptin' to enter were seized be th' hair iv th' head an' made to sign a pa-aper promisin' to vote right. immejately afther th' prayer th' hon'rable clarence gumdhrop iv matsachoosetts offered th' suffrage bill f'r passage. 'th' motion is out iv ordher,' began th' speaker. at this minyit a lady standin' behind th' chair dhrove a darning needle through his coat tails. 'but,' continued th' speaker, reachin' behind him with an agnized ex'pression, 'i will let it go annyhow.' 'mr. speaker, i protest,' began th' hon'rable attila sthrong, 'i protest--' at this a perfeck tornado iv rage broke out in th' gall'ries. inkwells, bricks, combs, shoes, smellin' bottles, hand mirrors, fans, an' powdher puffs were hurled at th' onforchnit mimber. in the midst iv th' confusion th' wife iv congressman sthrong cud be seen wavin' a par'sol over her head an' callin' out: 'i dare ye to come home to-night, polthroon.' "'whin th' noise partially subsided, th' bold congressman, his face livid with emotion, was heard to remark with a sob: 'i was on'y about to say i second th' motion, deary.' th' bill was carried without a dissintin' voice, an' rushed over to th' sinit. there it was opposed be jeff davis but afther a brief dialogue with th' leader iv th' suffrageites, he swooned away. th' sinit fin'lly insthructed th' clerk to cast th' unanimous vote f'r th' measure. to-night in th' prisince iv a vast multichood th' prisident was led out be his wife. he was supported, or rather pushed, be two iv his burly daughters. he seemed much confused, an' his wife had to point out th' place where he was to sign. with tremblin' fingers he affixed his signature an' was led back. "'the night passed quietly. th' sthreets were crowded all avenin' with good-natured throngs iv ladies, an' in front iv th' dry goods stores, which were illuminated f'r th' occasion, it was almost impossible to get through. iv coorse there were th' usual riochous scenes in th' dhrug stores, where th' bibulous gathered at th' sody-wather counthers an' cillybrated th' victory in lemon, vanilla, an' choc'late, some iv thim keepin' it up till o'clock, or aven later.' 'whin that comes about, me child,' says i, 'ye may sheathe ye'er hat pins in ye'er millinary, f'r ye'll have as much right to vote as th' most ignorant man in th' ward. but don't ask f'r rights. take thim. an' don't let anny wan give thim to ye. a right that is handed to ye f'r nawthin' has somethin' th' matther with it. it's more than likely it's on'y a wrong turned inside out,' says i. 'i didn't fight f'r th' rights i'm told i injye, though to tell ye th' truth i injye me wrongs more; but some wan did. some time some fellow was prepared to lay down his life, or betther still, th' other fellows', f'r th' right to vote.'" "i believe ye're in favor iv it ye'ersilf," said mr. hennessy. "faith," said mr. dooley, "i'm not wan way or th' other. i don't care. what diff'rence does it make? i wudden't mind at all havin' a little soap an' wather, a broom an' a dusther applied to pollyticks. it wudden't do anny gr-reat harm if a man cudden't be illicted to office onless he kept his hair combed an' blacked his boots an' shaved his chin wanst a month. annyhow, as hogan says, i care not who casts th' votes iv me counthry so long as we can hold th' offices. an' there's on'y wan way to keep the women out iv office, an' that's to give thim a vote." the bachelor tax "this here pa-aper says," said mr. hennessy, "that they're goin' to put a tax on bachelors. that's r-right. why shudden't there be a tax on bachelors? there's one on dogs." "that's r-right," said mr. dooley. "an' they're goin' to make it five dollars a year. th' dogs pay only two. it's quite a concession to us. they consider us more thin twice as vallyable, or annyhow more thin twice as dangerous as dogs. i suppose ye expect next year to see me throttin' around with a leather collar an' a brass tag on me neck. if me tax isn't paid th' bachelor wagon'll come over an' th' bachelor catcher'll lassoo me an' take me to th' pound an' i'll be kept there three days an' thin, if still unclaimed, i'll be dhrowned onless th' pound keeper takes a fancy to me. ye'll niver see it, me boy. no, sir. us bachelors ar-re a sthrong body iv men polytickally, as well as handsome and brave. if ye thry to tax us we'll fight ye to th' end. if worst comes to worst we won't pay th' tax. don't ye think f'r a minyit that light-footed heroes that have been eludin' onprincipled females all their lives won't be able to dodge a little thing like a five-dollar tax. there's no clumsy collector in th' wurruld that cud catch up with a man iv me age who has avoided the machinations iv th' fair f'r forty years an' remains unmarrid. "an' why shud we be taxed? we're th' mainstay iv th' constitution an' about all that remains iv liberty. if ye think th' highest jooty iv citizenship is to raise a fam'ly why don't ye give a vote to th' shad? who puts out ye'er fire f'r ye, who supports th' naytional governmint be payin' most iv th' intarnal rivnoo jooties, who maintains th' schools ye sind ye'er ignorant little childher to, be payin' th' saloon licenses, who does th' fightin' f'r ye in th' wars but th' bachelors? th' marrid men start all th' wars with loose talk whin they're on a spree. but whin war is declared they begin to think what a tur-rble thing 'twud be if they niver come home to their fireside an' their wife got marrid again an' all their grandchildher an' their great-grandchildher an' their widow an' th' man that marrid her an' his divoorced wife an' their rilitives, descindants, friends, an' acquaintances wud have to live on afther father was dead and gone with a large piece iv broken iron in his stomach or back, as th' case might be, but a pension come fr'm th' governmint. so, th' day war is declared ye come over here an' stick a sthrange-lookin' weepin in me hand an' i close down me shop an' go out somewhere i niver was befure an' maybe lose me leg defindin' th' hearths iv me counthry, me that niver had a hearth iv me own to warm me toes by but th' oil stove in me bedroom. an' that's th' kind iv men ye'd be wantin' to tax like a pushcart or a cow. onscrupulous villain! "whin ye tax th' bachelors ye tax valor. whin ye tax th' bachelors ye tax beauty. ye've got to admit that we're a much finer lookin' lot iv fellows thin th' marrid men. that's why we're bachelors. 'tis with us as with th' ladies. a lady with an erratic face is sure to be marrid befure a dhream iv beauty. she starts to wurruk right away an' what hogan calls th' doctrine iv av'rages is always with thim that starts early an' makes manny plays. but th' dhream iv beauty figures out that she can wait an' take her pick an' 'tis not ontil she is bumpin' thirty that she wakes up with a scream to th' peril iv her position an' runs out an' pulls a man down fr'm th' top iv a bus. manny a plain but determined young woman have i seen happily marrid an' doin' th' cookin' f'r a large fam'ly whin her frind who'd had her pitcher in th' contest f'r th' most beautiful woman in brighton park was settin' behind th' blinds waitin' f'r some wan to take her buggy ridin'. "so it is with us. a man with a face that looks as if some wan had thrown it at him in anger nearly always marries befure he is old enough to vote. he feels he has to an' he cultivates what hogan calls th' graces. how often do ye hear about a fellow that he is very plain but has a beautiful nature. ye bet he has. if he hadn't an' didn't always keep it in th' show-case where all th' wurruld cud see he'd be lynched be th' society f'r municipal improvement. but 'tis diff'rent with us comely bachelors. bein' very beautiful, we can afford to be haughty an' peevish. it makes us more inthrestin'. we kind iv look thim over with a gentle but supeeryor eye an' say to oursilves: 'now, there's a nice, pretty atthractive girl. i hope she'll marry well.' by an' by whin th' roses fade fr'm our cheeks an' our eye is dimmed with age we bow to th' inivitable, run down th' flag iv defiance, an' ar-re yanked into th' multichood iv happy an' speechless marrid men that look like flashlight pitchers. th' best-lookin' iv us niver get marrid at all. "yes, sir, there's no doubt we do a good deal to beautify th' landscape. whose pitchers ar-re those ye see in th' advertisemints iv th' tailorman? there's not a marrid man among thim. they're all bachelors. what does th' gents' furnishing man hang his finest neckties in th' front window f'r but to glisten with a livelier iris, as hogan says, th' burnished bachelor? see th' lordly bachelor comin' down th' sthreet, with his shiny plug hat an' his white vest, th' dimon stud that he wint in debt f'r glistenin' in his shirt front, an' th' patent-leather shoes on his feet out-shinin' th' noonday sun. "thin we see th' marrid man with th' wrinkles in his coat an' his tie undher his ear an' his chin unshaven. he's walkin' in his gaiters in a way that shows his socks ar-re mostly darned. i niver wore a pair iv darned socks since i was a boy. whin i make holes in me hosiery i throw thim away. 'tis a fine idee iv th' ladies that men are onhappy because they have no wan to darn their socks an' put buttons on their shirts. th' truth is that a man is not onhappy because his socks ar-re not darned but because they ar-re. an' as f'r buttons on his shirt, whin th' buttons comes off a bachelor's shirt he fires it out iv th' window. his rule about clothes is thurly scientific. th' survival iv th' fit, d'ye mind. th' others to th' discard. no marrid man dares to wear th' plumage iv a bachelor. if he did his wife wud suspict him. he lets her buy his cravats an' his seegars an' 'tis little diff'rence it makes to him which he smokes. "'twud be villanous to tax th' bachelors. think iv th' moral side iv it. what's that? ye needn't grin. i said moral. yes, sir. we're th' most onselfish people in th' wurruld. all th' throubles iv th' neighborhood ar-re my throubles an' my throubles ar-re me own. if ye shed a tear f'r anny person but wan ye lose ye'er latch-key, but havin' no wan in partiklar to sympathize with i'm supposed to sympathize with ivry wan. on th' conthry if ye have anny griefs ye can't bear ye dump thim on th' overburdened shoulders iv ye'er wife. but if i have anny griefs i must bear thim alone. if a bachelor complains iv his throubles people say: 'oh, he's a gay dog. sarves him right.' an' if he goes on complainin' he's liable to be in gr-reat peril. i wudden't dare to tell me woes to ye'er wife. if i did she'd have a good cry, because she injyes cryin', an' thin she'd put on her bonnet an' r-run over an' sick th' widow o'brien on me. "whin a lady begins to wondher if i'm not onhappy in me squalid home without th' touch iv a woman's hand ayether in th' tidy on th' chair or in th' inside pocket iv th' coat, i say: 'no, ma'am, i live in gr-reat luxury surrounded be all that money can buy an' manny things that it can't or won't. there ar-re turkish rugs on th' flure an' chandyleers hang fr'm th' ceilins. there i set at night dhrinkin' absinthe, sherry wine, port wine, champagne, beer, whisky, rum, claret, kimmel, weiss beer, cream de mint, curaso, an' binidictine, occas'nally takin' a dhraw at an opeem pipe an' r-readin' a fr-rinch novel. th' touch iv a woman's hand wudden't help this here abode iv luxury. wanst, whin i was away, th' beautiful swede slave that scrubs out me place iv business broke into th' palachal boodoor an' in thryin' to set straight th' ile paintin' iv th' chicago fire burnin' ilivator b, broke a piece off a frame that cost me two dollars iv good money.' if they knew that th' on'y furniture in me room was a cane-bottomed chair an' a thrunk an' that there was nawthin' on th' flure but oilcloth an' me clothes, an' that 'tis so long since me bed was made up that it's now a life-size plaster cast iv me, i'd be dhragged to th' altar at th' end iv a chain. "speakin' as wan iv th' few survivin' bachelors, an old vethran that's escaped manny a peril an' got out iv manny a difficult position with honor, i wish to say that fair woman is niver so dangerous as whin she's sorry f'r ye. whin th' wurruds 'poor man' rises to her lips an' th' nurse light comes into her eyes, i know 'tis time f'r me to take me hat an' go. an' if th' hat's not handy i go without it. "i bet ye th' idee iv taxin' bachelors started with th' dear ladies. but i say to thim: 'ladies, is not this a petty revenge on ye'er best frinds? look on ye'er own husbands an' think what us bachelors have saved manny iv ye'er sisters fr'm. besides aren't we th' hope iv th' future iv th' instichoochion iv mathrimony? if th' onmarrid ladies ar-re to marry at all, 'tis us, th' bold bachelors, they must look forward to. we're not bachelors fr'm choice. we're bachelors because we can't make a choice. ye all look so lovely to us that we hate to bring th' tears into th' eyes iv others iv ye be marryin' some iv ye. considher our onforchnit position an' be kind. don't oppress us. we were not meant f'r slaves. don't thry to coerce us. continue to lay f'r us an' hope on. if ye tax us there's hardly an old bachelor in th' land that won't fling his five dollars acrost th' counter at th' tax office an' say: 'hang th' expense.'" the rising of the subject races "ye'er frind simpson was in here awhile ago," said mr. dooley, "an' he was that mad." "what ailed him?" asked mr. hennessy. "well," said mr. dooley, "it seems he wint into me frind hip lung's laundhry to get his shirt an' it wasn't ready. followin' what hogan calls immemoryal usage, he called hip lung such names as he cud remimber and thried to dhrag him around th' place be his shinin' braid. but instead iv askin' f'r mercy, as he ought to, hip lung swung a flat-iron on him an' thin ironed out his spine as he galloped up th' stairs. he come to me f'r advice an' i advised him to see th' american consul. who's th' american consul in chicago now? i don't know. but hogan, who was here at th' time, grabs him be th' hand an' says he: 'i congratulate ye, me boy,' he says. 'ye have a chance to be wan iv th' first martyrs iv th' white race in th' gr-reat sthruggle that's comin' between thim an' th' smoked or tinted races iv th' wurruld,' he says. 'ye'll be another jawn brown's body or mrs. o'leary's cow. go back an' let th' chink kill ye an' cinchries hence people will come with wreathes and ate hard-biled eggs on ye'er grave,' he says. "but simpson said he did not care to be a martyr. he said he was a retail grocer be pro-fissyon an' hip lung was a customer iv his, though he got most iv his vittles fr'm th' taxydermist up th' sthreet an' he thought he'd go around to-morrah an' concilyate him. so he wint away. "hogan, d'ye mind, has a theery that it's all been up with us blondes since th' jap'nese war. hogan is a prophet. he's wan iv th' gr-reatest prophets i know. a prophet, hinnissy, is a man that foresees throuble. no wan wud listen a minyit to anny prophet that prophesized pleasant days. a successful weather prophet is wan that predicts thunder storms, hurrycanes an' earthquakes; a good financial prophet is wan that predicts panics; a pollytickal prophet must look into th' tea leaves an' see th' institutions iv th' wurruld cracked wide open an' th' smiling not to say grinnin', fields iv this counthry iv ours,' or somebody's laid waste with fire and soord. hogan's that kind iv a prophet. i'm onhappy about to-day but cheerful about to-morrah. hogan is th' happyest man in th' wurruld about to-day but to-morrah something is goin' to happen. i hate to-day because to-morrah looks so good. he's happy to-day because it is so pleasant compared with what to-morrah is goin' to be. says i: 'cheer up; well have a good time at th' picnic next saturdah.' says he: 'it will rain at th' picnic.' "he's a rale prophet. i wudden't pick him out as a well-finder. he cudden't find a goold mine f'r ye but he cud see th' bottom iv wan through three thousand feet iv bullyon. he can peer into th' most blindin' sunshine an' see th' darkness lurkin' behind it. he's predicted ivry war that has happened in our time and eight thousand that haven't happened to happen. if he had his way th' united states navy wud be so big that there wudden't be room f'r a young fellow to row his girl in union park. he can see a war cloud where i can't see annything but somebody cookin' his dinner or lightin' his pipe. he'd made th' gr-reat foreign iditor an' he'd be fine f'r th' job f'r he's best late at night. "hogan says th' time has come f'r th' subjick races iv th' wurruld to rejooce us fair wans to their own complexion be batin' us black and blue. up to now 'twas: 'sam, ye black rascal, tow in thim eggs or i'll throw ye in th' fire. 'yassir,' says sam. 'comin',' he says. 'twas: 'wow chow, while ye'er idly stewin' me cuffs i'll set fire to me unpaid bills.' i wud feel repaid be a kick,' says wow chow. 'twas: 'maharajah sewar, swing th' fan swifter or i'll have to roll over f'r me dog whip.' 'higgins sahib,' says maharajah sewar, 'higgins sahib, beloved iv gawd an' kipling, ye'er punishments ar-re th' nourishment iv th' faithful. my blood hath served thine f'r manny ginerations. at laste two. 'twas thine old man that blacked my father's eye an' sint my uncle up f'r eighty days. how will ye'er honor have th' accursed swine's flesh cooked f'r breakfast in th' mornin' when i'm through fannin' ye?' "but now, says hogan, it's all changed. iver since th' rooshyans were starved out at port arthur and portsmouth, th' wurrad has passed around an' ivry naygur fr'm lemon color to coal is bracin' up. he says they have aven a system of tilly-graftin' that bates ours be miles. they have no wires or poles or wathered stock but th' population is so thick that whin they want to sind wurrud along th' line all they have to do is f'r wan man to nudge another an' something happens in northern chiny is known in southern indya befure sunset. and so it passed through th' undherwurruld that th' color line was not to be dhrawn anny more, an' hogan says that almost anny time he ixpicts to see a black face peerin' through a window an' in a few years i'll be takin' in laundhry in a basement instead iv occypyin' me present impeeryal position, an' ye'll be settin' in front iv ye'er cabin home playin' on a banjo an' watchin' ye'er little pickahinnissies rollickin' on th' ground an' wondhrn' whin th' lynchin' party'll arrive. "that's what hogan says. i niver knew th' subjick races had so much in thim befure. a few years ago i had no more thought iv japan thin i have iv dorgan's cow. i admire dorgan's cow. it's a pretty cow. i have often leaned on th' fence an' watched dorgan milkin' his cow. sometimes i wondhered in a kind iv smoky way why as good an' large a cow as that shud let a little man like dorgan milk her. but if dorgan's cow shud stand up on her hind legs, kick over the bucket, chase dorgan out iv th' lot, put on a khaki unyform, grab hold of a mauser rifle an' begin shootin' at me, i wudden't be more surprised thin i am at th' idee iv japan bein' wan iv th' nations iv th' wurruld. i don't see what th' subjick races got to kick about, hinnissy. we've been awfully good to thim. we sint thim missionaries to teach thim th' error iv their relligyon an' nawthin' cud be kinder thin that f'r there's nawthin' people like betther thin to be told that their parents are not be anny means where they thought they were but in a far more crowded an' excitin' locality. an' with th' missionaries we sint sharpshooters that cud pick off a chinyman beatin' th' conthribution box at five hundherd yards. we put up palashal goluf-coorses in the cimitries an' what was wanst th' tomb iv hung chang, th' gr-reat tartar impror, rose to th' dignity iv bein' th' bunker guardin' th' fifth green. no chinyman cud fail to be pleased at seein' a tall englishman hittin' th' chinyman's grandfather's coffin with a niblick. we sint explorers up th' nile who raypoorted that th' ganzain flows into th' oboo just above lake mazap, a fact that th' naygurs had known f'r a long time. th' explorer announces that he has changed th' names iv these wather-coorses to smith, blifkins an' winkinson. he wishes to deny th' infamyous story that he iver ate a native alive. but wan soon succumbs to th' customs iv a counthry an' sir alfred is no viggytaryan. "an' now, be hivin, all these here wretched millyons that we've done so much f'r ar-re turnin' on us. th' japs threaten us with war. th' chinese won't buy shoes fr'm us an' ar-re chasin' th' missionaries out iv their cozy villas an' not even givin' thim a chance to carry away their piannies or their silverware. there's th' divvle to pay all along th' levee fr'm manchurya to madagascar, accordin' to hogan. i begin to feel onaisy. th' first thing we know all th' other subjick races will be up. th' horses will kick an' bite, the dogs will fly at our throats whin we lick thim, th' fishes will refuse to be caught, th' cattle an' pigs will set fire to th' stock yards an' there'll be a gineral rebellyon against th' white man. "it's no laughin' matther, i tell ye. a subjick race is on'y funny whin it's raaly subjick. about three years ago i stopped laughin' at jap'nese jokes. ye have to feel supeeryor to laugh an' i'm gettin' over that feelin'. an' nawthin' makes a man so mad an' so scared as whin something he looked down on as infeeryor tur-rns on him. if a fellow man hits him he hits him back. but if a dog bites him he yells 'mad dog' an' him an' th' neighbors pound th' dog to pieces with clubs. if th' naygurs down south iver got together an' flew at their masters ye'd hear no more coon songs f'r awhile. it's our conceit makes us supeeryor. take it out iv us an' we ar-re about th' same as th' rest." "i wondher what we'd do if all thim infeeryor races shud come at us together?" said mr. hennessy. "they're enough iv thim to swamp us." "well," said mr. dooley, "i'd have to go on bein' white or, to speak more acc'rately, pink. an' annyhow i guess they've been infeeryor too long to change. it's got to be a habit with thim." panics "have ye taken ye'er money out iv th' bank? are ye wan iv thim impechuse prooletaryans that has been attackin' th' gibyraltars iv fi-nance, cow'rd that ye are to want ye'er money in a hurry, or are ye not? i see be th' look iv ye'er face that ye are not. ye have been a brave man; ye have had faith in th' future iv our counthry; ye have perceived that our financial institutions are sound if they are nawthin' else. ye undherstand that it's upon th' self-resthraint iv men like th' likes iv ye that th' whole credit iv th' nation depinds. i read it in the pa-apers an' 'tis thrue. besides, ye have no money in th' bank. th' on'y way ye or me cud rightly exthricate anny money fr'm a bank wud be be means iv a brace an' bit. "no matther. 'tis you that has done it. i give great credit to george b. cortilyoo, j. pierpont morgan, lord rothschild, jawn d. rockyfellar, th' banks iv ameriky, th' clearing house comity, th' clearing out comity, an' all th' brave an' gallant fellows that have stood firmly with their backs to th' wall an' declared that anny money taken out iv their institutions wud be taken over their dead bodies. they have behaved as american gintlemen shud behave whin foorce iv circumstances compels thim to behave that way. but if, in this tur-rible imergency i am obliged to tell th' truth, i've got to confess to ye that th' thanks iv th' nation, a little bit late, but very corjal, are due to th' boys that niver had a cent in th' banks, an' niver will have. they have disturbed none iv our institutions. no great leader iv fi-nance has turned green to see wan iv thim thryin' to do th' leap f'r life through a closed payin' teller's window. th' fellow that with wan whack iv a hammer can convart a steer into an autymobill or can mannyfacther a pearl necklace out iv two dollars' worth iv wurruk on a slag pile, has throubled no wan. ye're th' boy in this imergency, hinnissy. th' other mornin' i was readin' th' pa-apers about th' panic in wall sthreet an' though i've niver seen annything all me life but wan continyal panic i felt low in me mind ontil i looked up an' see ye go by with ye'er shovel on ye'er shouldher an' me heart leaped up. i wanted to rush to th' tillygraft office and wire me frind j. pierpont morgan: 'don't be downcast. it's all right. i just see hinnissy go by with his shovel.' "no, sir, ye can bet it ain't th' people that have no money that causes panics. panics are th' result iv too manny people havin' money. th' top iv good times is hard times and th' bottom iv hard times is good times. whin i see wan man with a shovel on his shouldher dodgin' eight thousand autymobills i begin to think 'tis time to put me money in me boot." "'tis hard f'r me to undherstand what's goin' on," said mr. hennessy. "what does it all mean?" "'tis something ye wudden't be ixpected to know, said mr. dooley. 'tis what is known as credit. i'll explain it to ye. f'r the sake iv argymint well say ye're a shoemaker. oh, 'tis on'y f'r th' sake iv argymint. iverywan knows that a burly fellow like you wudden't be at anny employmint as light an' effiminate as makin' shoes. but supposin' fr th' sake iv argymint ye're a shoemaker. ye get two dollars a day f'r makin' forty dollars' worth iv shoes. ye take part of ye'er ill-gotten gains an' leave it with me f'r dhrink. afther awhile, i take th' money over to th' shoe store an' buy wan iv th' pairs iv shoes ye made. th' fellow at th' shoe store puts th' money in a bank owned be ye'er boss. ye'er boss sees ye're dhrinkin' a good deal an' be th' look iv things th' distillery business ought to improve. so he lends th' money to a distiller. wan day th' banker obsarves that ye've taken th' pledge, an' havin' fears f'r th' distilling business, he gets his money back. i owe th' distiller money an' he comes to me. i have paid out me money f'r th' shoes an' th' shoe-store man has put it in th' bank. he goes over to th' bank to get it out an' has his fingers cut off in a window. an' there ye are. that's credit. "i niver knew befure how little it depinded on. there's grogan th' banker. he's a great man. look at his bank. it looks as though an earthquake wudden't flutter it. it's a cross between an armory an' a jail. it frowns down upon th' sthreet. an' grogan. he looks as solid as though th' columns iv th' building was quarried out iv him. see him with his goold watch chain clankin' again th' pearl buttons iv his vest. he niver give me much more thin a nod out iv th' north-east corner iv his left eyebrow, but he was always very kind an' polite to mulligan, th' little tailor. except that i thought he had a feelin' iv respect f'r me an' none at all f'r mulligan. th' other mornin' i see him standin' on a corner near th' bank as mulligan dashed by with a copy iv his fav'rite journal in wan hand an' a pass book in th' other. 'that man is a coward,' says mulligan. 'tis th' likes iv him that desthroys public confidence,' says he. 'he must've been brave at wan peeryod iv his life,' says i. 'whin was that?' says he. 'whin he put th' money in,' says i. 'it's th' likes iv him that makes panics,' says he. 'it's th' likes iv both iv ye,' says i. 'i niver see such team wurruk,' says i. 'that bank is a perfectly solvint institution,' says he. 'it's as sthrong as th' rock of gibyraltar. i'm goin' over now to close it up,' says he. an' he wint. "well, glory be, 'tis no use botherin' our heads about it. panics an' circuses, as father kelly says, are f'r th' amusement iv th' poor. an' a time iv this kind is fine f'r ivrybody who hasn't too much. a little while ago ye niver r-read in th' pa-aper annything about th' fellow that had his money in th' bank anny more thin ye'd read about th' spectators at a prize fight. 'twas all what th' joynts iv fi-nance were doin'. 'who's that man with th' plug hat just comin' out iv th' gamblin' joint?' 'that's th' prisidint iv th' eighth rational.' 'an' who's that shakin' dice at th' bar?' 'that's th' head iv our greatest thrust comp'ny.' an' so it wint. to-day i read in th' pa-apers an appeal to th' good sense iv mulligan, th' tailor. it didn't mintion his name, but it might just as well. 'twas th' same as sayin': 'now, look here, mulligan, me brave fellow. 'tis up to you to settle this whole matther. it's got beyond us and we rely on ye not to dump us. we lost our heads but a man iv ye'er carackter can't afford to do annything rash or on-thinkin' like a lot iv excitable fi-nanceers. ye must get undher th' situation at wanst. we appeal to th' good common sense th' pathritism, th' honor, th' manly courage an' th' ca-mness in th' face iv great danger iv timothy mulligan to pull us out iv th' hole. regards to mrs. mulligan an' all th' little wans. don't answer in person (signed) jawn d. rockyfellar.' "an' iv coorse mulligan'll do it. mulligan caused th' throuble be havin' money in th' first place an' takin' it out in th' second place. mulligan will settle it all be carryin' his money back to th' bank where money belongs. don't get excited about it, hinnissy, me boy. cheer up. 'twill be all right tomorrah, or th' next day, or some time. 'tis wan good thing about this here wurruld, that nawthin' lasts long enough to hurt. i have been through manny a panic. i cud handle wan as well as morgan. panics cause thimsilves an' take care iv thimsilves. who do i blame for this wan? grogan blamed rosenfelt yesterday; to-day he blames mulligan; to-morrah he won't blame anny wan an' thin th' panic will be over. i blame no wan, an' i blame ivry wan. all i say to ye is, be brave, be ca'm an' go on shovellin'. so long as there's a hinnissy in th' wurruld, an' he has a shovel, an' there's something f'r him to shovel, we'll be all right, or pretty near all right. "don't ye think rosenfelt has shaken public confidence?" asked mr. hennessy. "shaken it," said mr. dooley; "i think he give it a good kick just as it jumped off th' roof." ocean travel "i see this here new steamboat has broke all records. it come acrost th' atlantic ocean in four days. passengers that got aboord at liverpool on saturday were in new york friday afthernoon." "but that's more thin four days." "not be nautical time, said mr. dooley. ye mustn't figure it out th' way ye do on land. on land ye niver read that 'th' thunderbolt limited has broken all records be thravellin' fr'm new york (harrisburg) to chicago (fort wayne) in eight hours.' but with a steamboat 'tis different. ye saw a lot iv time off ayether end an' what's left is th' v'yage. 'th' conyard line's gr-reat ocean greyhound or levithin iv th' seas has broken all records iv transatlantic passages except thim made be th' germans. she has thravelled fr'm liverpool (a rock so far off th' coast iv ireland that i niver see it) to new york (sandy hook lightship) in four or five days. brittanya again rules th' waves.' so if ye've anny frinds inclined to boast about makin' a record ask thim did they swim aboord at daunt's rock an' swim off at th' lightship. if they didn't, refuse to take off ye'er hat to thim. to tell how long it takes to cross th' atlantic compute th' elapsed time fr'm boordin' house to boordin' house. it's fr'm a week to ten days depindin on th' time ye go to bed whin ye come home. manny a man that come over on a five-day boat has had th' divvle iv a time explainin' to his wife what he did with th' other two days. no record iv thransatlantic thravel takes into account th' longest, roughest an' most dangerous part iv th' passage, which is through th' new york custom house. "but 'tis wondherful annyhow. 'tis wondherful that a man shud cross th' atlantic ocean annyhow an' 'tis enough to make ye dizzy to think iv him crossin' it in an iron boat that looks like a row iv office buildings. th' grand times they must've had. time was whin a man got on a boat an' was lost f'r a week or ten days. now, be hivens, through th' wondhers iv modhern science he's hardly settled down to a cigar an' a game iv pinochle with another fugitive that he's just met, whin a messenger boy comes down th' deck on his bicycle an' hands him a tillygram with glad tidings fr'm home. th' house is burned, th' sheriff has levied on his furniture or th' fam'ly are down with th' whoopin' cough. on th' other hand we know all about what they are doin' on boord th' levithin. just as ye'er wife is thinkin' iv ye bein' wrecked on a desert island or floatin' on a raft an' signallin' with an undershirt she picks up th' pa-aper an' reads: 'th' life iv th' ship is malachi hinnissy, a wealthy bachelor fr'm pittsburg. his attintions to a widow from omaha are most marked. they make a handsome couple.' "well, sir, they must 've had th' gloryus time on boord this new boat. in th' old days all ye knew about a ship was that she left liverpool and landed in new york afther a most disthressin' v'yage. now ye r-read iv th' gay life aboord her fr'm day to day: 'th' tie in th' billyard tournymint was played off last night. th' resthrants are crowded nightly an' great throngs are seen in main sthreet undher th' brilliant illuminations. th' public gardens are in full bloom an' are much frequented be childher rollin' hoops and sailin' boats in th' artificial lake. th' autymobill speedway gives gr-reat satisfaction. th' opening day iv th' steeplechase races was a success. th' ilivator in th' left annex fell thirteen stories thursday, but no wan was injured. th' brokerage house iv conem an' comp'ny wint into th' hands iv a receiver to-day. th' failure was due to th' refusal iv th' banks to lend anny more money on hat pools. th' steeple iv th' swedenborjan church is undher repair. th' _daily fog horn_ has put in three new color presses an' will begin printin' a colored supplement sunday next.' an' so it goes. it ain't a boat at all. it's a city. "at laste i thought it was but hannigan that come over in it says it's a boat. 'ye must've had a grand time,' says i, 'in this floatin' palace, atin' ye'er fill iv sumchuse food an' gazin' at th' beautifully jooled ladies,' says i. 'ah,' says i, 'th' wondhers iv science that cud put together a conthrivance th' like iv that,' says i. 'it's a boat,' says he. 'that's th' best i can say about it,' says he. 'did ye not glide noiselessly through th' wather?' says i? 'i did not,' says he. 'divvle th' glide. we bumped along pretty fast an' th' injines made noises like injines an' th' ship creaked like anny ship.' 'an' wasn't th' food fine?' 'it depinded on th' weather. there was plenty iv it on good days, an' too much iv it on other days.' 'an' th' beautifully jooled ladies?' 'no wan knew whether th' ladies were beautifully jooled except th' lady that searched thim at th' custom house. "'don't ye make a mistake, dooley,' says he. 'a boat's a boat. that's all it is. annything ye can get at sea ye can get betther on land. a millyonaire is made as comfortable on an ocean liner as a longshoreman on earth an' ye can play that comparison all th' way down to th' steerage. whin i read about this here floatin' palace i says to mesilf: i'll add a little money and go acrost in oryental luxury. whin i got aboord th' decks were crowded with happy people worryin' about their baggage an' wondherin' already whether th' inspector in new york wud get onto th' false bottom iv th' thrunks. i give th' old an' enfeebled english gintleman that carried me satchel a piece iv silver. he touched his cap to me an' says cue. cue is th' english f'r i thank ye kindly in irish. he carrid me bag downstairs in th' ship. we kept goin' down an' down till we touched bottom, thin we rambled through long lanes neatly decorated with steel girders till we come to a dent in th' keel. that was me boodoor. at laste part iv it was. there were two handsome berths in it an' i had th' top wan. th' lower wan was already occypied be a gintleman that had started to feel onaisy on th' way down f'm london an' was now prepared f'r th' worst. i left him to his grief an' wint up on th' roof iv th' ship. "'it was a gay scene f'r th' boat had started. long rows iv ladies were stretched on invalid chairs with shawls over thim, pretindin' to read an' takin' deep smells at little green bottles. three or four hundherd men had begun to walk around th' ship with their hands folded behind thim. a poker game between four rale poker players an' a man that didn't know th' game but had sharp finger-nails was already started in th' smokin'-room. about that time i begun to have a quare sinsation. i haven't been able to find out yet what it was. i must ask dock o'leary. i wasn't sea-sick, mind ye. i'm a good sailor. but i had a funny feelin' in me forehead between me eyes. it wasn't a headache exactly but a kind iv a sthrange sinsation like i used to have whin i was a boy an' thried to look cross-eyed. i suppose it was th' strong light. i didn't have anny aversion to food. not at all. but somehow i didn't like th' smell iv food. it was disagreeable to me an' it seemed to make th' place in me head worse. sivral times i wint to th' dinin'-room intindin' to jine th' jovyal comp'ny there but quit at th' dure. it was very sthrange. i don't know how to account f'r it. very few people were sea-sick on th' v'yage, but sivral hundherd who were injyin' paddlin' a spoon in a cup iv beef tea on deck spoke iv havin' th' same sinsation. i didn't speak iv it to th' ship's doctor. i'd as lave carry me ailments to a harness maker as to a ship's doctor. but there it was, an' fr'm me pint iv view it was th' most important ivint iv th' passage. "next to that th' most excitin' thing was thryin' to find annybody that wud take money fr'm me. it's a tur-rble awkward thing to have to force money on an englishman in a uniform like an admiral's an' talkin' with an accent that manny iv th' finest people on th' deck were thryin' to imitate, but i schooled mesilf to it. an' sthrange to say they niver refused. they were even betther thin that. i was lavin' th' ship whin th' fellow that pulled th' plug out iv th' other man's bath f'r me touched me on th' shoulder. i turned an' see a frindly gleam in his eye that made me wondher if he had a knife. i give him what they call five bobs over there, which is wan dollar an' twinty cints iv our money. he touched his cap an' says cue. i was greatly moved. but it's done wan thing f'r me. it's made me competint f'r anny office connected with th' legal departmint iv a sthreet railway. be hivens, i cud hand a piece iv change to a judge iv th' supreem coort. i hear th' conyard line has passed a dividend. they ought to make a merger with th' head stoort,' says he. "an' there ye ar-re. a boat's a boat aven whin it looks like a hotel. but it's wondherful annyhow. whin ye come to think iv it 'tis wondherful that anny man cud cross th' atlantic in annything. th' atlantic ocean is a fine body iv wather, but it's a body iv wather just th' same. it wasn't intinded to be thravelled on. ye cud put ye'er foot through it annywhere. it's sloppy goin' at best. th' on'y time a human being can float in it is afther he's dead. a man throws a horseshoe into it an' th' horseshoe sinks. this makes him cross an' he builds a boat iv th' same mateeryal as a millyon horseshoes, loads it up with machinery, pushes it out on th' billows an' goes larkin' acrost thim as aisy as ye plaze. if he didn't go over on a large steel skyscraper he'd take a dure off its hinges an' go on that. "all ye have to do is to tell him there's land on th' other side iv th' ragin' flood an' he'll say: 'all right, i'll take a look at it.' ye talk about th' majesty iv th' ocean but what about th' majesty iv this here little sixty-eight be eighteen inches bump iv self-reliance that treats it like th' dirt undher his feet? it's a wondher to me that th' ocean don't get tired iv growlin' an' roarin' at th' race iv men. they don't pay anny heed to it's hollering. whin it behaves itsilf they praise it as though it was a good dog. 'how lovely our ocean looks undher our moon.' whin it rises in its wrath they show their contimpt f'r it be bein' sea-sick into it. but no matther how it behaves they niver quit usin' its face f'r a right iv way. they'll niver subjoo it but it niver bates thim. there niver was a time in th' history iv little man's sthruggle with th' vasty deep that he didn't deserve a decision on points." "well, it's all very well, but f'r me th' dhry land," said mr. hennessy. "will ye iver cross th' ocean again?" "not," said mr. dooley, "till they asphalt it an' run th' boats on throlleys." work "ye haven't sthruck yet, have ye?" said mr. dooley. "not yet," said mr. hennessy. "but th' dillygate was up at th' mills to-day an' we may be called out anny minyit now." "will ye go?" asked mr. dooley. "ye bet i will," said mr. hennessy. "ye just bet i will. i stand firm be union principles an' besides it's hot as blazes up there these days. i wudden't mind havin' a few weeks off." "ye'll do right to quit," said mr. dooley. "i have no sympathy with sthrikers. i have no sympathy with thim anny more thin i have with people goin' off to a picnic. a sthrike is a wurrukin' man's vacation. if i had to be wan iv thim horny-handed sons iv toil, th' men that have made our counthry what it is an' creates th' wealth iv th' wurruld--if i had to be wan iv thim pillars iv th' constitution, which thank gawd i haven't, 'tis sthrikin' i'd be all th' time durin' th' heated term. i'd begin sthrikin' whin th' flowers begin to bloom in th' parks, an' i'd stay on sthrike till 'twas too cold to sit out on th' bleachers at th' baseball park. ye bet i wud. "i've noticed that nearly all sthrikes occur in th' summer time. sthrikes come in th' summer time an' lockouts in th' winter. in th' summer whin th' soft breezes blows through shop an' facthry, fannin' th' cheeks iv th' artisan an' settin' fire to his whiskers, whin th' main guy is off at th' seashore bein' pinched f'r exceedin' th' speed limit, whin 'tis comfortable to sleep out at nights an' th' sox have started a batting sthreak, th' son iv marthy, as me frind roodyard kipling calls him, begins to think iv th' rights iv labor. "th' more he looks out iv th' window, th' more he thinks about his rights, an' wan warm day he heaves a couplin' pin at th' boss an' saunters away. sthrikes are a great evil f'r th' wurrukin' man, but so are picnics an' he acts th' same at both. there's th' same not gettin' up till ye want to, th' same meetin' ye'er frinds f'r th' first time in their good clothes an' th' same thumpin' sthrangers over th' head with a brick. afther awhile th' main guy comes home fr'm th' seaside, raises wages twinty per cent, fires th' boss an' takes in th' walkin' dillygate as a specyal partner. "but in winter, what hogan calls another flower iv our industhreel system blooms. in th' winter it's warmer in th' foundhry thin in th' home. there is no hearth as ample in anny man's home as th' hearth th' steel comp'ny does its cookin' by. it is pleasant to see th' citizen afther th' rigors iv a night at home hurryin' to th' mills to toast his numbed limbs in th' warm glow iv th' bessemer furnace. about this time th' main guy takes a look at the thermometer an' chases th' specyal partner out iv th' office with th' annual report iv th' civic featheration. he thin summons his hardy assocyates about him an' says he: 'boys, i will no longer stand f'r th' tyranny iv th' unions. conditions has changed since last summer. it's grown much colder. i do not care f'r the money at stake, but there is a great principle involved. i cannot consint to have me business run be outsiders at a cost iv near thirty thousand dollars a year,' says he. an' there's a lockout. "'tis a matther iv th' seasons. so if ye sthrike ye'll not get me sympathy. i resarve that f'r me infeeryors. i'll keep me sympathy f'r th' poor fellow that has nobody to lure him away fr'm his toil an' that has to sweat through august with no chanst iv gettin' a day in th' open onless th' milishy are ordhered out an' thin whin he goes back to wurruk th' chances are somebody's got his job while th' sthrikin' wurrukin' man returns with his pockets full iv cigars an' is hugged at th' dure be the main guy. if i was rejooced to wurrukin' f'r me livin', if i was a son iv marthy i'd be a bricklayer. they always sthrike durin' th' buildin' season. they time it just right. they niver quit wurruk. they thry not to meet it. it is what hogan calls a pecolyar fact that bricklayers always time their vacations f'r th' peeryod whin there is wurruk to be done. "no, sir, don't ask me to weep over th' downthrodden wurrukin' man whin he's out on sthrike. ye take these here tillygraft op'rators that have laid off wurruk f'r th' summer. do they look as though they were sufferin'? ye bet they don't. th' tired tillygraft op'rator come home last week with a smile on his face. 'i have good news f'r ye, mother,' says he. 'ye haven't sthruck?' says she, hope sthrugglin' with fear in her face. 'ye've guessed it,' says he. 'we weren't exactly ordhered out. th' signal f'r a sthrike was to be a series iv sharp whistles fr'm the walkin' dillygate, but, whin that didn't come an' we were tired iv waitin' th' report iv th' baseball game come over th' wires an' we mistook that f'r a signal. ye must get the childher ready f'r a day in th' counthry. we can't tell how soon this sthruggle again th' greed iv capital will be declared off an' we must make th' most iv it while it lasts,' says he. "i know a tillygraft op'rator, wan iv thim knights iv th' key that has a fine job in a counthry deepo. all he has to do is to be up in time to flag number eight at six o'clock an' wait till number thirty-two goes through at midnight, keep thrains fr'm bumpin' into each other, turn switches, put up th' simaphore, clean th' lamps an' hand out time tables an' sell tickets. f'r these dissypations he dhraws down all th' way fr'm fifteen to twinty dollars a week. an' he wants to sthrike. an' th' pa-apers say if he does he'll tie up our impeeryal railroad systems. think iv that. i never had much iv an opinyon iv him. all he iver done f'r me was to misspell me name. he's a little thin man that cudden't lift an eighth iv beer with both hands, but he's that important if he leaps his job we'll all have to walk. "i've often thought i'd like to have th' walkin' dillygate iv th' liquor dealers' binivolent assocyation come around an' ordher me to lay down me lemon squeezer an' bung starter an' walk out. but nawthin' iv th' kind iver happens an' if it did happen no wan wud care a sthraw. th' whole wurruld shuddhers at th' thought that me frind ike simpson, the tillygraft op'rator, may take a day off: but me or pierpont morgan might quit f'r a year an' no wan wud care. supposin' rockyfellar an' pierpont morgan an' jim hill shud form a union, an' shud demand a raise iv a millyon dollars a year, reduction iv wurrukin' time fr'm two to wan hour ivry week, th' closed shop, two apprentices f'r each bank an' no wan allowed to make money onless he cud show a union card? whin th' sthrike comity waited on us we'd hoist our feet on th' kitchen table, light a seegar, polish our bone collar button with th' sleeve iv our flannel shirt an' till thim to go to bannagher. "we'd say: 'ye'er demands are onraisonable an' we will not submit. f'r years we have run th' shop almost at a loss. there are plenty iv men to take ye'er places. they may not be as efficient at first but they'll soon larn. ye'er demands are refused an' ye can bang th' dure afther ye.' a fine chanct a millyonaire wud have thryin' to persuade ye be peaceful means fr'm takin' his job. think iv him on th' dead line thryin' to coax ye not to go in but to stand by him as he would sit on ye if you were in th' same position. wud ye or wud ye not lave ye'er coat in his hands as ye plunged in th' bank? they'd have to resort to vilence. th' stock exchange wud go out in sympathy. th' milishy wud be called out an' afther awhile th' financeers wud come back with their hats in their hands an' find their old places took be other men. "no, sir, a sthrike iv financeers wudden't worry anny wan. 'tis a sthrange thing whin we come to think iv it that th' less money a man gets f'r his wurruk, th' more nicissry it is to th' wurruld that he shud go on wurrukin'. ye'er boss can go to paris on a combination wedding an' divoorce thrip an' no wan bothers his head about him. but if ye shud go to paris--excuse me f'r laughin' mesilf black in th' face--th' industhrees iv the counthry pines away. "an' th' higher up a man regards his wurruk, th' less it amounts to. we cud manage to scrape along without electhrical injineers but we'd have a divvle iv a time without scavengers. ye look down on th' fellow that dhrives th' dump cart, but if it wasn't f'r him ye'd niver be able to pursoo ye'er honorable mechanical profissyon iv pushin' th' barrow. whin andhrew carnagie quit, ye wint on wurrukin'; if ye quit wurruk, he'll have to come back. p'raps that's th' reason th' wurrukin' man don't get more iv thim little pictures iv a buffalo in his pay envelope iv a saturdah night. if he got more money he wud do less wurruk. he has to be kept in thrainin'. "th' way to make a man useful to th' wurruld is to give him a little money an' a lot iv wurruk. an' 'tis th' on'y way to make him happy, too. i don't mean coarse, mateeryal happiness like private yachts an' autymobills an' rich food an' other corrodin' pleasures. i mean something entirely diffr'ent. i don't know what i mean but i see in th' pa-apers th' other day that th' on'y road to happiness was hard wurruk. 'tis a good theery. some day i'm goin' to hire a hall an' preach it in newport. i wudden't mintion it in ar-rchy road where wurruk abounds. i don't want to be run in f'r incitin' a riot. "this pa-aper says th' farmer niver sthrikes. he hasn't got th' time to. he's too happy. a farmer is continted with his ten-acre lot. there's nawthin' to take his mind off his wurruk. he sleeps at night with his nose against th' shingled roof iv his little frame home an' dhreams iv cinch bugs. while th' stars are still alight he walks in his sleep to wake th' cow that left th' call f'r four o'clock. thin it's ho! f'r feedin' th' pigs an' mendin' th' reaper. th' sun arises as usual in th' east an' bein' a keen student iv nature, he picks a cabbage leaf to put in his hat. breakfast follows, a gay meal beginnin' at nine an' endin' at nine-three. thin it's off f'r th' fields where all day he sets on a bicycle seat an' reaps the bearded grain an' th' hessian fly, with nawthin' but his own thoughts an' a couple iv horses to commune with. an' so he goes an' he's happy th' livelong day if ye don't get in ear-shot iv him. in winter he is employed keepin' th' cattle fr'm sufferin' his own fate an' writin' testymonyals iv dyspepsia cures. 'tis sthrange i niver heerd a farmer whistle except on sunday. "no, sir, ye can't tell me that a good deal iv wurruk is good f'r anny man. a little wurruk is not bad, a little wurruk f'r th' stomach's sake an' to make ye sleep sound, a kind of nightcap, d'ye mind. but a gr-reat deal iv wurruk, especially in th' summer time, will hurt anny man that indulges in it. so, though i don't sympathize with sthrikers, i congratulate thim. sthrike, says i, while the iron is hot an' ye'er most needed to pound it into a horseshoe. an' especially wud i advise ivrybody to sthrike whin th' weather is hot." drugs "what ails ye?" asked mr. dooley of mr. hennessy, who looked dejected. "i'm a sick man," said mr. hennessy. "since th' picnic?" "now that i come to think iv it, it did begin th' day afther th' picnic," said mr. hennessy. "i've been to see dock o'leary. he give me this an' these here pills an' some powdhers besides. an' d'ye know, though i haven't taken anny iv thim yet, i feel betther already." "well, sir," said mr. dooley, "'tis a grand thing to be a doctor. a man that's a doctor don't have to buy anny funny papers to enjye life. th' likes iv ye goes to a picnic an' has a pleasant, peaceful day in th' counthry dancin' breakdowns an' kickin' a football in th' sun an' ivry fifteen minyits or so washin' down a couple of dill-pickles with a bottle of white pop. th' next day ye get what's comin' to ye in th' right place an' bein' a sthrong, hearty man that cudden't be kilt be annything less thin a safe fallin' on ye fr'm a twenty-story building ye know ye ar-re goin' to die. th' good woman advises a mustard plasther but ye scorn th' suggestion. what good wud a mustard plasther be again this fatal epidemic that is ragin' inside iv ye? besides a mustard plasther wud hurt. so th' good woman, frivilous crather that she is, goes back to her wurruk singin' a light chune. she knows she's goin' to have to put up with ye f'r some time to come. a mustard plasther, hinnissy, is th' rale test iv whether a pain is goin' to kill ye or not. if the plasther is onbearable ye can bet th' pain undherneath it is not. "but ye know ye are goin' to die an' ye're not sure whether ye'll send f'r father kelly or th' doctor. ye finally decide to save up father kelly f'r th' last an' ye sind f'r th' dock. havin' rescued ye fr'm th' jaws iv death two or three times befure whin ye had a sick headache th' dock takes his time about comin', but just as ye are beginnin' to throw ye'er boots at th' clock an' show other signs iv what he calls rigem mortar, he rides up in his fine horse an' buggy. he gets out slowly, one foot at a time, hitches his horse an' ties a nose bag on his head. thin he chats f'r two hundherd years with th' polisman on th' beat. he tells him a good story an' they laugh harshly. "whin th' polisman goes his way th' dock meets th' good woman at th' dure an' they exchange a few wurruds about th' weather, th' bad condition iv th' sthreets, th' health iv mary ann since she had th' croup an' ye'ersilf. ye catch th' wurruds, 'grape pie,' 'canned salmon,' 'cast-iron digestion.' still he doesn't come up. he tells a few stories to th' childher. he weighs th' youngest in his hands an' says: 'that's a fine boy ye have, mrs. hinnissy. i make no doubt he'll grow up to be a polisman.' he examines th' phottygraft album an' asks if that isn't so-an'-so. an' all this time ye lay writhin' in mortal agony an' sayin' to ye'ersilf: 'inhuman monsther, to lave me perish here while he chats with a callous woman that i haven't said annything but what? to f'r twinty years.' "ye begin to think there's a conspiracy against ye to get ye'er money befure he saunters into th' room an' says in a gay tone: 'well, what d'ye mane be tyin' up wan iv th' gr-reat industhrees iv our nation be stayin' away fr'm wurruk f'r a day?' 'dock,' says ye in a feeble voice, 'i have a tur'ble pain in me abdumdum. it reaches fr'm here to here,' makin' a rough sketch iv th' burned disthrict undher th' blanket. 'i felt it comin' on last night but i didn't say annything f'r fear iv alarmin' me wife, so i simply groaned,' says ye. "while ye ar-re describin' ye'er pangs, he walks around th' room lookin' at th' pictures. afther ye've got through he comes over an says: 'lave me look at ye'er tongue. 'hum,' he says, holdin' ye'er wrist an' bowin' through th' window to a frind iv his on a sthreet car. 'does that hurt?' he says, stabbin' ye with his thumbs in th' suburbs iv th' pain. 'ye know it does,' says ye with a groan. 'don't do that again. ye scratched me.' he hurls ye'er wrist back at ye an' stands at th' window lookin' out at th' firemen acrost th' sthreet playin' dominoes. he says nawthin' to ye an' ye feel like th' prisoner while th' foreman iv th' jury is fumblin' in his inside pocket f'r th' verdict. ye can stand it no longer. 'dock,' says he, 'is it annything fatal? i'm not fit to die but tell me th' worst an' i will thry to bear it. 'well,' says he, 'ye have a slight interioritis iv th' semi-colon. but this purscription ought to fix ye up all right. ye'd betther take it over to th' dhrug sthore an' have it filled ye'ersilf. in th' manetime i'd advise ye to be careful iv ye'er dite. i wudden't ate annything with glass or a large percintage iv plasther iv paris in it.' an' he goes away to write his bill. "i wondher why ye can always read a doctor's bill an' ye niver can read his purscription. f'r all ye know, it may be a short note to th' dhruggist askin' him to hit ye on th' head with a pestle. an' it's a good thing ye can't read it. if ye cud, ye'd say: 'i'll not cash this in at no dhrug store. i'll go over to dooley's an' get th' rale thing.' so, afther thryin' to decipher this here corner iv a dhress patthern, ye climb into ye'er clothes f'r what may be ye'er last walk up ar-rchy road. as ye go along ye begin to think that maybe th' dock knows ye have th' asiatic cholery an' was onl'y thryin' to jolly ye with his manner iv dealin' with ye. as ye get near th' dhrug store ye feel sure iv it, an' 'tis with th' air iv a man without hope that ye hand th' paper to a young pharmycist who is mixin' a two-cent stamp f'r a lady customer. he hands it over to a scientist who is compoundin' an ice-cream soda f'r a child, with th' remark: 'o'leary's writin' is gettin' worse an' worse. i can't make this out at all.' 'oh,' says th' chemist, layin' down his spoon, 'that's his old cure f'r th' bellyache. ye'll find a bucket iv it in th' back room next to th' coal scuttle.' "it's a gr-reat medicine he give ye. it will do ye good no matther what ye do with it. i wud first thry poorin' some iv it in me hair. if that don't help ye see how far ye can throw th' bottle into th' river. ye feel betther already. ye ought to write to th' medical journals about th' case. it is a remarkable cure. 'm---- h---- was stricken with excruciating tortures in th' gastric regions followin' an unusually severe outing in th' counthry. f'r a time it looked as though it might be niciss'ry to saw out th' infected area, but as this wud lave an ugly space between legs an' chin, it was determined to apply jam. gin. viii. th' remedy acted instantly. afther carryin' th' bottle uncorked f'r five minyits in his inside pocket th' patient showed signs iv recovery an' is now again in his accustomed health.' "yes, sir, if i was a doctor i'd be ayether laughin' or cryin' all th' time. i'd be laughin' over th' cases that i was called into whin i wasn't needed an' cryin' over th' cases where i cud do no good. an' that wud be most iv me cases. "dock o'leary comes in here often an' talks medicine to me. 'ye'ers is a very thrying pro-fissyon,' says i. 'it is,' says he. 'i'm tired out,' says he. 'have ye had a good manny desprit cases to-day?' says i. 'it isn't that,' says he, 'but i'm not a very muscular man,' he says, 'an' some iv th' windows in these old frame houses are hard to open,' he says. th' dock don't believe much in dhrugs. he says that if he wasn't afraid iv losin' his practice he wudn't give annybody annything but quinine an' he isn't sure about that. he says th' more he practises medicine th' more he becomes a janitor with a knowledge iv cookin'. he says if people wud on'y call him in befure they got sick, he'd abolish ivry disease in th' ward except old age an' pollyticks. he says he's lookin' forward to th' day whin th' tillyphone will ring an' he'll hear a voice sayin': 'hurry up over to hinnissy's. he niver felt so well in his life.' 'all right, i'll be over as soon as i can hitch up th' horse. take him away fr'm th' supper table at wanst, give him a pipeful iv tobacco an' walk him three times around th' block.' "but whin a man's sick, he's sick an' nawthin' will cure him or annything will. in th' old days befure ye an' i were born, th' doctor was th' barber too. he'd shave ye, cut ye'er hair, dye ye'er mustache, give ye a dhry shampoo an' cure ye iv appindicitis while ye were havin' ye'er shoes shined be th' naygur. ivry gineration iv doctors has had their favrite remedies. wanst people were cured iv fatal maladies be applications iv blind puppies, hair fr'm the skulls iv dead men an' solutions iv bat's wings, just as now they're cured be dhrinkin' a tayspoonful iv a very ordhinary article iv booze that's had some kind iv a pizenous weed dissolved in it. "dhrugs, says dock o'leary, are a little iv a pizen that a little more iv wud kill ye. he says that if ye look up anny poplar dhrug in th' ditchnry ye'll see that it is 'a very powerful pizen of great use in medicine.' i took calomel at his hands f'r manny years till he told me that it was about the same thing they put into rough on rats. thin i stopped. if i've got to die, i want to die on th' premises. "but, as he tells me, ye can't stop people from takin' dhrugs an' ye might as well give thim something that will look important enough to be inthrojuced to their important an' fatal cold in th' head. if ye don't, they'll leap f'r the patent medicines. mind ye, i haven't got annything to say again patent medicines. if a man wud rather take thim thin dhrink at a bar or go down to hop lung's f'r a long dhraw, he's within his rights. manny a man have i known who was a victim iv th' tortures iv a cigareet cough who is now livin' comfortable an' happy as an opeem fiend be takin' doctor wheezo's consumption cure. i knew a fellow wanst who suffered fr'm spring fever to that extent that he niver did a day's wurruk. to-day, afther dhrinkin' a bottle of gazooma, he will go home not on'y with th' strenth but th' desire to beat his wife. there is a dhrug store on ivry corner an' they're goin' to dhrive out th' saloons onless th' govermint will let us honest merchants put a little cocaine or chloral in our cough-drops an' advertise that it will cure spinal minigitis. an' it will, too, f'r awhile." "don't ye iver take dhrugs?" asked mr. hennessy. "niver whin i'm well," said mr. dooley. "whin i'm sick, i'm so sick i'd take annything." a broken friendship "hogan was in here just now," said mr. dooley, "an' he tells me he was talkin' with th' alderman an' they both agreed we're sure to have war with th' japs inside iv two years. they can see it comin'. befure very long thim little brown hands acrost th' sea will hand us a crack in th' eye an' thin ye'll see throuble." "what's it all about?" asked mr. hennessy. "divvle a thing can i make out iv it," said mr. dooley. "hogan says we've got to fight f'r th' supreemacy iv th' passyfic. much fightin' i'd do f'r an ocean, but havin' taken th' philippeens, which ar-re a blamed nuisance, an th' sandwich islands, that're about as vallyable as a toy balloon to a horse-shoer, we've got to grab a lot iv th' surroundin' dampness to protect thim. that's wan reason why we're sure to have war. another reason is that th' japs want to sind their little forty-five-year-old childher to be iddycated in th' san francisco public schools. a third reason why it looks like war to hogan an' th' alderman is that they'd been dhrinkin' together. "wud ye iver have thought 'twas possible that anny wan in this counthry cud even talk iv war with thim delightful, cunning little oryentals? why, 'tis less thin two years since hogan was comin' home fr'm th' bankit iv th' union iv usurers with his arms around th' top iv a jap's head while th' jap clutched hogan affectionately about th' waist an' they sung 'gawd save th' mickydoo.' d'ye raymimber how we hollered with joy whin a rooshyan admiral put his foot through th' bottom iv a man-iv-war an' sunk it. an' how we cheered in th' theaytre to see th' cute little sojers iv th' mickydoo mowin' down th' brutal rooshyan moojiks with masheen guns. an' fin'lly, whin th' japs had gone a thousand miles into rooshyan territory an' were about busted an' ayether had to stop fightin' or not have car fare home, our worthy prisident, ye know who i mean, jumped to th' front an' cried: 'boys, stop it. it's gone far enough to satisfy th' both iv ye.' an th' angel iv peace brooded over th' earth an' crowed lustily. "day after day th' pa-apers come out an' declared, in th' column next to th' half-page ad iv th' koppenheimer bargain sale, that th' defeat iv rooshya was a judgment iv th' lord on th' czar. if ye saw a jap annywhere, ye asked him to take a dhrink. "hogan talked about nawthin' else. they were a wondherful little people. how they had diviloped! nawthin' in th' histhry iv th' wurruld was akel to th' way they'd come up. they cud shoot straighter an' oftener thin anny other nation. a jap cud march three hundred miles a day f'r eight days with nawthin' to eat. they were highly civvylized. it was an old civvylization but not tainted be age. millyons iv years befure th' first white man set fut in milwaukee th' japs undhershtud th' mannyfacther iv patent wringers, sewin'-masheens, reapers, tillyphones, autymobills, ice-cream freezers, an' all th' other wondhers iv our boasted westhren divilopement. "their customs showed how highly they'd been civvylized. whin a jap soldier was defeated, rather thin surrendher an' be sint home to have his head cut off, he wud stab himself in th' stummick. their treatment iv women put thim on a higher plane thin ours. cinchries ago befure th' higher iddycation iv women was dhreamed iv in this counthry, th' poorest man in japan cud sind his daughter to a tea-house, which is th' same as our female siminaries, where she remained till she gradyated as th' wife iv some proud noble iv th' old samuri push. "their art had ours thrimmed to a frazzle. th' jap artist o'casey's pitcher iv a lady leanin' on a river while a cow walked up her back, was th' loveliest thing in th' wurruld. they were th' gr-reatest athletes iver known. a japanese child with rickets cud throw johnson over a church. they had a secret iv rasslin' be which a jap rassler cud blow on his opponent's eyeball an' break his ankle. they were th' finest soordsmen that iver'd been seen. whin a japanese soordsman wint into a combat he made such faces that his opponent dhropped his soord an' thin he uttered a bloodcurdlin' cry, waved his soord four hundhred an' fifty times over th' head iv th' victim or in th' case iv a samuri eight hundred an' ninety-six, give a whoop resimblin' our english wurrud 'tag,' an' clove him to th' feet. as with us, on'y th' lower classes engaged in business. th' old arrystocracy distained to thrade but started banks an' got all th' money. th' poor man had a splendid chance. he cud devote his life to paintin' wan rib iv a fan, f'r which he got two dollars, or he cud become a cab horse. an' even in th' wan branch iv art that westhren civvylization is supposed to excel in, they had us beat miles. they were th' gr-reatest liars in th' wurruld an' formerly friends iv th' prisidint. "all these here things i heerd fr'm hogan an' see in th' pa-apers. i invied this wondherful nation. i wisht, sometimes, th' lord hadn't given me two blue an' sometimes red eyes an' this alkiline nose, but a nose like an ear an' a couple iv shoe-buttons f'r eyes. i wanted to be a jap an' belong to th' higher civvylization. hogan had a jap frind that used to come in here with him. hogan thought he was a prince, but he was a cook an' a student in a theelogical siminry. they'd talk be th' hour about th' beauties iv what hogan called th' flowery kingdom. 'oh, wondherful land,' says hogan. 'land iv chrysanthymums an' cherry blossoms a' gasyhee girls,' says he. 'japan is a beautiful land,' says prince okoko. 'nippon, (that's th' name it goes by at home,) nippon, i salute ye,' says hogan. 'may victhry perch upon ye'er banners, an' may ye hammer our old frinds an' allies fr'm mookden to moscow. banzai,' says he. an' they embraced. that night, in ordher to help on th' cause, hogan bought a blue flower-pot fr'm th' prince's collection f'r eighteen dollars. he took it home undher his ar-rm in th' rain an' th' next mornin' most iv th' flower-pot was on his new overcoat an' th' rest was meltin' all over th' flure. "that was the beginnin' iv th' end iv th' frindship between th' two gr-reat nations that owe thimselves so much. about th' time hogan got th' flower-pot, th' fire-sale ads an' th' rooshyan outrage news both stopped in th' newspa-apers. a well-known fi-nanceer who thravelled to tokeeo with a letter iv inthraduction to th' mickydoo fr'm th' prisidint beginnin' 'dear mick,' got a brick put through his hat as he wint to visit th' foorth assistant to th' manicure iv th' eighth assistant to th' plumber iv th' bricklayer iv th' mickydoo, which is th' nearest to his majesty that foreign eyes ar-re permitted to look upon. a little later a number iv americans in private life who wint over to rayceive in person th' thanks iv th' impror f'r what they'd done f'r him talkin' ar-round th' bar at th' union league club, were foorced be th' warmth iv their rayciption to take refuge in th' house iv th' rooshyan counsel. th' next month some iv th' subjects iv our life-long frind an' ally were shot while hookin' seals fr'm our side iv th' passyfic. next week a prom'nent jap'nese statesman was discovered payin' a socyal visit to th' ph'lippeens. he had with him at th' time two cameras, a couple iv line men, surveyin' tools, a thousand feet iv tape line, an' a bag iv dinnymite bombs. last month th' jap'nese governmint wrote to th' prisidint: 'most gracious an' bewilderin' majesty, impror iv th' sun, austere an' patient father iv th' stars, it has come to our benign attintion that in wan iv ye'er populous domains our little prattlin' childher who ar-re over forty years iv age ar-re not admitted to th' first reader classes in th' public schools. oh, brother beloved, we adore ye. had ye not butted in with ye'er hivenly binivolence we wud've shook rooshya down f'r much iv her hateful money. now we must prove our affection with acts. it is our intintion to sind a fleet to visit ye'er shores, partickly san francisco, where we undherstand th' school system is well worth studyin'.' "an' there ye ar-re, hinnissy. th' frindship ceminted two years ago with blood an' beers is busted. i don't know whether annything will happen. hogan thinks so, but i ain't sure. th' prisidint has announced that rather thin see wan octoginaryan jap prevented fr'm larnin' his a-bee-abs he will divastate san francisco with fire, flood, dinnymite, an' personalities. but san francisco has had a pretty good bump lately an' wud hardly tur-rn over in its sleep f'r an invasion. out there they're beginnin' to talk about what nice people th' chinese ar-re compared with our old frinds an' allies. they say that th' jap'nese grow up too fast f'r their childher, an' that 'tis no pleasant sight to see a jap'nese pupil combin' a set iv gray whiskers an' larnin', 'mary had a little lamb,' and if th' prisidint wants thim to enther th' schools he'll have to load thim in a cannon an' shoot thim in." "we'd bate thim in a fight," said mr. hennessy. "they cudden't stand up befure a gr-reat, sthrong nation like ours." "we think we're gr-reat an' sthrong," said mr. dooley. "but maybe we on'y look fat to thim. annyhow, we might roll on thim. wudden't it be th' grand thing, though, if they licked us an' we signed a threaty iv peace with thim an' with tears iv humilyation in our eyes handed thim th' ph'lippeens!" the army canteen "i seen big doherty runnin' in a sojer to-day an' 'twas a fine sight. th' sojer was fr'm th' county kerry an' had a thrip an' doherty is th' champeen catch-as-catch-can rassler iv camp twinty-eight. he had a little th' worst iv it, f'r he cud on'y get a neck holt, th' warryor havin' no slack to his pants, but he landed him at last. 'twas gr-reat to see thim doin' a cart-wheel down th' sthreet." "was th' sojer under th' influence?" asked mr. hennessy. "ye might say he was," said mr. dooley. "that is, ye might say so if ye didn't know that th' dhrinkin' habits iv' th' army have been rayformed. didn't ye know they were? they ar-re. yes, sir. th' motto iv our brave fellows is now 'away, away, th' bowl,' 'tis 'wine f'r th' thremblin' debauchee, but water, pure water, f'r me,' 'tis 'father, dear father, come home with me now.' an' who did it? who is it that improves men an' makes thim more ladylike, an' thin quits thim, but th' ladies? this here reform was carried out be th' young ladies' christyan tim'prance union, no less. ye see, 'twas this way. f'r manny years it's been th' theery that dhrink an' fightin' wint arm-in-arm. if ye dhrank ye fought; if ye fought ye drank to fight again. as hogan says, mars, who was th' gawd iv war, was no good onless he was pushed into throuble be backis, the gawd iv dhrink. about th' time mars was r-ready to quit an' go home to do th' spring plowin', backis handed him a jigger iv kerosene an' says: 'that fellow over there is leerin' at ye. ar-re ye goin' to stand that?' an' mars bustled in. th' barkeeper an' th' banker ar-re behind ivry war. "well, in former times th' governmint kept a saloon f'r th' sojers. up at fort shurdan they had a ginmill where th' warryors cud go an' besot thimsilves with bottled beer an' dominoes. it was a sad sight to see thim grim heroes, survivors iv a thousand marches through th' damp sthreets on decoration day, settin' in these temples iv hell an' swillin' down th' hated cochineel that has made milwaukee what it is. to this palace iv vice th' inthrepid definder iv his nation's honor hastened whin he had completed th' arjoos round iv his jooties, after he had pressed th' lootinant's clothes, curried th' captain's horse, mended th' roof iv th' major's house, watered th' geeranyums f'r th' colonel's wife, an' written his daily letter to th' paper complainin' about th' food. there he sat an' dhrank an' fought over his old battles with th' cook an' recalled th' name that he give whin he first enlisted an' thried to think who it was he married in fort leavenworth, ontil th' bugle summoned him to th' awful carnage called supper. "well, sir, 'twas dhreadful. we opposed it as much as we cud. as a dillygate to th' binivolent assoeyation iv saloon keepers iv america i've helped to pass manny resolutions to save our brave boys in yellow fr'm th' insidyous foe that robs thim iv what intellicts they show be goin' into the army. our organ-ization petitioned congress time an' time again to take th' governmint out iv this vile poorsoot that was sappin' th' very vitals iv our sojery. why, we asked, shud uncle sam engage in this thraffic in th' souls iv men without payin' f'r a license, whin dacint citizens were puttin' up their good money a block away an' niver a soul comin' down fr'm th' fort to be thrafficked in? did congress pay anny attintion to us? it did not. "but wan day a comity iv ladies fr'm th' young ladies' christyan timp'rance union wint out to th' fort. they'd seen th' colonel at th' last p'rade an' they'd decided that 'twas high time they disthributed copies iv 'death in th' bottle; or, th' booze-fighter's finish,' among our sojery. whin they got up there they seen a large bunch iv our gallant fellows makin' a dash f'r an outlyin' building, an' says wan iv thim: 'what can they be in such a hurry f'r? that must be th' chapel. let us go in.' an' in they wint. "hinnissy, th' sight that met their young an' unaccustomed eyes was enough to shock even a lady lookin' f'r throuble. th' air was gray an' blue with th' fumes iv that heejous weed that has made mankind happy though single f'r four hundred years, an' that next to alcohol is th' greatest curse iv th' sons iv adam. some iv th' wretches were playin' cards, properly called th' divvle's bible; others were indulgin' in music, that lure iv th' evil wan f'r idleness, while still others were intint on th' furyous game iv dominoes, whose feet take hold on hell. but worse, still worse, they saw through their girlish spectacles dimmed with unbidden tears. f'r in front iv each iv these war-battered vethrans shtud a bottle, in some cases bar'ly half filled with a brownish-yellow flood with bubbles on top iv it. what was it, says ye? hardened as i am to dhrink iv ivry kind, i hesitate to mention th' wurrud. but concealment is useless. 'twas beer. these brave men, employed be th' taxpayer iv america to defind th' hearths iv th' tax-dodger iv america, supposed be all iv us to have consicrated their lives to upholdin' th' flag, were at heart votaries, as hogan says, iv aloes, gawd iv beer. "f'r a moment th' ladies shtud dumfounded. but they did not remain long in this unladylike attichood. th' chairwoman iv th' dillygation recovered her voice an', advancin' to'rd a sergeant who was thryin' to skin a pair iv fours down so that it wud look like a jack full to his ineebryated opponent, she said: 'me brave man, d'ye ralize that that bottle is full iv th' seed iv desthruction?' she says. 'i think ye'er wrong, mum,' says he. 'it's pilsener,' he says. 'soon or late,' she says, 'th' demon rum will desthroy ye,' she says. 'not me,' says th' vethran iv a thousand enlistments. 'i don't care f'r rum. a pleasant companyon, but a gossip. it tells on ye. th' demon rum with a little iv th' demon hot water an' th' demon sugar is very enticin', but it has a perfume to it that is dangerous to a married man like mesilf. rum, madam, is an informer. don't niver take it. i agree with ye that it's a demon,' says he. 'why,' says she, 'do ye drink this dhreadful poison?' says she. 'because,' says th' brave fellow, 'i can't get annything sthronger without desertin,' he says. "an' they wint down to washington to see th' congressmen. ye know what a congressman is. i've made a few right here in this barroom. th' on'y thing a congressman isn't afraid iv is th' on'y thing i'd be afraid iv, an' that is iv bein' a congressman. an' th' thing he's most afraid iv is th' ladies. a comity iv ladies wud make congress repeal th' ten commandments. not that they'd iver ask thim to, hinnissy. they'd make thim ten thousand if they had their way an' mark thim: 'f'r men on'y.' but, annyhow, th' ladies comity wint down to washin'ton. they'd been there befure an' dhriven th' demon rum fr'm th' resthrant into a lair in th' comity room. a congressman came out, coughin' behind his hand, an' put his handkerchief into th' northwest corner iv his coat. 'ladies,' says he, 'what can i do f'r ye?' he says. 'ye must save th' ar-rmy fr'm th' malt that biteth like a wasp an' stingeth like an adder,' says they. 'ye bet ye'er life i will, ladies,' says th' congressman with a slight hiccup. 'i will do as ye desire. a sojer that will dhrink beer is a disgrace to th' american jag,' he says. 'we abolished public dhrinkin' in th' capitol,' he says. 'we done it to make th' sinitors onhappy, but thim hardened tools iv predytory wealth have ordhered ink wells made in th' shape iv decanters. but,' he says, 'th' popylar branch iv th' naytional ligislachure is not to be outdone. ye see these panels on th' wall? i touch a button an' out pops a bottle iv bourbon that wud make ye'er eyes dance. whoop-ee!' "so congress passed a bill abolishin' th' canteen. an' it's all right now. if a sojer wants to desthroy himself he has to walk a block. some iv me enterprisin' colleagues in th' business have opened places convenient to th' fort where th' sons iv mars, instead iv th' corroding beer, can get annything fr'm sulphuric acid to knock-out dhrops. i see wan iv thim stockin' up at a wholesale dhrug store last week. if the sojers escape th' knock-out dhrops they come down-town an' doherty takes care iv thim. a sojer gets thirteen dollars a month, we'll say. twelve dollars he can devote to dhrink an' wan dollar to th' fine. twelve times eight hundhred an' twelve times that--well, 'tis no small item in th' coorse iv a year. whin th' binivolent assocyation iv saloonkeepers holds its next meeting i'm goin' to propose to send dillygates to th' young ladies christyan timp'rance union. it ought to be what th' unions call an affilyated organization." "oh, well," said mr. hennessy, "they think they're doin' what's right." "an' they ar-re," said mr. dooley. "ye'll not find me defindin' th' sellin' iv dhrink to anny man annywhere. there's no wan that's as much iv a timp'rance man as a man that's been in my business f'r a year. i'd give up all th' fun i get out iv dhrinkin' men to escape th' throuble i have fr'm dhrunkards. drink's a poison. i don't deny it. i'll admit i'm no betther thin an ordinhry doctor. both iv us gives ye something that cures ye iv th' idee that th' pain in ye'er chest is pnoomony iv th' lungs. if it really is pnoomony ye go off somewhere an' lie down an' ayether ye cure ye'ersilf iv pnoomony or th' pnoomony cures ye iv life. dhrink niver made a man betther, but it has made manny a man think he was betther. a little iv it lifts ye out iv th' mud where chance has thrown ye; a little more makes ye think th' stains on ye'er coat ar-re eppylets; a little more dhrops ye back into th' mud again. it's a frind to thim that ar-re cold to it an' an inimy to those that love it most. it welcomes thim in an' thrips thim as they go out. i tell ye 'tis a threacherous dhrug an' it oughtn't to be given to ivry man. "to get a dhrink a man ought first to be examined be his parish priest to see whether he needs it an' how it's goin' to affect him. f'r wan man he'd write on th' prescription 'ad lib,' as dock o'leary does whin he ordhers a mustard plasther f'r me; f'r another he'd write: 'three times a day at meals.' but most people he wudden't prescribe it f'r at all. "do i blame th' ladies? faith, i do not. ye needn't think i'm proud iv me business. i only took to it because i am too selfish to be a mechanic an' too tender-hearted to be a banker or a lawyer. no, sir, i wudden't care a sthraw if all th' dhrink in th' wurruld was dumped to-morrah into th' atlantic ocean, although f'r a week or two afther it was i'd have to get me a diving suit if i wanted to see annything iv me frinds. "no, sir; th' ladies ar-re not to blame. they've always thried to reform man, an' they haven't yet got onto th' fact that maybe he's not worth reformin'. they don't undherstan' why a man shud be allowed to pizen himsilf into th' belief that he amounts to something, but thin they don't undherstand man. they little know what a bluff he is an' how 'tis on'y be fortifyin' himsilf with stuff that they regard as iv no use except to burn undher a tea-kettle that he dares to go on livin' at all. he knows how good dhrink makes him look to himsilf, an' he dhrinks. they see how it makes him look to ivrybody else, an' they want to take it away fr'm him. whin he's sober his bluff is on th' outside. whin he's dhrunk he makes th' bluff to his own heart. dhrink turns him inside out as well as upside down, an' while he's congratulatin' himsilf on th' fine man he is, th' neighbors know him f'r a boaster, a cow'rd, an' something iv a liar. that th' ladies see an' hate. they do not know that there is wan thing an' on'y wan thing to be said in favor iv dhrink, an' that is that it has caused manny a lady to be loved that otherwise might've died single." "they're all right, said mr. hennessy. i'm against it." "yes," said mr. dooley. "anny man is against dhrink that's iver been really against it." things spiritual "th' latest thing in science," said mr. dooley, "is weighin' th' human soul. a fellow up in matsachoosetts has done it. he weighs ye befure ye die an' he weighs ye afther ye die, an' th' diff'rence is what ye'er soul weighs. he's discovered that th' av'rage weight iv a soul in new england is six ounces or a little less. fr'm this he argies that th' conscience isn't part iv th' soul. if it was th' soul wud be in th' heavyweight class, f'r th' new england conscience is no feather. he thinks it don't escape with th' soul, but lies burrid in th' roons iv its old fam'ly home--th' liver. "it's so simple it must be true, an' if it ain't true, annyhow it's simple. but it's a tur-rble thing to think iv. i can't see anny money in it as an invintion. who'll want to have his soul weighed? suppose ye'er time has come. th' fam'ly ar-re busy with their own thoughts, grievin' because they hadn't been as good to ye as they might, because they won't have ye with thim anny more, because it's too late f'r thim to square thimsilves, pityin' ye because ye'er not remainin' to share their sorrows with thim, wondhrin' whether th' black dhresses that were bought in honor iv what people might have said if they hadn't worn thim in mimry iv aunt eliza, wud be noticed if they were worn again f'r ye. th' very young mimbers iv th' fam'ly ar-re standin' around, thryin' to look as sad as they think they ought to look. but they can't keep it up. they nudge each other, their eyes wandher around th' room, an' fr'm time to time they glance over at cousin felix an' expect him to make a laugh'ble face. he's a gr-reat frind iv theirs an' they're surprised he isn't gayer. something must've happened to him. maybe he's lost his job. there ar-re a gr-reat manny noises in th' sthreet. th' undertaker whistles as he goes by, an' two iv th' neighbors ar-re at th' gate sayin' what a fine man ye were if ye didn't dhrink, an' askin' did ye leave much. "an' little ye care. everything is a millyon miles away fr'm ye. f'r th' first time in ye'er life ye're alone. f'r the first time in ye'er life ye ar-re ye'ersilf. f'r hiven knows how manny years ye've been somebody else. ye've been ye'er wife, ye'er fam'ly, ye'er relations, th' polisman on th' beat, th' doctor, th' newspaper reporther, th' foreman at th' mills, th' laws iv th' land, th' bartinder that gives ye dhrinks, th' tailor, th' barber, an' public opinion. th' wurruld has held a lookin'-glass in front iv ye fr'm th' day ye were born an' compelled ye to make faces in it. but in this here particular business ye have no wan to please but ye'ersilf. good opinyon an' bad opinyon ar-re alike. ye're akelly unthroubled be gratichood an' revenge. no wan can help ye or stay ye. ye're beyond th' sound iv th' alarm clock an' th' facthry whistle an' beginnin' th' big day off whin th' man iv science shakes ye be th' elbow an' says: 'ye've got to weigh out.' an' he weighs figures: 'wan hundhred an' forty-siven fr'm wan hundhred an' fifty. siven fr'm naught can't be done; borry wan; siven fr'm ten leaves three. i find that th' soul iv our late laminted frind weighed a light three pounds avirdoopoise.' "no, sir, it won't do. 'twill niver be popylar. people won't have their souls weighed. i wudden't f'r all th' wurruld have th' wurrud go through th' ward: 'did ye hear about dooley's soul?' 'no, what?' 'they had to get an expert accountant to figure its weight, it was that puny.' "d'ye suppose dorgan, th' millyonaire, wud consint to it? whin he entered th' race iv life he was properly handicapped with a soul to offset his avarice an' his ability, so that some iv th' rest iv us wud have a kind iv a show again him. but as soon as he thinks no wan can see him he begins to get rid iv his weight an' comes rompin' home miles ahead. but th' judges say: 'hold on, there; yell have to weigh out,' an' a little later a notice is posted up that dorgan is disqualified f'r ridin' undherweight in th' matther iv soul. on th' other hand, there's little miss maddigan, th' seamstress. she's all but left at th' post; she's jostled all th' way around, an' comes in lame, a bad last. but she's th' only wan iv th' lot that's kept th' weight. she weighs ninety-six pounds--six iv it bein' tea an' toast an ninety iv it soul. "no, sir, whin it comes to goin' up to th' scales to have their souls weighed people'll be as shy as they are in a customs house. th' people that wud make th' invintion pay wud be th' last to want to be tested by it. th' pa-apers might keep records iv th' results: 'misther so-an'-so, th' gr-reat captain iv finance, died yesterday, universally regretted. his estate amounts to nineteen millyon dollars. there ar-re two large bequests to charity. wan is a thrust fund set aside f'r his maiden sister annybelle, who will receive f'r life th' income on eight hundhred dollars in stock iv th' hackensack meadows comp'ny. th' other is forty-two dollars to buy a wooden leg f'r his brother isaac, it bein' undherstood that no charge is to be made be th' estate against th' brother f'r a set iv false teeth bought f'r him in th' year nineteen four. th' balance iv th' property is left in trust f'r th' minor childher until they ar-re years old. th' deceased requested that his soul be measured be troy weight. it tipped th' beam at wan pennyweight.'" "d'ye think th' soul can be weighed?" asked mr. hennessy. "i know it's there, but i think--i kind iv feel--i wondher--i don't hardly know--" "i see what ye mean" said mr. dooley. "scales an' clocks ar-re not to be thrusted to decide annything that's worth deciding. who tells time be a clock? ivry hour is th' same to a clock an' ivry hour is different to me. wan long, wan short. there ar-re hours in th' avenin' that pass between two ticks iv th' clock; there ar-re hours in th' arly mornin' whin a man can't sleep that methusalah's age cud stretch in. clocks ar-re habichool liars, an' so ar-re scales. as soon as annything gets good enough to weigh ye can't weigh it. scales ar-re f'r th' other fellow. i'm perfectly willin' to take ye'er weight or ye'er soul's weight fr'm what th' scales say. little i care. a pound or two more or less makes no diff'rence. but when it comes to measurin' something that's precious to me, i'll not thrust it to a slight improvement on a see-saw. "but what do i know about it, annyhow? what do i know about annything? i've been pitchin' information into ye f'r more years thin anny wan iver wint to colledge, an' i tell ye now i don't know annything about annything. i don't like to thrust mesilf forward. i'm a modest man. won't somebody else get up? won't ye get up, tiddy rosenfelt; won't ye, willum jennings bryan; won't ye, prisidint eliot; won't ye, pro-fissors, preachers, doctors, lawyers, iditors? won't annybody get up? won't annybody say that they don't know annything about annything worth knowin' about? thin, be hivens, i will. all alone i'll stand up befure me class an' say: 'hinnissy, about annything that can't be weighed on a scales or measured with a tape line i'm as ign'rant as--ye'ersilf. i'll have to pay ye back th' money i took fr'm ye f'r ye'er schoolin'. it was obtained be false pretences.' "how can i know annything, whin i haven't puzzled out what i am mesilf. i am dooley, ye say, but ye're on'y a casual obsarver. ye don't care annything about me details. ye look at me with a gin'ral eye. nawthin' that happens to me really hurts ye. ye say, 'i'll go over to see dooley,' sometimes, but more often ye say, 'i'll go over to dooley's.' i'm a house to ye, wan iv a thousand that look like a row iv model wurrukin'men's cottages. i'm a post to hitch ye'er silences to. i'm always about th' same to ye. but to me i'm a millyon dooleys an' all iv thim sthrangers to me. i niver know which wan iv thim is comin' in. i'm like a hotel keeper with on'y wan bed an' a millyon guests, who come wan at a time an' tumble each other out. i set up late at night an' pass th' bottle with a gay an' careless dooley that hasn't a sorrow in th' wurruld, an' suddenly i look up an' see settin' acrost fr'm me a gloomy wretch that fires th' dhrink out iv th' window an' chases me to bed. i'm just gettin' used to him whin another dooley comes in, a cross, cantankerous, crazy fellow that insists on eatin' breakfast with me. an' so it goes. i know more about mesilf than annybody knows an' i know nawthin'. though i'd make a map fr'm mem'ry an' gossip iv anny other man, f'r mesilf i'm still uncharted. "so what's th' use iv thryin' to know annything less important. don't thry. all ye've got to do is to believe what ye hear, an' if ye do that enough, afther a while ye'll hear what ye believe. ye've got to start in believin' befure ye can find a reason f'r ye'er belief. our old frind christopher columbus hadn't anny good reason f'r believin' that there was anny such a place as america. but he believed it without a reason an' thin wint out an' found it. th' fellows that discovered th' canals on mars which other fellows think cud be cured be a good oculist, hadn't anny right to think there were canals on mars. but wan iv thim said: 'i wondher if there ar-re canals on mars; i believe there ar-re. i'll look an' see. be hivens, there ar-re.' if he'd wondhered an' thin believed about clothes poles he'd've found thim too. anny kind iv a fact is proof iv a belief. a firm belief atthracts facts. they come out iv holes in th' ground an' cracks in th' wall to support belief, but they run away fr'm doubt. "i'll niver get anny medal f'r makin' anny man give up his belief. if i see a fellow with a chube on his eye and hear him hollerin', 'hooray, i've discovered a new planet,' i'll be th' last man in th' wurruld to brush th' fly off th' end iv th' telescope. i've known people that see ghosts. i didn't see thim, but they did. they cud see ghosts an' i cudden't. there wasn't annything else to it. i knew a fellow that was a spiritualist wanst. he was in th' chattel morgedge business on week days an' he was a spiritulist on sunday. he cud understand why th' spirits wud always pick out a stout lady with false hair or a gintleman that had his thumb mark registhered at polis headquarthers to talk through, an' he knew why spirits liked to play on banjoes an' mandolins an' why they convarsed be rappin' on a table in th' dark. an' there was a man that wud bite a silver dollar in two befure he'd take it f'r good." "my aunt seen a ghost wanst," said mr. hennessy. "ivrybody's aunt has seen a ghost," said mr. dooley. books "well, sir, if there's wan person in th' wurruld that i really invy 'tis me frind th' ex-prisidint iv harvard. what a wondherful thing is youth. old fellows like ye'ersilf an' me make a bluff about th' advantages iv age. but we know there's nawthin' in it. we have wisdom, but we wud rather have hair. we have expeeryence, but we wud thrade all iv its lessons f'r hope an' teeth. "it makes me cross to see mesilf settin' here takin' a post grajate coorse in our cillybrated univarsity iv th' wicked wur-ruld an' watchin' th' freshmen comin' in. how happy they are, but how seeryous. how sure they are iv ivrything. us old fellows are sure iv nawthin'; we laugh but we are not cheerful; we have no romance about th' colledge. ye don't hear us givin' nine long cheers f'r our almy matther. we ain't even thankful f'r th' lessons it teaches us or th' wallops it hands us whin we f'rget what we've been taught. we're a sad lot iv old la-ads, hatin' th' school, but hatin' th' grajation exercises aven more. "but 'tis a rale pleasure to see th' bright faced freshmen comin' in an' i welcome th' last young fellow fr'm harvard to our vin'rable institution. i like to see these earnest, clear-eyed la-ads comin' in to waken th' echoes iv our grim walls with their young voices. i'm sure th' other undhergrajates will like him. he hasn't been spoiled be bein' th' star iv his school f'r so long, charles seems to me to be th' normal healthy boy. he does exactly what all freshmen in our university do whin they enther. he tells people what books they shud read an' he invints a new relligon. ivry well-ordhered la-ad has to get these two things out iv his system at wanst. what books does he advise, says ye? i haven't got th' complete list yet, but what i seen iv it was good. speakin' fr mesilf alone, i don't read books. they are too stimylatin'. i can get th' same wrong idees iv life fr'm dhrink. but i shud say that if a man was a confirmed book-reader, if he was a man that cudden't go to sleep without takin' a book an' if he read befure breakfast, i shud think that doctor eliot's very old vatted books are comparatively harmless. they are sthrong it is thrue. they will go to th' head. i wud advise a man who is aisily affected be books to stick to archibald clavering gunter. but they will hurt no man who's used to readin'. he has sawed thim out carefully. 'give me me tools,' says he, 'an' i will saw out a five-foot shelf iv books.' an' he done it. he has th' right idee. he real-izes that th' first thing to have in a libry is a shelf. fr'm time to time this can be decorated with lithrachure. but th' shelf is th' main thing. otherwise th' libry may get mixed up with readin' matther on th' table. th' shelf shud thin be nailed to th' wall iliven feet fr'm th' flure an' hermetically sealed. "what books does he riccomind? iv course there's such folklore as epicbaulus in marsupia an' th' wurruks iv hyperphrastus. but it shows how broad an' indulgent th' doctor's taste is that he has included milton's arryopatigica, if i have th' name right. this is what ye might call summer readin'. i don't know how i cud describe it to ye, hinnissy. ye wudden't hardly call it a detective story an' yet it ain't a problem play. areopapigica is a greek gur-rul who becomes th' iditor iv a daily newspaper. that is th' beginnin' iv th' plot. i won't tell ye how it comes out. i don't want to spile ye'er injymint iv it. but ye'll niver guess who committed th' crime. it is absolutely unexpicted. a most injanyous book an' wan iv th' best sellers iv its day. there were four editions iv thirty copies each an' i don't know how manny paper-covered copies at fifty cents were printed f'r circulation on th' mail coaches. i'm not sure if it iver was dhramatized; if it wasn't, there's a chanst f'r some manager. "the darin' rescue iv areopatigica be oliver cromwell--but i won't tell ye. ye must read it. there ar-re some awful comical things in it. i don't agree with uncle joe cannon, who says it is trashy. it is light, perhaps even frivolous. but it has gr-reat merit. i can't think iv annything that wud be more agreeable thin lyin' in a hammock, with a glass iv somethin' in ye'er hand on a hot day an' readin' this little jim iv pure english an' havin' a profissor fr'm colledge within aisy call to tell ye what it all meant. i niver go f'r a long journey. i mane i niver go f'r a long journey without a copy iv milton's agropapitica in me pocket. i have lent it to brakemen an' they have invaryably returned it. i have read it to men that wanted to fight me an' quited thim. yet how few people iv our day have read it! i'll bet ye eight dollars that if ye wait till th' stores let out ye can go on th' sthreet an' out iv ivry ten men ye meet at laste two, an' i'll take odds on three, have niver aven heerd iv this pow'ful thragedy. yet while it was runnin' ye cudden't buy a copy iv th' fireside companyon an' f'r two cinchries it has proticted th' shelves iv more libries thin anny iv milton's pomes, f'r hogan tells me this author, who ye hardly iver hear mentioned in th' sthreet cars at th' prisint moment, was a pote as well as an author an' blind at that, an', what is more, held a prom'nent pollytickal job. i wondher if two hundred years fr'm now people will cease to talk iv william jennings bryan. he won't, but will they? "well, sir, it must be a grand thing to injye good books, but it must be grander still to injye anny kind iv books. hogan can read annything. he ain't a bit particklar. he's tur-rbly addicted to th' habit. long years ago i decided that i cudden't read annything but th' lightest newspaper with me meals. i seldom read between meals excipt now an' thin f'r socyability's sake. if i am with people that are readin' i'm very apt to jine thim so's not to appear to be bad company. but hogan is always at it. i wudden't mind if he wint out boldly to readin'-rooms an' thin let it alone. but he reads whin he is be himsilf. he reads in bed. he reads with his meals. he is a secret reader. he nips in second-hand book stores. he can't go on a thrain an' have anny fun lookin' at th' other passengers or invyin th' farmers their fields an' not invyin' their houses. not a bit iv it. he has to put a book in his pocket. he'll tell ye that th' on'y readin' is doctor eliot's cillybrated old blend an' he'll talk larnedly about th' varyous vintages. but i've seen him read books that wud kill a thruckman. th' result iv it is that hogan is always wrong about ivrything. he sees th' wurruld upside down. some men are affected diff'rent. readin' makes thim weep. but it makes hogan believe in fairies while he's at it. he's irresponsible. there ain't annything in th' wurruld f'r him but dark villyans an' blond heroes. an' he's always fightin' these here imaginary inimies an' frinds, wantin' to desthroy a poor, tired, scared villyan, an' losin' his good money to a hero. i've thried to stop him. 'use ye'er willpower,' say i. 'limit ye'ersilf to a book or two a day,' says i. 'stay in th' open air. take soft readin'. how d'ye expict to get on in th' wurruld th' way ye are goin'? who wud make a confirmed reader th' cashier iv a bank? ye'd divide ye'er customers into villyans an' heroes an' ye wudden't lend money to th' villyans. an' thin ye'd be wrong aven if ye were right. f'r th' villyans wud be more apt to have th' money to bring back thin th' heroes,' says i. 'ye may be right,' says he. 'but 'tis too late to do annything with me. an' i don't care. it may hurt me in th' eyes iv me fellow counthrymen, but look at th' fun i get out iv it. i wudden't thrade th' injanyous wicked people an' th' saints that i see f'r all th' poor, dull, half-an'-half crathers that ye find in th' wurruld,' says he. "an' there ye ar-re. it's just as his frind, th' most prom'nent get-rich-quick-man iv his time, wanst said: 'readin' makes a man full.' an' maybe hogan's right. annyhow, i'm glad to have him advised about his books so that he won't hurt himsilf with lithrachoor that don't come undher th' pure food act. an' i'm glad to welcome our young friend charles eliot into our ancient univarsity. he'll like it f'r awhile. he is sure to make th' team an' i wudden't mind seein' him captain iv it. 'tis a gr-reat colledge afther all, an' if it makes me mad part iv th' time, because i'm always gettin' licked f'r what somebody else has done, on th' whole i injye it. th' coorse is hard. ivry man, woman, an' child is profissor an' student to ye. th' examinations are tough. ye niver know whin they're goin' to take place or what they'll be about. profissor eliot may pass ye on'y to have profissor hinnissy turn ye down. but there's wan sure thing--ye'll be grajiated. ye'll get th' usual diploma. ye'll grajiate not because iv annything ye've done, but because ye'er room is needed. 'i like th' old place,' says ye. 'an' i'm just beginnin' to larn,' says ye. 'pass on, blockhead,' says th' faculty. 'pass on, hinnissy--ye'll niver larn annything.' an' there ye are. what'll ye take?" "i wudden't mind havin' a little"--began mr. hennessy. "i don't mean what you mean," said mr. dooley. "will ye have th' avenin' paper or a little iv th' old stuff off th' shelf?" the tariff "well, sir, 'tis a gr-r-rand wurruk thim sinitors an' congressmen are doin' in wash'n'ton. me heart bleeds fr th' poor fellows, steamin' away undher th' majestic tin dome iv th' capitol thryin' to rejooce th' tariff to a weight where it can stand on th' same platform with me frind big bill without endangerin' his life. th' likes iv ye wud want to see th' tariff rejooced with a jack plane or an ice pick. but th' tariff has been a good frind to some iv thim boys an' it's a frind iv frinds iv some iv th' others an' they don't intend to be rough with it. a little gentle massage to rejooce th' most prom'nent prochooberances is all that is nicissry. whiniver they rub too hard an' th' tariff begins to groan, sinitor aldhrich says: 'go a little asier there, boys. he's very tender in some iv thim schedules. p'raps we'd betther stop f'r th' day an' give him a little nourishment to build him up,' he says. an' th' last i heerd about it, th' tariff was far fr'm bein' th' wan an' emacyated crather ye'd like to see comin' out iv th' sinit chamber. it won't have to be helped onto ye'er back an' ye won't notice anny reduction in its weight. no, sir, i shudden't be surprised if it was heartier thin iver. "me congressman sint me a copy iv th' tariff bill th' other day. he's a fine fellow, that congressman iv mine. he looks afther me inthrests well. he knows what a gr-reat reader i am. i don't care what i read. so he sint me a copy iv th' tariff bill an' i've been studyin' it f'r a week. 'tis a good piece iv summer lithrachoor. 'tis full iv action an' romance. i haven't read annythink to akel it since i used to get th' dead-wood dick series. "i'm in favor iv havin' it read on th' foorth iv july instead iv th' declaration iv indypindance. it gives ye some idee iv th' kind iv gloryous governmint we're livin' undher, to see our fair columbia puttin' her brave young arms out an' defindin' th' products iv our soil fr'm steel rails to porous plasthers, hooks an' eyes, artyficial horse hair an' bone casings, which comes undher th' head iv clothin' an' i suppose is a polite name f'r pantaloons. "iv coorse, low people like ye, hinnissy, will kick because it's goin' to cost ye more to indulge ye'er taste in ennervating luxuries. d'ye know sinitor aldhrich? ye dont? i'm surprised to hear it. he knows ye. why, he all but mentions ye'er name in two or three places. he does so. 'tis as if he said: 'this here vulgar plutycrat, hinnissy, is turnin' th' heads iv our young men with his garish display. befure this, counthries have perished because iv th' ostintation iv th' arrystocracy. we must presarve th' ideels iv american simplicity. we'll show this vulgar upstart that he can't humilyate his fellow citizens be goin' around dhressed up like an asyatic fav'rite iv th' impror neero, be hivens. how will we get at him?' says he. 'we'll put a tax iv sixty per cent. on ready made clothin' costin' less thin ten dollars a suit. that'll teach him to squander money wrung fr'm jawn d. rockyfellar in th' roo dilly pay. we'll go further thin that. we'll put a tax iv forty per cent. on knitted undherwear costin' less thin a dollar twinty-five a dozen. we'll make a specyal assault on woolen socks an' cowhide shoes. we'll make an example iv this here pampered babe iv fortune,' says he. "an' there it is. ye haven't got a thing on ye'er back excipt ye'er skin--an' that may be there; i haven't got as far as th' hide schedule yet--that ain't mentioned in this here boolwark iv our liberties. it's ye'er own fault. if ye will persist in wearin' those gee-gaws ye'll have to pay f'r thim. if ye will go on decoratin' ye'er house with shingles an' paint an' puttin' paper on th' walls an' adornin' th' inside iv it with ye'er barbaric taste f'r eight day clocks, cane bottom chairs an' karosene lamps, ye've got to settle, that's all. ye've flaunted ye'er wealth too long in th' face iv a sturdy people. "ye'd think th' way such as ye talk that ivrything is taxed. it ain't so. 'tis an insult to th' pathritism iv congress to say so. th' republican party, with a good deal iv assistance fr'm th' pathriotic dimmycrats, has been thrue to its promises. look at th' free list, if ye don't believe it. practically ivrything nicissry to existence comes in free. what, f'r example, says ye? i'll look. here it is. curling stones. there, i told ye. curling stones are free. ye'll be able to buy all ye'll need this summer f'r practically nawthin'. no more will ladies comin' into this counthry have to conceal curling stones in their stockin's to avoid th' iniquitous customs. "what else? well, teeth. here it is in th' bill: 'teeth free iv jooty.' undher th' dingley bill they were heavily taxed. onless ye cud prove that they had cost ye less thin a hundhred dollars, or that ye had worn thim f'r two years in europe, or that ye were bringin' thim in f'r scientific purposes or to give a museem, there was an enormous jooty on teeth. th' governmint used to sind profissyonal humorists down to th' docks to catch th' teeth smugglers. but fr'm now on ye can flaunt ye'er teeth in th' face iv anny inspictor. ye don't have to declare thim. ye don't have to put thim in th' bottom iv ye'er thrunk. ye don't have to have thim chalked or labelled befure ye get off th' dock. ye don't have to hand a five to th' inspictor an' whisper: 'i've got a few bicuspids that i picked up while abroad. be a good fellow an' let me through.' no, sir, teeth are free. "what other nicissities, says ye? well, there's sea moss. that's a good thing. ivry poor man will apprecyate havin' sea moss to stir in his tea. newspapers, nuts, an' nux vomica ar-re free. ye can take th' london _times_ now. but that ain't all by anny means. they've removed th' jooty on pulu. i didn't think they'd go that far, but in spite iv th' protests iv th' pulu foundhries iv sheboygan they ruthlessly sthruck it fr'm th' list iv jootyable articles. ye know what pulu is, iv coorse, an' i'm sure ye'll be glad to know that this refreshin' bev'rage or soap is on th' free list. sinitor root in behalf iv th' pulu growers iv new york objicted, but sinitor aldhrich was firm. 'no, sir,' he says, 'we must not tax annything that enters into th' daily life iv th' poor,' he says. 'while not a dhrinkin' man mesilf, i am no bigot, an' i wud not deny anny artisan his scuttle iv pulu,' he says. so pulu was put on th' free list, an' iv coorse zapper an' alazarin had to go on, too, as it is on'y be addin' thim to pulu that ye can make axle-grease. "there was a gr-reat sthruggle over can-nary bur-rd seed. riprisintatives iv th' chicago packers insisted that in time canary bur-rds cud be taught to eat pork chops. manny sinitors thought that th' next step wud be to take th' duty off cuttle fish bone, an' thus sthrike a blow at th' very heart iv our protictive system. but sinitor tillman, who is a gr-reat frind iv th' canary bur-rd an' is niver seen without wan perched on his wrist, which he has taught to swear, put up a gallant fight f'r his protegees, an' thousands iv canary bur-rds sang with a lighter heart that night. canary bur-rd seed will be very cheap this year, an' anny american wurrukin' man needn't go to bed hungry. there ought to be some way iv teachin' their wives how to cook it. it wud make a nourishin' dish whin ye have whetted ye'er face on a piece iv cuttle fish bone. i'm sure th' raison american wurrukin' men don't hop around an' sing over their wurruk is because they are improperly fed. "yes, sir, canary bur-rd seed is free. what else? lookin' down th' list i see that divvy-divvy is free also. this was let in as a compliment to sinitor aldhrich. it's his motto. be th' inthraduction iv this harmless dhrug into th' discussion he's been able to get a bill through that's satisfacthry to ivrywan. but i am surprised to see that spunk is on th' free list. is our spunk industhree dead? is there no pathrite to demand that we be proticted against th' pauper spunk iv europe? maybe me frind willum taft had it put on th' free list. i see in a pa-aper th' other day that what was needed at th' white house was a little more spunk. but does he have to import it fr'm abroad, i ask ye? isn't there enough american spunk? "well, sir, there are a few iv th' things that are on th' free list. but there are others, mind ye. here's some iv thim: apatite, hog bristles, wurruks iv art more thin twinty years old, kelp, marshmallows, life boats, silk worm eggs, stilts, skeletons, turtles, an' leeches. th' new tariff bill puts these familyar commodyties within th' reach iv all. but there's a bigger surprise waitin' for ye. what d'ye think ends th' free list? i'll give ye twinty chances an' ye'll niver guess. blankets? no. sugar? wrong. flannel shirts? thry to be a little practical, hinnissy. sinitor aldhrich ain't no majician. well, i might as well tell ye if ye're sure ye'er heart is sthrong an' ye can stand a joyful surprise. ar-re ye ready? well, thin, joss sticks an' opyum f'r smokin' ar-re on th' free list! if they ain't i'm a chinyman an' if they are i'll be wan pretty soon. "how often have i envied hop lung whin i see him burnin' his priceless joss sticks. how often have i seen him lyin' on top iv me week's washin' pullin' away at th' savry rooster brand an' dhreamin' he was th' impror iv chiny, while i've had to contint mesilf with a stogy that give me a headache! but that day is passed. me good an' great frind fr'm rhode island has made me th' akel iv anny chink that iver rolled a pill. th' tariff bill wudden't be complete without that there item. but it ought to read: 'opyum f'r smokin' while readin' th' tariff bill.' ye can take this sterlin' piece iv lithrachoor to a bunk with ye an' light a ball iv hop. befure ye smoke up p'raps ye can't see where th' tariff has been rejooced. but afther ye've had a long dhraw it all becomes clear to ye. ye'er worries about th' childhren's shoes disappear an' ye see ye'ersilf floatin' over a purple sea iv alazarin, in ye'er private yacht, lulled be th' london _times_, surrounded be wurruks iv art more thin twinty years old, atin' marshmallows an' canary bur-rd seed, while th' turtles an' leeches frisk on th' binnacle. "well, sir, if nobody else has read th' debates on th' tariff bill, i have. an' i'll tell ye, hinnissy, that no such orathry has been heerd in congress since dan'l webster's day, if thin. th' walls iv congress hall has resounded with th' loftiest sintimints. hinnery cabin lodge in accents that wud melt th' heart iv th' coldest mannyfacthrer iv button shoes has pleaded f'r freedom f'r th' skins iv cows. i'm sorry to say that this appeal fr'm th' cradle iv our liberties wasn't succissful. th' hide iv th' pauperized kine iv europe will have to cough up at th' custom house befure they can be convarted into brogans. this pathriotic result was secured be th' gallant bailey iv texas. a fine lib'ral minded fellow, that lad bailey. he's an ardint free thrader, mind ye. he's almost a slave to th' historic principles iv th' dimmycratic party. ye bet he is. but he's no blamed bigot. he can have principles an' he can lave thim alone. an' i want to tell ye, me frind, that whin it comes to disthributin' th' honors f'r this reform iv th' tariff, don't ye fail to throw a few flowers, or, if bricks are handier, bricks at th' riprisintatives iv our small but gallant party. it was a fine thing to see thim standin' be th' battle cry iv our grand old organyzation. "says th' sinitor fr'm louisyanny: 'louisyanny, th' proudest jool in th' dyadim iv our fair land, remains thrue to th' honored teachin's iv our leaders. th' protictive tariff is an abomynation. it is crushin' out th' lives iv our people. an' wan iv th' worst parts iv this divvlish injine iv tyranny is th' tariff on lathes. fellow sinitors, as long,' he says, 'as i can stand, as long as nature will sustain me in me protest, while wan dhrop iv pathriotic blood surges through me heart, i will raise me voice again a tariff on lathes, onless,' he says, 'this dhread implymint iv oppressyon is akelly used,' he says, 'to protict th' bland an' beautiful molasses iv th' state iv me birth,' he says. "'i am heartily in sympathy with th' sinitor fr'm louisyanny,' says th' sinitor fr'm virginya. 'i loathe th' tariff. fr'm me arliest days i was brought up to look on it with pizenous hathred. at manny a con-vintion ye cud hear me whoopin' again it. but if there is such a lot iv this monsthrous iniquity passin' around, don't virginya get none? how about th' mother iv prisidents? ain't she goin' to have a grab at annything? gintlemen, i do not ask, i demand rights f'r me commonwealth. i will talk here ontil july fourth, nineteen hundhred an' eighty-two, agin th' proposed hellish tax on feather beds onless somethin' is done f'r th' tamarack bark iv old virginya.' "a sinitor: 'what's it used f'r?' "th' sinitor fr'm virginya: 'i do not quite know. it is ayether a cure f'r th' hives or enthers largely into th' mannyfacture iv carpet slippers. but there's a frind iv mine, a lile virginyan, who makes it an' he needs th' money.' "'th' argymints iv th' sinitor fr'm virginya are onanswerable,' says sinitor aldhrich. 'wud it be agreeable to me dimmycratic collague to put both feather beds an' his what's-ye-call-it in th' same item?' "'in such circumstances,' says th' sinitor fr'm virginya, 'i wud be foorced to waive me almost insane prejudice again th' hellish docthrines iv th' distinguished sinitor fr'm rhode island,' says he. "an' so it goes, hinnissy. niver a sordid wurrud, mind ye, but ivrything done on th' fine old principle iv give an' take." "well," said mr. hennessy, "what diff'rence does it make? th' foreigner pays th' tax, annyhow." "he does" said mr. dooley, "if he ain't turned back at castle garden." the big fine "that was a splendid fine they soaked jawn d. with," said mr. dooley. "what did they give him?" asked mr. hennessy. "twinty-nine millyon dollars," said mr. dooley. "oh, great!" said mr. hennessy. "that's a grand fine. it's a gorjous fine. i can't hardly believe it." "it's thrue, though," said mr. dooley. "twinty-nine millyon dollars. divvle th' cent less. i can't exactly make out what th' charge was that they arrested him on, but th' gin'ral idee is that jawn d. was goin' around loaded up to th' guards with standard ile, exceedin' th' speed limit in acquirin' money, an' singin' 'a charge to keep i have' till th' neighbors cud stand it no longer. the judge says: 'ye're an old offender an' i'll have to make an example iv ye. twinty-nine millyon dollars or fifty-eight millyon days. call th' next case, misther clerk. "did he pay th' fine? he did not. iv coorse he cud if he wanted to. he wuddent have to pawn annything to get th' money, ye can bet on that. all he'd have to do would be to put his hand down in his pocket, skin twinty-nine millyon dollar bills off iv his roll an' hurl thim at th' clerk. but he refused to pay as a matter iv principle. 'twas not that he needed th' money. he don't care f'r money in th' passionate way that you an' me do, hinnissy. th' likes iv us are as crazy about a dollar as a man is about his child whin he has on'y wan. th' chances are we'll spoil it. but jawn d., havin' a large an' growin' fam'ly iv dollars, takes on'y a kind iv gin'ral inthrest in thim. he's issued a statement sayin' that he's a custojeen iv money appinted be himsilf. he looks afther his own money an' th' money iv other people. he takes it an' puts it where it won't hurt thim an' they won't spoil it. he's a kind iv a society f'r th' previntion of croolty to money. if he finds a man misusing his money he takes it away fr'm him an' adopts it. ivry saturdah night he lets th' man see it fr a few hours. an' he says he's surprised to find that whin, with th' purest intintions in th' wurruld, he is found thryin' to coax our little money to his home where it'll find conjanial surroundings an' have other money to play with, th' people thry to lynch him an' th' polis arrest him f'r abduction. "so as a matther iv principle he appealed th' case. an appeal, hinnissy, is where ye ask wan coort to show it's contempt f'r another coort. 'tis sthrange that all th' pathrites that have wanted to hang willum jennings bryan an' mesilf f'r not showin' proper respect f'r th' joodicyary, are now showin' their respect f'r th' joodicyary be appealin' fr'm their decisions. ye'd think jawn d. wud bow his head reverentially in th' awful presence iv kenesaw mt. landis an' sob out: 'thank ye'er honor. this here noble fine fills me with joy. but d'ye think ye give me enough? if agreeable i'd like to make it an even thirty millyons.' but he doesn't. he's like mesilf. him an' me bows to th' decisions iv th' coorts on'y if they bow first. "i have gr-reat respect f'r th' joodicyary, as fine a lot iv cross an' indignant men as ye'll find annywhere. i have th' same respect f'r thim as they have f'r each other. but i niver bow to a decision iv a judge onless, first, it's pleasant to me, an', second, other judges bow to it. ye can't be too careful about what decisions ye bow to. a decision that seems agreeable may turn out like an acquaintance ye scrape up at a picnic. ye may be ashamed iv it to-morrah. manny's th' time i've bowed to a decree iv a coort on'y to see it go up gayly to th' supreem coort, knock at th' dure an' be kicked down stairs be an angry old gintleman in a black silk petticoat. a decree iv th' coort has got to be pretty vinrable befure i do more thin greet it with a pleasant smile. "me idee was whin i read about jawn d's fine that he'd settle at wanst, payin' twinty-eight millyon dollars in millyon dollar bills an' th' other millyon in chicken-feed like ten thousand dollar bills just to annoy th' clerk. but i ought to've known betther. manny's th' time i've bent me proud neck to a decision iv a coort that lasted no longer thin it took th' lawyer f'r th' definse to call up another judge on th' tillyphone. a judge listens to a case f'r days an' hears, while he's figurin' a possible goluf score on his blotting pad, th' argymints iv two or three lawyers that no wan wud dare to offer a judgeship to. gin'rally speakin', judges are lawyers. they get to be judges because they have what hogan calls th' joodicyal timp'ramint, which is why annybody gets a job. th' other kind people won't take a job. they'd rather take a chance. th' judge listens to a case f'r days an' decides it th' way he intinded to. d'ye find th' larned counsel that's just been beat climbin' up on th' bench an' throwin' his arms around th' judge? ye bet ye don't. he gathers his law books into his arms, gives th' magistrate a look that means, 'there's an eliction next year', an' runs down th' hall to another judge. th' other judge hears his kick an' says he: 'i don't know annything about this here case except what ye've whispered to me, but i know me larned collague an' i wuddent thrust him to referee a roller-skatin' contest. don't pay th' fine till ye hear fr'm me.' th' on'y wan that bows to th' decision is th' fellow that won, an' pretty soon he sees he's made a mistake, f'r wan day th' other coort comes out an' declares that th' decision of th' lower coort is another argymint in favor iv abolishing night law schools. "that's th' way jawn d. felt about it an' he didn't settle. i wondher will they put him away if he don't pay ivinchooly? 'twill be a long sentence. a frind iv mine wanst got full iv kerosene an' attempted to juggle a polisman. they thried him whin he come out iv th' emergency hospital an' fined him a hundhred dollars. he didn't happen to have that amount with him at th' moment or at anny moment since th' day he was born. but the judge was very lenient with him. he said he needn't pay it if he cuddent. th' coort wud give him a letther of inthroduction to th' bridewell an' he cud stay there f'r two hundhred days. at that rate it'll be a long time befure jawn d. an' me meet again on the goluf-links. hogan has it figured out that if jawn d. refuses to go back on his puritan principles an' separate himsilf fr'm his money he'll be wan hundhred an' fifty-eight thousand years in cold storage. a man ought to be pretty good at th' lock step in a hundhred an' fifty-eight thousand years. "well, sir, glory be but times has changed whin they land me gr-reat an' good frind with a fine that's about akel to three millyon dhrunk an' disorderly cases. 'twud've been cheaper if he'd took to dhrink arly in life. i've made a vow, hinnissy, niver to be very rich. i'd like to be a little rich, but not rich enough f'r anny wan to notice that me pockets bulged. time was whin i dhreamed iv havin' money an' lots iv it. 'tis thrue i begun me dhreams at th' wrong end, spent th' money befure i got it. i was always clear about th' way to spend it but oncertain about th' way to get it. if th' lord had intinded me to be a rich man he'd've turned me dhreams around an' made me clear about makin' th' money but very awkward an' shy about gettin' rid iv it. there are two halves to ivry dollar. wan is knowin' how to make it an' th' other is not knowin' how to spend it comfortably. whin i hear iv a man with gr-reat business capacity i know he's got an akel amount iv spending incapacity. no matter how much he knew about business he wuddent be rich if he wasn't totally ignorant iv a science that we have developed as far as our means will allow. but now, i tell ye, i don't dhream iv bein' rich. i'm afraid iv it. in th' good old days th' polis coorts were crowded with th' poor. they weren't charged with poverty, iv coorse, but with the results iv poverty, d'ye mind. now, be hivens, th' rich have invaded even th' coorts an' the bridewell. manny a face wearin' side whiskers an' gold rimmed specs peers fr'm th' windows iv th' black maria. 'what's this man charged with?' says th' coort. 'he was found in possession iv tin millyon dollars,' says th' polisman. an' th' judge puts on th' black cap." "well," said mr. hennessy, "'tis time they got what was comin' to thim." "i'll not say ye're wrong," said mr. dooley. "i see th' way me frind jawn d. feels about it. he thinks he's doin' a great sarvice to th' worruld collectin' all th' money in sight. it might remain in incompetint hands if he didn't get it. 'twud be a shame to lave it where it'd be misthreated. but th' on'y throuble with jawn is that he don't see how th' other fellow feels about it. as a father iv about thirty dollars i want to bring thim up mesilf in me own foolish way. i may not do what's right be thim. i may be too indulgent with thim. their home life may not be happy. perhaps 'tis clear that if they wint to th' rockyfellar institution f'r th' care iv money they'd be in betther surroundings, but whin jawn thries to carry thim off i raise a cry iv 'polis,' a mob iv people that niver had a dollar iv their own an' niver will have wan, pounce on th' misguided man, th' polis pinch him, an' th' governmint condemns th' institution an' lets out th' inmates an' a good manny iv thim go to th'bad." "d'ye think he'll iver sarve out his fine?" asked mr. hennessy. "i don't know," said mr. dooley. "but if he does, whin he comes out at the end iv a hundhred an fifty-eight thousand years he'll find a great manny changes in men's hats an' th' means iv transportation but not much in annything else. he may find flyin' machines, though it'll be arly f'r thim, but he'll see a good manny people still walkin' to their wurruk." expert testimony "what's an expert witness?" asked mr. hennessy. "an expert witness," said mr. dooley, "is a doctor that thinks a man must be crazy to be rich. that's thrue iv most iv us, but these doctors don't mean it th' way i do. their theery is that annything th' rich do that ye want to do an' don't do is looney. as between two men with money, th' wan with most money is craziest. if ye want a diploma f'r sanity, hinnissy, th' on'y chance ye have iv gettin' it is to commit a crime an' file an invintory iv ye'er estate with th' coort. ye'll get a certy-ficate iv sanity that ye'll be able to show with pride whin ye're let out iv joliet. "in th' old days if a man kilt another man he took three jumps fr'm th' scene iv th' disaster to th' north corrydor iv th' county jail. that still goes f'r th' poor man. no wan has thried to rob him iv th' privilege won f'r him be his ancestors iv bein' quickly an' completely hanged. a photygraph iv him is took without a collar, he's yanked befure an awful coort iv justice, a deef-mute lawyer is appinted to look afther his inthrests an' see that they don't suffer be bein' kept in th' stuffy atmosphere iv th' coortroom, th' state's attorney presints a handsome pitcher iv him as a fiend in human form, th' judge insthructs th' jury iv onprejudiced jurors in a hurry to get home that they ar-re th' sole judges iv th' law an' th' fact, th' law bein' that he ought to be hanged an' th' fact bein' that he will be hanged, an' befure our proletory frind comes out iv his thrance he's havin' his first thorough fill-up iv ham an' eggs, an' th' clargy ar-re showin' an amount iv inthrest in him that must be surprisin' to a man iv his humble station. "a few days later i r-read in th' pa-apers in a column called 'brief news jottings,' just below a paragraph about th' meetin' iv th' dairyman's assocyation, an account iv how justice has pursooed her grim coorse in th' case iv john adamowski. an' i'm thankful to know that th' law has been avinged, that life an' property again ar-re safe in our fair land iv freedom, an' that th' wretched criminal lived long enough to get all he wanted to eat. "justice is all a poor criminal asks f'r, an' that's what he gets. he don't desarve a anny betther. 'tis like askin' on'y f'r a pair iv dooces in a car-d game an' havin to bet thim. if i done wrong i'd say: 'don't deal me anny justice. keep it f'r thim that wants it. undher th' circumstances all i ask is a gr-reat deal iv injustice an' much mercy. i do not ask to be acquitted be a jury iv me peers. i am a modest man an' i'll accipt me freedom fr'm th' humblest bailiff in th' land. i do not care to come triumphant out iv this ordeel an' repoort other cases f'r th' newspa-apers. all i ask is a block's start an' some wan holdin' th' polisman's coattails. i waive me right to be thried be an incorruptible, fair, an' onprejudiced judge. give me wan that's onfair an' prejudiced an' that ye can slip somethin' to. "no, sir, whin a man's broke an' does something wrong, th' on'y temple iv justice he ought to get into is a freight car goin' west. don't niver thrust that there tough-lookin' lady with th' soord in her hand an' th' handkerchief over her eyes. she may be blind, though i've seen thriles where she raised th' bandage an' winked at th' aujence--she may be blind, but 'tis th' fine sinse iv touch she has, an' if ye vinture into her lodgins an' she goes through ye'er pockets an' finds on'y th' pawnticket f'r th' watch ye stole off hogan, she locks th' dure, takes off th' handkerchief, an' goes at ye with th' soord. "but suppose ye have a little iv th' useful with ye. ye br-reak into hogan's house some night sufferin' fr'm an incontrollable impulse to take his watch. don't get mad, now. i'm on'y supposin' all this. ye wudden't take his watch. he has no watch. well, he's sound asleep. ye give him a good crack on th' head so he won't be disturbed, an' hook th' clock fr'm undher th' pillow. th' next day ye're arristed. th' pa-apers comes out with th' news: 'haughty sign iv wealthy fam'ly steals watch fr'm awful hogan. full account iv dhreadful career iv th' victim. unwritten law to be invoked,' an' there's an article to show that anny wan has a right to take hogan's watch, that he was not a proper man to have th' care iv a watch, annyhow, an' that ye done well to hook it. this is always th' first step to'rd securin' cold justice f'r th' rich. ye're next ilicted a mimber iv nearly all th' ministers' assocyations, an' finally, in ordher that th' law may be enfoorced without regard to persons, an expert witness is hired f'r ye. "th' thrile begins. ye walk in with a quick, nervous sthride an' set th' watch be th' coort clock. 'ar-re ye guilty or not guilty?' says th' clerk. 'guilty an' glad iv it,' says ye'er lawyer amid cheers an' hisses. 'have ye th' watch with ye?' says th' coort. 'i have,' says th' pris'ner, smilin' in his peculiar way. 'lave me look at it,' says th' coort. 'i will not,' says the pris'ner, puttin' it back into his pocket. 'how ar-re ye goin' to defind this crook?' says th' judge. 'we ar-re goin' to prove that at th' time he committed this crime he was insane,' says th' lawyer. 'i object,' says th' state's attorney. 'it is not legal to inthrajooce evidence iv insanity till th' proper foundations is established. th' defince must prove that th' pris'ner has money. how do we know he isn't broke like th' rest iv us?' th' coort: 'how much money have ye got?' the pris'ner: 'two millyon dollars, but i expect more.' th' coort: 'objection overruled.' "th' expert is called. 'doctor, what expeeryence have ye had among th' head cures?' 'i have been f'r forty years in an asylum.' 'as guest or landlord?' 'as both.' 'now, doctor, i will ask you a question. supposin' this pris'ner to be a man with a whole lot iv money, an' supposin' he wint to this house on th' night in question, an' suppose it was snowin', an' suppose it wasn't, an' suppose he turned fr'm th' right hand corner to th' left goin' upstairs, an' supposin' he wore a plug hat an' a pair iv skates, an' supposin' th' next day was winsday--' 'i objict,' says th' state's attorney. 'th' statues, with which me larned frind is no doubt familiar, though i be darned if he shows it, f'rbids th' mention iv th' days iv th' week.' 'scratch out winsday an' substichoot four o'clock in janooary,' says th' coort. 'now, how does th' sentence r-read?' 'th' next day was four o'clock in janooary--an' supposin' th' amount iv money, an' supposin' ye haven't got a very large salary holdin' th' chair iv conniption fits at th' college, an' supposin' ye don't get a cent onless ye answer r-right, i ask ye, on th' night in question whin th' pris'ner grabbed th' clock, was he or was he not funny at th' roof?' 'i objict to th' form iv question,' says th' state's attorney. 'in th' eighth sintince i move to sthrike out th' wurrud and as unconstitutional, unprofissyonal, an' conthry to th' laws iv evidence.' 'my gawd, has my clint no rights in this coort?' says th' other lawyer. 'ye bet he has,' says th' coort. 'we'll sthrike out th' wurrud and but well substichoot th' more proper wurrud "aloofness." "'did ye see th' pris'ner afther his arrest?' 'i did.' 'where?' 'in th' pa-apers.' 'what was he doin'?' 'his back was tur-rned.' 'what did that indicate to ye?' 'that he had been sufferin' fr'm a variety iv tomaine excelsis--' 'greek wurruds,' says th' coort. 'latin an' greek,' says th' expert. 'pro-ceed,' says th' coort. 'i come to th' conclusion,' says th' expert, 'that th' man, when he hooked th' watch, was sufferin' fr'm a sudden tempest in his head, a sudden explosion as it were, a sudden i don't know-what-th'-divvle-it-was, that kind iv wint off in his chimbley, like a storm at sea.' 'was he in anny way bug befure th' crime?' 'not a bit. he suffered fr'm warts whin a boy, which sometimes leads to bozimbral hoptocollographophiloplutomania, or what th' germans call tantrums, but me gin'ral con-clusion was that he was perfectly sane all his life till this minnyit, an' that so much sanity wint to his head an' blew th' cover off.' "'has he been sane iver since?' says the lawyer. 'ye'd betther have a care how ye answer that question, me boy,' says th' pris'ner, carelessly jingling th' loose change in his pocket. 'sane?' says th' expert. 'well, i shud think he was. why, i can hardly imagine how he stayed feather-headed long enough to take th' villan's joolry. sane, says ye? i don't mean anny disrespect to th' coort or th' bar, but if ye gintlemen had half as much good brains in ye'er head as he has, ye'd not be wastin' ye'er time here. there ain't a man in this counthry th' akel iv this gr-reat man. talk about dan'l webster, he was an idyut compared with this joynt intelleck. no, sir, he's a fine, thoughtful, able, magnificent specimen iv man an' has been iver since between twelve four an' twelve four-an'-a-half on that fatal night. an' a good fellow at that.' "'what d'ye propose to do to stand this here testymony off?' says th' judge. 'i propose,' says th' state's attorney, 'to prove be some rale experts, men who have earned their repytations be testifyin' eight ways fr'm th' jack in a dozen criminal cases, that so far fr'm bein' insane on this particklar night, this was th' on'y time that he was perfeckly sane.' 'oh, look here, judge,' says bedalia sassyfrass iv _th' daily fluff_, 'this here has gone far enough. th' man's not guilty, an' if ye don't want a few remarks printed about ye, that'll do ye no good, ye'll let him off.' 'don't pay anny attintion to what she says, fitzy,' says another lady. 'her decayed newspa-aper has no more circulation thin a cucumber. we expict ye to follow th' insthructions printed in our vallyable journal this mornin'.' "'sir,' says a tall man, risin' in his place, 'i am th' riv'rend thompson jubb.' 'not th' notoryous shepherd iv that name?' 'th' same,' says th' riv'rend jubb. 'that lowly worker in th' vineyard iv th' lord who astonished th' wurruld be atin' glass in th' pulpit an' havin' th' bible tattooed on him. i wish th' privilege iv standin' on me head an' playin' "a charge to keep i have" on the accorjeen with me feet. 'granted,' says th' coort. 'i will now charge th' jury as to th' law an' th' fact: i am all mixed up on th' law; th' fact is there's a mob outside waitin' to lynch ye if ye don't do what it wants. th' coort will now adjourn be th' back dure.' 'where's th' pris'ner?' says th' expert. 'he has gone to addhress a mothers' meetin',' says th' clerk. 'thin i must be goin' too,' says th' expert. an' there ye ar-re." "i'm glad that fellow got me off", said mr. hennessy, "but thim experts ar-re a bad lot. what's th' difference between that kind iv tistymony an' perjury?" "ye pay ye'er money an' take ye'er choice", said mr. dooley. the call of the wild "well, sir," said mr. dooley, "i see me frind tiddy rosenfelt has been doin' a little lithry criticism, an' th' hospitals are full iv mangled authors. th' next time wan iv thim nature authors goes out into th' woods lookin' f'r his prey he'll go on crutches." "what's it about?" asked mr. hennessy. "'twas this way," said mr. dooley. "i have it fr'm hogan, me lithry adviser. he keeps me posted on what's goin' on in lithrachoor, an' i do th' same f'r him on crime. i've always got a little something that's excitin' comin' to me, but this time he's made good. it seems, ye see, that a good manny iv th' la-ads that write th' books have been lavin' th' route iv th' throlley line an' takin' to th' woods. they quit myrtle an' clarence an' th' wrong done to oscar lumlovitch be th' brutal foreman iv lard tank nine, an' wint to wurruk on th' onhappy love affairs iv carrie boo, th' deer, an' th' throubles in th' domestic relations iv th' pan fish an' th' skate. f'r th' last year th' on'y books that hogan has told me about have been wrote about animiles. i've always thought iv th' beasts iv th' forest prowlin' around an' takin' a leg off a man that'd been sint to colorado f'r his lungs. but these boys tell me they're diff'rent in their home life. they fall in love, get marrid an' divoorced, bring up fam'lies, an' are supported or devoured be thim, as th' case may be, accumylate money, dodge taxes, dhrink to excess, an' in ivry way act like human bein's. i wudden't be surprised to know that a bear had a tillyphone in his room, an' that th' gopher complained iv his gas bills. "ivry time i go up into th' park to see me old frind th' illyphant i wondher what dhreams ar-re goin' on behind that nose iv his that he uses akelly as a garden hose, a derrick, or a knife an' fork. is he recallin' th' happy days at barnum's befure brutal man sunk an ice pick into him an' dhrove him to th' park? is there some wan still there that he thinks iv? is she alive, is she dead, does she iver dhream iv him as she ates her hay an' rubs her back agin th' bars iv her gilded cage? there's th' hippypotamus. he don't look to be full iv sintiment, but ye never can tell. manny an achin' heart beats behind a cold an' sloppy exteeryor. somewhere in sunny africa a loving fam'ly may be waitin' fr him. th' wallow at th' riverside is there, with th' slime an' ooze arranged be tinder paws. but he will not return. they will meet, but they will miss him, there will be wan vacant lair. "well, sir, just as i'd got to th' frame iv mind whin i'm thinkin' iv askin' that gloomy lookin' allygator in th' park up to spind an avenin' with me, along comes tiddy rosenfelt an' says there's nawthin' in it. it's hard on th' boys. they ar-re doin' th' best they can. ye can't expect an author to lave his comfortable flat an' go three or four thousand miles to larn whether th' hero iv his little love story murdhers his uncle be bitin' him abaft th' ear or be fellin' him with a half nelson an' hammer-lock. why should he? who wud feed th' goold fish while he was gone? "no, sir, he does just right. instead iv venturin' into th' wilds an' p'raps bein' et up be wan iv his fav'rite charackters, he calls f'r some tea an' toast, jabs his pen into th' inkwell, an' writes: 'vichtry was not long in th' grasp iv th' whale. befure he cud return to his burrow tusky bicuspid had seized him be th' tail an' dashed his brains out agin a rock. with a leap in th' air th' bold wolf put to rout a covey iv muskrats, those evil sojers iv fortune that ar-re seen hoverin' over ivry animile battlefield. wan blow iv his paw broke th' back iv th' buffalo. with another he crushed a monsthrous sage hen, at wanst th' most threacherous an' th' hardiest iv th' beasts iv th' wild. paralyzed be th' boldness iv th' wolf, th' camel an' th' auk fled fr'm th' scene iv havoc, as is their wont. all that remained iv his inimies now was th' cow, which defied him fr'm the branches iv a pine tree an' pelted him with th' monsthrous fruit iv this cillybrated viggytable. now, it is well known that however aven they may be in a boording house, th' wolf is no match f'r a cow in a tree. but this was no ordhinary wolf. as he heerd th' low cry iv' his mate he was indowed with th' strength iv a thousand piany movers. with a gesture iv impatience he shed his coat, f'r it was spring, childher, an' he shud've been more careful; he shed his coat, swiftly climbed th' tree an' boldly advanced on th' foe. his inimy give th' low growl iv his hated thribe. how manny a time have i heerd it in englewood an' shuddered with fear. but th' dauntless tusky answered back with his battle song, th' long chirp iv th' wild wolf, his wife accompanyin' him fr'm th' foot iv th' tree on a sheep bone. with wan spring th' inthrepid wolf sprang at his inimy. she thried to sink her venomous fangs into his wish-bone, but with incredulous swiftness, he back-heeled an' upper-cut her, swung left to body an' right to point iv jaw, an' with wan last grimace iv defiance th' gr-reat bulk iv th' monsther fell tin thousand feet into th' roarin' torrent an' took th' count. tusky heerd th' soft love-note iv his mate. she was eatin' th' whale. he hastily descinded. an' so peace come to th' jungle.' "that sounds all right to me. i like to see th' best man or th' best animile win. an' i want to see him win good. it wudden't help me story to tell about tusky goin' home with wan ear gone an' his eye blacked, an' tellin' his wife that he'd just about managed to put wan over that stopped another wolf. that's what usually happens up this way, an' it ain't very good readin'. when i want to tell a story that'll inthrest me frinds i give it to thim good. whin i describe me fav'rite hero, dock haggerty, i tell about him throwin' wan man out iv th' window an' usin' another as a club to bate th' remainin' twelve into submission. but if i had to swear to it, an' wasn't on good terms with th' judge, i wudden't say that i iver see dock haggerty lick more than wan man--at a time. at a time, mind ye. he might take care iv a procession iv johnsons. but he'd be in throuble with a couple iv mimbers iv th' ethical culture society that came to him at th' same moment. 'if iver more thin wan comes at wanst,' says th' dock, 'i'm licked,' he says. "but that ain't what i tell late at night, an' it ain't what i want to read. ye bet it ain't. if i wint over to a book store an' blew in me good thirty-nine cints f'r a dollar-an'-a-half book, i'd want some kind iv a hero that i never see around these corners. th' best day i iver knew jawn l. sullivan had a little something on me. i won't say it was much, but now that we're both retired, i'll say that i'm glad i niver challenged him. but i wudden't look at a book, an' i wudden't annyway, but i wudden't let hogan tell me about a hero that cudden't wear an overcoat an' rubber boots, have wan arm done up in a sling, an' something th' matther with th' other, blue spectatacles on his eyes, a plug hat on his head, th' aujeence throwin' bricks at him, an' th' referee usin' a cross-cut saw on his neck, an' thin make two hundher an' fifty jawn l. sullivans establish th' new record f'r th' leap through th' window. whin i want a hero, i want a good wan. i don't care whether 'tis a wolf, a sojer, or a prisident. it all comes to th' same thing--whether 'tis hogan's frind, th' wolf that he's been talkin' about f'r a year, or that other old frind iv his that he used to talk about--what d'ye call him?--ah, where's me mind goin'?--ivanhoe. "but tiddy rosenfelt don't feel that way about it. he's called down thim nature writers just th' same way he'd call me down if i wint befure th' fifth grade at th' brothers' school an' told thim what i thought wud inthrest thim about dock haggerty. what does he say? i'll tell ye. 'i do not wish to be harsh,' says he, 'but if i wanted to charackterize these here nature writers, i wud use a much shorter an' uglier wurrud thin liar, if i cud think iv wan, which i cannot. ye take, f'r example, what's-his-name. has this man iver been outside iv an aviary? i doubt it. here he has a guinea pig killin' a moose be bitin' it in th' ear. now it is notoryous to anny lover iv th' wilds, anny man with a fondness f'r these monarchs iv forests, that no moose can be kilt be a wound in th' ear. i have shot a thousand in th' ear with no bad effects beyond makin' thim hard iv hearin'. "'here is a book befure me be wan iv these alleged nature writers. this is a man whose name is a household wurrud in conneticut. his books are used in th' schools. an' what does this man, who got his knowledge iv wild beasts apparently fr'm mis-treatin' hens f'r th' pip, say; what is his message to th' little babblin' childher iv conneticut? it is thim that i've got to think iv. instead iv tellin' thim th' blessed truth, instead iv leadin' thim up be thurly christyan teachings to an undherstandin' iv what is right an' what is ideel in life, he poisons their innocent minds with th' malicious, premeditated falsehood--i can't think iv an uglier or shorter wurrud that wud go with premeditated--that th' wolf kills th' grizzly bear be sinkin' its hidyous fangs into th' gapin' throat iv its prey. how can honest citizens an' good women be brought up on such infamyous docthrine? supposin' a bear shud attack conneticut an' th' bells shud ring f'r th' citizens to arise, an' these little darlings shud follow this false prophet an' run out in their nighties an' thry to leap at his throat. wudden't the bear be surprised? wudden't the little infants be surprised? ye bet they wud. i want these here darlings to know th' blessed truth, th' softenin' an' beautiful truth that th' on'y way f'r a wolf to kill a bear is to disembowel him. there is no other way. th' wolf springs at his prey, an' with wan terrific lunch pries him open. no wolf cud kill a bear th' way willum j. long iv stamford has described. a bear has th' sthrongest throat iv anny crather in th' wurruld, barrin' bryan. why, i wud hate to have to sthrangle a bear. i did wanst, but i had writer's cramp f'r months aftherward.' "an' that settles it. fr'm now on ye can get anny wan iv these here nature writers be callin' up four iliven eight b, buena park. th' wild animiles can go back to their daily life iv doin' th' best they can an' th' worst they can, which is th' same thing with thim, manin' get what ye want to eat an' go to sleep with ye'er clothes on. but some wan ought to bring out a new nature story. i've thought iv chapter twinty-eight: 'with wan blow iv his pen he laid low, but not much lower, orpheus l. jubb, th' well-known minichure painter who has taken up nature study. with another he disembowelled th' riv'rend doctor aleck guff, who retired fr'm th' universalist church because he cud not subscribe to their heejous docthrines about th' future life, an' wrote his cillybrated book on wild animiles iv th' west fr'm a brooklyn car window. it took on'y a moment f'r him to inflict a mortal wound on seton-thompson's kodak. an' tiddy rosenfelt stood alone in th' primeval forest. suddenly there was a sound in th' bushes. he loaded his pen, an' thin give a gasp iv relief, f'r down th' glade come his thrusted ally, john burroughs, leadin' captive th' pair iv wild white mice that had so long preyed on th' counthry.' "an' there ye ar-re, hinnissy. in me heart i'm glad these neefaryous plots iv willum j. long an' others have been defeated. th' man that tells ye'er blessed childher that th' way a wild goat kills an owl is be pretendin' to be an alarum clock, is an undesirable citizen. he ought to be put in an aquaryum. but take it day in an' day out an' willum j. long won't give anny information to ye'er son packy that'll deceive him much. th' number iv carryboo, deers, hippypotamuses, allygators, an' muskoxes that come down th' ar-rchey road in th' coorse iv a year wudden't make anny wan buy a bow an' arrow. it don't make near as much diff'rence to us how they live as it does to thim how we live. they're goin' an' we're comin', an' they ought to investygate an' find out th' reason why. i suppose they don't have to go to school to larn how to bite something that they dislike so much they want to eat it. if i had to bring up a flock iv wild childher in ar-rchey road, i wudden't much care what they larned about th' thrue habits iv th' elk or th' chambok, but i'd teach thim what i cud iv th' habits, the lairs, an' th' bite iv th' polisman on th' beat." "well," said mr. hennessy, "tiddy rosenfelt is right. a fellow that writes books f'r childher ought to write th' truth." "th' little preciouses wudden't read thim," said mr. dooley. "annyhow, th' truth is a tough boss in lithrachoor. he don't pay aven boord wages, an' if ye go to wurruk f'r him ye want to have a job on th' side." the japanese scare "did ye go to see th' japs whin they were here?" asked mr. dooley. "i did not," said mr. hennessy. "nor i," said mr. dooley. "i was afraid to. they're a divvle iv a sinsitive people thim japs. look cross-eyed at thim an' they're into ye'er hair. i stayed away fr'm th' stock yards whin me frind gin'ral armour was showin' gin'ral kroky some rale slaughter. i didn't dare to go down there f'r fear i'd involve this fair land iv ours in war. supposin' th' haughty little fellow was to see me grinnin' at him. a smile don't seem th' same thing to an oryental that it is to us cowcassians. he might think i was insultin' him. 'look at that fellow makin' faces at me,' says he. 'he ain't makin' faces at ye,' says th' mayor. 'that's th' way he always looks.' 'thin he must have his face changed,' says kroky. 'if he don't i'll appeal to th' mickydoo an' he'll divastate this boasted raypublic iv ye'ers,' he says, 'fr'm sea to sea,' he says. "well, what's to be done about it? i can't change me face an' there's no legal way iv removin' it. th' prisidint writes to th' gov'nor, th' gov'nor requests th' sheriff, th' sheriff speaks to th' mayor, th' mayor desires th' chief iv polis, th' chief iv polis ordhers th' polisman on th' beat, an' th' polisman on th' beat commands me to take me alarmin' visage out iv th' public view. suppose i go down to see me counsel, barrister hogan. he tells me that undher th' rights guaranteed to me be th' constitution, which gawd defind an' help in these here days, an' me liquor license, i'm entitled to stick me tongue in me cheek, wink, roll up me nose, wiggle me hands fr'm me ears, bite me thumb, or say 'pooh' to any black-an'-tan i meet. "thin what happens? th' first thing i know a shell loaded with dynnymite dhrops into th' lap iv some frind iv mine in san francisco; a party iv jap'nese land in boston an' scalp th' wigs off th' descindants iv john hancock an' sam adams; an' tiddy rosenfelt is discovered undher a bed with a small language book thryin' to larn to say 'spare me' in th' jap'nese tongue. and me name goes bouncin' down to histhry as a man that brought roon to his counthry, an' two hundherd years fr'm now little childer atin' their milk with chop sticks in kenosha, wisconsin, will curse me f'r me wickedness instead iv blessin' th' mimry iv a man that done so much to keep their fathers fr'm hurryin' home at night. so i stayed away. f'r a moment th' peril is over. "but it won't be f'r long. ivry mornin' i pick up me pa-aper with fear an' thremblin'. war with japan is immynint. 'tokyo, june five--th' whole nation is wild with excitement over th' misthreatment iv a jap'nese in los angeles, an' unless an apology is forthcomin' it will be difficult f'r th' governmint to prevint th' navy fr'm shootin' a few things at ye. th' people iv america shud know that they ar-re at th' brink iv war. a corryspondint iv th' _daily saky_, who wurruks in an old porcylain facthry in maine, writes that this famous subjick iv th' mickydoo, whose name has escaped him but who had a good job in a livery stable in tokyo befure he was sint on a mission to th' american people to see what he cud get, wint into an all night resthrant an' demanded his threaty rights, which ar-re that th' waiter was to tuck his napkin into his collar an' th' bartinder must play "nippon th' gloryous" on a mouth organ. onforchinitely th' proprietor iv th' place, a man be th' name iv scully, got hold iv a copy iv th' threaty with sweden with th' sad result that he give th' subjick iv th' mickydoo th' wrong threaty rights. he hit him over th' head with a bung starter. there is some relief in th' situation to-night based on th' repoort that th' prisidint has sint an apology an' has ordhered out th' army to subjoo scully. "'the impror held a meetin' iv th' elder statesmen to-night to discuss sindin' a fleet to san francisco to punish th' neglect iv threaty rights iv th' japanese be a sthreet car conductor who wudden't let a subjick iv th' mickydoo ride on th' thirty-first sthreet line with an ogden avnoo thransfer dated august eighteen hundherd an' siventy-two.' 'th' prisidint has ordhered th' arrest an' imprisonmint iv a dentist in albany who hurt a jap'nese whose tooth he was fillin'. he has raquisted th' mickydoo to give us another chance befure layin' waste our land.' 'followin' th' advice iv th' jap'nese ambassadure f'r poor young japs to marry rich american girls, a jap'nese combynation theelogical student an' cook applied f'r th' hand iv th' daughter iv th' boordin'-house keeper where he was employed. he was able to limp to th' jap'nese consul's house, where he made a complaint to th' impror, who was an old frind iv his father. th' prisidint has ordhered th' lady to marry th' chink.' 'th' hoop-la theatre was closed last night on complaint iv th' jap'nese ambassadure that th' fluff opry comp'ny was givin' a riprisintation iv jap'nese charackter in pink robes instead iv th' seemly black derby hats, a size too large, prince albert coats, pear-colored pants, button shoes, sthring neckties, an' spectacles which is th' well-known unyform iv th' gloryous race. as token iv their grief th' cab'net waited on th' jap'nese embassy at dinner to-night an' admiral bob evans has been ordhered to sink th' battle ship _louisyanny_ an' carry gin'ral kroky's hat box to th' deepo.' "an' so it goes. i'm in a state iv alarum all th' time. in th' good old days we wudden't have thought life was worth livin' if we cudden't insult a foreigner. that's what they were f'r. whin i was sthrong, befure old age deprived me iv most iv me pathritism an' other infantile disordhers, i niver saw a swede, a hun, an eyetalian, a boohlgaryan, a german, a fr-rinchman, that i didn't give him th' shouldher. if 'twas an englishman i give him th' foot too. threaty rights, says ye? we give him th' same threaty rights he'd give us, a dhrink an' a whack on th' head. it seemed proper to us. if 'twas right to belong to wan naytionality, 'twas wrong to belong to another. if 'twas a man's proud boast to be an american, it was a disgrace to be a german an' a joke to be a fr-rinchman. "an' that goes now. ye can bump anny foreigner ye meet but a jap. don't touch him. he's a live wire. don't think ye can pull his impeeryal hat down on his bold upcurved nose. th' first thing ye know ye'll be what hogan calls casey's bellows, an' manny a peaceful village in indyanny'll be desthroyed f'r ye'er folly. why, be hivens, it won't be long till we'll have to be threatin' th' chinese dacint. think iv that will ye. i r-read in th' pa-aper th' other day that th' chinese ar-rmy had been reorganized an' rearmed. hincefoorth, instead iv th' old fashioned petticoats they will wear th' more war-like short skirt. th' palm leafs have been cast aside f'r modhren quick-firin' fans, an' a complete new assortment iv gongs, bows an' arrows, stink-pots, an' charms against th' evil eye has been ordhered fr'm a well-known german firm. be careful th' next time ye think iv kickin' an empty ash-barl down yefer frind lip hung's laundhry. "it's hard f'r me to think iv th' japs this way. but 'tis th' part iv prudence. a few years ago i didn't think anny more about a jap thin abont anny other man that'd been kept in th' oven too long. they were all alike to me. but to-day, whiniver i see wan i turn pale an' take off me hat an' make a low bow. a few years ago an' i'd bet i was good f'r a dozen iv thim. but i didn't know how tur-rible a people they are. their ships are th' best in th' wurruld. we think we've got good ships. th' lord knows i'm told they cost us enough, though i don't remimber iver payin' a cent f'r wan. but a jap'nese rowboat cud knock to pieces th' whole atlantic squadron. it cud so. they're marvellous sailors. they use guns that shoot around th' corner. they fire these here injines iv desthruction with a mysteeryous powdher made iv a substance on'y known to thim. it is called saltpether. these guns hurl projyctiles weighin' eighty tons two thousand miles. on land they ar-re even more tur-rible. a jap'nese sojer can march three hundhred miles a day an' subsist on a small piece iv chewin' gum. their ar-rmy have arrived at such a perfection at th' diffycult manoover known as th' goose step that they have made this awful insthrument iv carnage th' terror iv th' armies iv europe. as cav'lrymen they ar-re unexcelled. there is on'y wan horse in japan, but ivry japanese sojer has larned to ride him. to see wan iv their magnificent cav'lry rijments goin' into action mounted on joko is a sight long to be raymimbered. above all, th' jap'nese is most to be feared because iv his love iv home an' his almost akel love iv death. he is so happy in japan that we wud rather die somewhere's else. most sojers don't like to be kilt. a jap'nese sojer prefers it. it was hard to convince th' nation that they hadn't lost th' war with rooshya because not so many rooshyans had been kilt as japs. faith we ought to be scared iv thim. i niver see wan without wondhrin' whether me cellar is bomb-proof. "an' i sigh f'r th' good old days befure we become what hogan calls a wurruld power. in thim days our fav'rite spoort was playin' solytare, winnin' money fr'm each other, an' no wan th' worse off. ivry-body was invious iv us. we didn't care f'r th' big game goin' on in th' corner. whin it broke up in a row we said: 'gintlemen, gintlemen!' an' maybe wint over an' grabbed somebody's stake. but we cudden't stand it anny longer. we had to give up our simple little game iv patience an' cut into th' other deal. an' now, be hivens, we have no peace iv mind. wan hand we have wan partner; another hand he's again us. this minyit th' jap an' me ar-re playin' together an' i'm tellin' him what a fine lead that was; th' next an' he's again me an' askin' me kindly not to look at his hand. there ar-re no frinds at cards or wurruld pollyticks. th' deal changes an' what started as a frindly game iv rob ye'er neighbor winds up with an old ally catchin' me pullin' an ace out iv me boot an' denouncin' me." "sure thim little fellows wud niver tackle us," said mr. hennessy. "th' likes iv thim!" "well," said mr. dooley, "'tis because they ar-re little ye've got to be polite to thim. a big man knows he don't have to fight, but whin a man is little an' knows he's, little an' is thinkin' all th' time he's little an' feels that ivrybody else is thinkin' he's little, look out f'r him." the hague conference "i see," said mr. hennessy, "we're goin' to sind th' navy to th' passyfic." "i can't tell," said mr. dooley, "whether th' navy is goin' to spend th' rest iv its days protectin' our possessions in th' oryent or whether it is to remain in th' neighborhood iv barnstable makin' th' glaziers iv new england rich beyond th' dhreams iv new england avarice, which ar-re hopeful dhreams. th' cabinet is divided, th' sicrety iv th' navy is divided, th' prisidint is divided an' th' press is divided. wan great iditor, fr'm his post iv danger in paris, has ordhered th' navy to report at san francisco at four eight next thursday. another great iditor livin' in germany has warned it that it will do so at its peril. nawthin' is so fine as to see a great modhern journalist unbend fr'm his mighty task iv selectin' fr'm a bunch iv phottygrafts th' prettiest cook iv flatbush or engineerin' with his great furrowed brain th' topsy fizzle compytition to trifle with some light warm-weather subjict like internaytional law or war. but men such as these can do annything. "but, annyhow, what diff'rence does it make whether th' navy goes to th' passyfic or not? if it goes at all, it won't be to make war. they've dumped all th' fourteen inch shells into th' sea. th' ammunition hoists ar-re filled with american beauty roses an' orchids. th' guns are loaded with confetty. th' officers dhrink nawthin' sthronger thin vanilla an' sthrawberry mixed. whin th' tars go ashore they hurry at wanst to th' home iv th' christyan indeavor society or throng th' free libries readin' relligous pothry. me frind bob evans is goin' to conthribute a series iv articles to th' _ladies' home journal_ on croshaying. f'r th' hague peace conference has abolished war, hinnissy. ye've seen th' last war ye'll iver see, me boy. th' hague conference, hinnissy, was got up be th' czar iv rooshya just befure he moved his army agin th' japs. it was a quiet day at saint pethersburg. th' prime minister had just been blown up with dinnymite, th' czar's uncle had been shot, an' wan iv his cousins was expirin' fr'm a dose iv proosic acid. all was comparitive peace. in th' warrum summer's afthernoon th' czar felt almost dhrousy as he set in his rile palace an' listened to th' low, monotonous-drone iv bombs bein' hurled at th' probojensky guards, an' picked th' broken glass out iv th' dhrink that'd just been brought to him be an aged servitor who was prisidint iv th' saint pethersburg lodge iv pathriotic assassins. th' monarch's mind turned to th' subjick iv war an' he says to himsilf: 'what a dhreadful thing it is that such a beautiful wurruld shud be marred be thousands iv innocint men bein' sint out to shoot each other f'r no cause whin they might betther stay at home an' wurruk f'r their rile masthers,' he says. 'i will disguise mesilf as a moojik an' go over to th' tillygraft office an' summon a meetin' iv th' powers,' he says. "that's how it come about. all th' powers sint dillygates an' a g-reat manny iv th' weaknesses did so too. they met in holland an' they have been devotin' all their time since to makin' war impossible in th' future. th' meetin' was opened with an acrimonyous debate over a resolution offered be a dillygate fr'm paryguay callin' f'r immeejit disarmamint, which is th' same, hinnissy, as notifyin' th' powers to turn in their guns to th' man at th' dure. this was carrid be a very heavy majority. among those that voted in favor iv it were: paryguay, uryguay, switzerland, chiny, bilgium, an' san marino. opposed were england, france, rooshya, germany, italy, austhree, japan, an' the united states. "this was regarded be all present as a happy auggry. th' convintion thin discussed a risolution offered be th' turkish dillygate abolishin' war altogether. this also was carried, on'y england, france, rooshya, germany, italy, austhree, japan, an' th' united states votin' no. "this made th' way clear f'r th' discussion iv th' larger question iv how future wars shud be conducted in th' best inthrests iv peace. th' conference considhered th' possibility iv abolishin' th' mushroom bullet which, entherin' th' inteeryor iv th' inimy not much larger thin a marble, soon opens its dainty petals an' goes whirlin' through th' allyminthry canal like a pin-wheel. th' chinese dillygate said that he regarded this here insthrumint iv peace as highly painful. he had an aunt in pekin, an estimable lady, unmarried, two hundhred an' fifty years iv age, who received wan without warnin' durin' th' gallant riscue iv pekin fr'm th' foreign legations a few years ago. he cud speak with feelin' on th' subjick as th' chinese army did not use these pro-jictyles but were armed with bean-shooters. "th' english dillygate opposed th' resolution. 'it is,' says he, 'quite thrue that these here pellets are in many cases harmful to th' digestion, but i think it wud be goin' too far to suggest that they be abolished ontil their mannyfacther is betther undherstud be th' subjick races,' he says. 'i suppose wan iv these bullets might throw a white man off his feed, but we have abundant proof that whin injicted into a black man they gr-reatly improve his moral tone. an' afther all, th' improvemint iv th' moral tone is, gintlemen, a far graver matther thin anny mere physical question. we know fr'm expeeryence in south africa that th' charmin' bullet now undher discussion did much to change conditions in that enlightened an' juicy part iv his majesty's domains. th' darky that happened to stop wan was all th' betther f'r it. he retired fr'm labor an' give up his squalid an' bigamious life,' he says. 'i am in favor, howiver, iv restrictin' their use to encounters with races that we properly considher infeeryor,' he says. th' dillygate fr'm sinagambya rose to a question iv privilege. 'state ye'er question iv privilege,' says th' chairman. 'i wud like to have th' windows open,' says th' dillygate fr'm sinagambya. 'i feel faint,' he says. "th' honorable joe choate, dillygate fr'm th' united states, moved that in future wars enlisted men shud not wear ear-rings. carried, on'y italy votin' no. "th' conference thin discussed blowin' up th' inimy with dinnymite, poisinin' him, shootin' th' wounded, settin' fire to infants, bilin' prisoners-iv-war in hot lard, an' robbin' graves. some excitemint was created durin' th' talk be th' dillygate fr'm th' cannybal islands who proposed that prisoners-iv-war be eaten. th' german dillygate thought that this was carryin' a specyal gift iv wan power too far. it wud give th' cannybal islands a distinct advantage in case iv war, as europeen sojers were accustomed to horses. th' english dillygate said that while much cud be said against a practice which personally seemed to him rather unsportsmanlike, still he felt he must reserve th' right iv anny cannybal allies iv brittanya to go as far as they liked. th' hon'orable joe choate moved that in future wars no military band shud be considered complete without a base-dhrum. carrid. "th' entire south american dillygation said that no nation ought to go to war because another nation wanted to put a bill on th' slate. th' english dillygate was much incensed. 'why, gintlemen', says he, 'if ye deprived us iv th' right to collect debts be killin' th' debtor ye wud take away fr'm war its entire moral purpose. i must ask ye again to cease thinkin' on this subjick in a gross mateeryal way an' considher th' moral side alone,' he says. th' conference was much moved be this pathetic speech, th' dillygate fr'm france wept softly into his hankerchef, an' th' dillygate fr'm germany wint over an' forcibly took an open-face goold watch fr'm th' dillygate fr'm vinzwala. "th' hon'rable joe choate moved that in all future wars horses shud be fed with hay wheriver possible. carrid. a long informal talk on th' reinthroduction iv scalpin' followed. at last th' dillygate fr'm chiny arose an' says he: 'i'd like to know what war is. what is war annyhow?' 'th' lord knows, we don't,' says th' chairman. 'we're all profissors iv colledges or lawyers whin we're home,' he says. 'is it war to shoot my aunt?' says th' dillygate fr'm chiny. cries iv 'no, no.' 'is it war to hook me father's best hat that he left behind whin he bashfully hurrid away to escape th' attintions iv europeen sojery?' he says. 'is robbery war?' says he. 'robbery is a nicissry part iv war,' says th' english dillygate. 'f'r th' purpose iv enfoorcin' a moral example,' he says. "'well,' says old wow chow, 'i'd like to be able to go back home an' tell thim what war really is. a few years back ye sint a lot iv young men over to our part iv th' wurruld an' without sayin' with ye'er leave or by ye'er leave they shot us an' they hung us up be our psyche knots an' they burned down our little bamboo houses. thin they wint up to pekin, set fire to th' town, an' stole ivry thing in sight. i just got out iv th' back dure in time to escape a jab in th' spine fr'm a german that i niver see befure. if it hadn't been that whin i was a boy i won th' hundred yards at th' university iv slambang in two hours an' forty minyits, an' if it hadn't happened that i was lightly dhressed in a summer overskirt an' a thin blouse, an' if th' german hadn't stopped to steal me garters, i wudden't be here at this moment,' says he. 'was that war or wasn't it?' he says. 'it was an expedition,' says th' dillygate fr'm england, 'to serve th' high moral jooties iv christyan civvylization.' 'thin,' says th' dillygate fr'm chiny, puttin' on his hat, 'i'm f'r war,' he says. 'it ain't so rough,' he says. an' he wint home." turkish politics "well, sir," said mr. dooley, "onaisy lies th' crown on anny king's head these days. th' time was whin it was me ambition or wan iv thim to be a king. arly in life i'd committed the youthful folly iv bein' born outside iv th' counthry an' so i cuddent be prisidint. but it don't make anny diff'rence what counthry a king comes from so long as he don't come fr'm th' counthry where he's king. 'no natives need apply,' is th' motto. if a counthry is so bad off that it has to have a king, they sind a comity down to ellis island an' pick out a good healthy scandinavyan, make him throw away his wooden shoes an' leather cap, an' proclaim him king, definder iv th' faith. kings are th' on'y assisted immygrants that are let in. th' king iv england is german, th' king iv italy is a sardine, th' king iv sweden is a fr-rinchman, an' all th' other kings an' queens are danes excipt th' king iv denmark, an' th' lord knows what he is. "so ye see, hinnissy, there's nawthin' in th' constitution to prevint me fr'm bein' a king, an i looked forward to th' time whin i'd turn th' illinye cinthral deepo into a rile palace an' rule me subjicks, ye'ersilf among thim, with a high hand. i'd be a just but marciful monarch. no wan that come to th' palace wud go away empty handed. i'd always lave thim a little something. divvle a bit iv a cabinet i'd have, but i'd surround mesilf with th' best thrained flattherers that cud be hired f'r love or money, an' no wan wud tell me th' truth, an' i'd live an' die happy. i'd show these modhern kings how a king ought to behave. ye wudden't see martin i, iv beloved mim'ry, runnin' around like a hired entertainer, wan day doin' th wurruk iv a talkative bricklayer at th' layin' iv a cornerstone, another day presidin' over a bankit iv th' amalgamated society iv mannyfacthrers iv hooks-an'-eyes or racin' horses with boots durnell an' charlie ox or waitin' out in th' rain f'r a balloon to come down that's stuck on a church steeple forty miles away. no, sir, i'd niver appear in public but wanst a year, an' thin i'd blindfold me lile subjicks so that they'd stay lile. an' i'd niver open me mouth excipt to command music an' dhrink. but th' low taste iv kings has rooned th' business as a pursoot f'r gintlemen, an' to-day i'd think twict befure takin' th' job. 'tis as preecaryous as a steeple jack's, an' no more permanent thin a rosenfelt holdover undher taft. if a king goes out an' looks haughty some wan iv his subjicks fires a gas pipe bomb at him, an' if he thries to be janial he's li'ble to be slapped on th' back in th' paddock an' called 'joe.' "look at me frind, abdul hamid. whin i dhreamed iv bein' king, sometimes i let me mind run on till i had mesilf promoted to be sultan iv turkey. there, me boy, was a job that always plazed me. it was well paid, it looked to be permanent, and i thought it about th' best situation in th' wurruld. th' sultan was a kind iv a combination iv pope an' king. if he didn't like ye, he first excommunicated ye an' thin he sthrangled ye. there, thinks i to mesilf, there he sets, th' happy old ruffyan, on a silk embroidered lounge, in his hand-wurruked slippers, with his legs curled up undher him, a turban on his head, a crooked soord in his lap, a pitcher iv sherbet (which is th' dhrink in thim parts) at his elbow, a pipestem like a hose in his hand, while nightingales whistle in th' cypress threes in th' garden an' beautiful circassyan ladies dance in front iv him far fr'm his madding throng iv wives, as th' pote says. "whin th' sicrety iv th' threasury wants to repoort to him, he starts fr'm his office on his stomach an' wriggles into th' august prisince. 'what is it ye want, oh head iv lignum vity?' says th' sultan. 'bark f'r th' ladies,' says he with a chuckle. 'oh, descindant iv th' prophet, whose name be blest! oh, sun an' moon an' stars, whose frown is death an' whose smile is heaven to th' faithful;--' 'don't be so familyar with me first name,' says th' sultan, 'but go on with ye'er contimptible supplication,' says he. 'ye'er slave,' says th' sicrety iv th' threasury fr'm th' flure, 'is desthroyed with grief to tell ye that afther standin' th' intire empire on its head he's been onable to shake out more thin two millyon piasthres f'r this week's expinses iv ye'er awfulness,' says he. 'what!' says th' sultan, 'two millyon piasthres--bar'ly enough to buy bur-rd seed f'r me bulbuls,' says he. 'how dare ye come into me august prisince with such an insult. lave it on th' flure f'r th' boy that sweeps up, oh, son iv a tailor,' he says, an' he gives a nod an' fr'm behind a curtain comes jawn johnson with little on him, an' th' next thing ye hear iv th' faithless minister is a squeak an' a splash. he rules be love alone, thinks i, an' feelin' that life without love is useless, annybody that don't love him can go an' get measured f'r a name plate an' be sure he'll need it befure th' price is lower. his people worship him an' why shudden't they. he allows thim to keep all th' dogs they want, he proticts thim fr'm dissolute habits be takin' their loose money fr'm thim, an' ivry year he gives thim an armeenyan massacree which is a great help to th' cigareet business in this counthry. "happy abdul, thinks i. if i cud be a haythen an' was a marryin' man, 'tis ye'er soft spot i'd like to land in f'r me declinin' days. so whin i r-read in th' pa-apers that there was a rivolution startin' to fire abdul hamid, i says to mesilf: 'a fine chance ye've got, me lads. that old boy will be holdin' down his job whin there's a resignation fr'm th' supreeme coort bench at wash'nton,' says i. 'th' first thing ye young turks know ye'll-be gettin' a prisent fr'm ye'er sov'reign iv a necktie,' says i, 'an' it won't fit ye,' says i. "well, sir, i was wrong. i knew i was wrong th' minyit i see a pitcher iv abdul hamid in th' pa-aper--a snap-shot, mind ye! think of that, will ye? d'ye suppose a sultan or a king that knew his thrade wud iver let anny wan take a snap-shot iv him? did ye iver hear iv alexander th' gr-reat or napoleon bonyparte havin' a snap-shot took iv him? no, sir. whin they wanted to satisfy th' vulgar curiosity iv th' popylace to know what their lord looked like, they chained an artist to a wall in th' cellar of th' palace an', says they: 'now set down an' paint a pitcher iv me that will get ye out iv here,' says they. nobody in thim days knew that th' king had a mole on his nose an' that wan iv his eyes was made iv glass, excipt th' people that had jobs to lose. "up to th' time abdul hamid wint thrapezin' around constantinople in a hack an' havin' his pitcher took be amachoor phottygrafters his job was secure. up to that time whin wan turk talked to another about him they talked in whispers. 'what d'ye suppose he's like, osman?' says wan. 'oh me, oh my,' says th' other, 'but he's th' tur-rble wan. they says his voice is like thunder, an' lightnin' shoots fr'm his eyes that wud shrivel th' likes iv ye an' me to a cinder.' but whin abdul, be damid, as th' potes call him, made th' mistake iv pokin' his head out iv th' palace 'twas diff'rent. 'well, who d'ye think i see to-day but th' sultan. i tell ye i did. what is he like? he ain't much to look at--a skinny little man, osman, that ye cud sthrangle between ye'er thumb an' forefinger. he had a bad cold an' was sneezin'. he wore a hand-me-down coat. he has a wen on th' back iv his neck an' he's crosseyed. here's a pitcher iv him.' 'what, that little runt? ye don't mean to say that's th' sultan.--why, he looks like th' fellow that stops me ivry day on th' corner an' asks me have i anny old clothes betther thin what i have on. an' to think iv th' likes iv him rulin' over th' likes iv us. let's throw him out.' "so it was with me old frind abdul. wan day a captain an' a squad iv polis backed th' wagon up to th' dure iv th' palace an' rung th' bell. 'who's there?' says th' sultan, stuffin' th' loose change into his shoe. 'th' house is pulled,' says th' captain. 'ye'er license is expired. ye'd betther come peaceful,' he says. an' they bust in th' dure an' th' sultan puts a shirt an' a couple iv collars into a grip an' selicts iliven iv his least formid-able wives to go along with him an' they put on their bonnets an' shawls an' carry out their bur-rd cages an' their goold fish an' their fancy wurruk an' th' pathrol wagon starts off an' has to stop so that iliven iv thim can go back an' get something they f'rgot at th' last moment an' th' ex-commander iv th' faithful says, 'did ye iver know wan iv thim to be ready, cap?' an' th' captain says, 'they're all alike, doc,' an' th' dhriver clangs th' bell, an' off goes th' mighty potentate to a two-story frame house in englewood. an' th' sultan's brother is taken out iv a padded cell where he had been kept f'r twinty years because he was crazy to be sultan, an' is boosted into th' throne. an' he has his pitcher took an' is intherviewed be th' reporthers an' tells thim he will do th' best he can an' he hopes th' press won't be too hard on him, because he is a poor loonytick annyhow. "an' there ye ar-re. there goes me dhream iv bein' sultan along with me dhream iv bein' a gr-reat gin'ral till th' spanish war. if that's th' kind iv job a sultan has, i'll lave it f'r anny wan to take that wants it. why, be hivens, whin th' young turks come to search th' palace, like th' pathrites they ar-re, to find if he'd left anny money behind, divvle th' thrace they found iv annything that i'd thrade f'r me back room. i begun to feel sorry f'r th' poor old miscreent. instead iv lollin' on a sofy an' listenin' to th' song iv th' mockin' bur-rd in th' pommygranite threes while ladies fr'm th' chorus iv 'th' black crook' fanned him with fans iv peacock feathers, th' mis'rable old haythen was locked up in a garret with a revolver in his hand ready to shoot anny wan that come next or near him. he suffered fr'm dyspepsia an' he cuddent sleep nights. he cud ate nawthin' sthronger thin milk toast. he was foorced be fashion's whim to have five hundhred wives whin wan was abundant. take it all in all, he led a dog's life, an' i bet ye he's happyer now where he is, wathrin' th' geeranyums, mowin' th' lawn, an' sneakin' into constantinople iv a saturday night an' seein' circassyan girls dancin' f'r th' first time in his life. his childher are all grown up an' safe in jail, he has four hundhred an' eighty-nine less wives, but iliven are a good manny in th' suburbs; he has put away a few piasthres f'r a rainy day, out-iv-dure life may improve his health, an' i shudden't wondher if ye'd read some day in th' pa-aper: 'at th' stambool county fair th' first prize f'r poland chiny hens was won be a. hamid, th' pop'lar ex-sultan.' "ye can't tell annything about it. give th' poor man a chance, says i. there may be th' makins iv a dacint citizen in him afther all. what opporchunity has he had, tell me? what can ye expict fr'm a man that niver was taught annything betther thin that he cud do annything he wanted to do without bein' called down f'r it? it doesn't make anny diff'rence whether 'tis a polisman or th' rajah iv beloochistan, be gorry, put a club in his hand an' tell him that he can use it an' he'll begin usin' it tomorrah. he'll break wan head tomorrah, two th' next day, an' befure he's been on th' foorce or th' throne a year it'll be a whack on th' chimbly befure he says 'how ar-re ye.' by an' by he'll get so manny people afraid iv him that he'll be in danger and that'll make him afraid iv thim, an' thin he'll be more dangerous thin iver, d'ye mind? th' on'y man ye need to be afraid iv is th' man that's afraid iv ye. an' that's what makes a tyrant. he's scared to death. if i'd thought about it whin i r-read iv me frind murdherin' people i'd've known they'd find him thremblin' in a room an' shootin' at th' hired girl whin she come in with his porridge. so i'm glad afther all that i didn't put in me application. i want no man to fear me. i'd hate to be more of a coward thin i am." "what ar-re these turkish athrocities i've been r-readin' about?" said mr. hennessy. "i don't know," said mr. dooley. "i don't keep thim. have a cigar?" vacations "well, sir," said mr. dooley, "i raaly don't know whether i'm glad or sorry to get back. it seems a little sthrange to be here again in the turmoil iv life in a large city, but thin, again, 'tis pleasant to see th' familyar faces wanst more. has annything happened since i wint away on me vacation? did ye miss me? am i much sunburnt?" "what ar-re ye talkin' about?" asked mr. hennessy. "i see ye on'y last night." "ye did not," said mr. dooley. "ye may have seen me undherstudy, but ye didn't see me. where was i? it depinds on what time iv night it was. if it was eight o'clock, i was croosin' in pierpont morgan's yacht off th' coast iv labrador. we were both iv us settin' up on th' front stoop iv th' boat. i had just won thirty millyon dollars fr'm him throwin' dice, an' he remarked to me 'i bet it's hot in chicago.' but about eight thirty, th' wind, which had been blowin' acrost th' brick-yard, changed into th' northeast an' i moved back to newpoort." "ar-re ye crazy fr'm th' heat?" mr. hennessy asked. "divvle th' bit," said mr. dooley, "but long ago i made up me mind not to be th' slave iv me vacation. i don't take a vacation whin a vacation comes around an' knocks at th' dure an' dhrags me out to a summer resort. if i did i'd wait a long time. i take it whiniver i feel like it. whiniver i have a moment to spare, whin ye're talkin' or business is slack fr'm anny other reason, i throw a comb an' brush into a gripsack an' hurry away to th' mountain or th' seashore. while ye think ye're talkin' to me, at that very minyit i may be floatin' on me back in th' atlantic ocean or climbin' a mountain in switzerland, yodellin' to mesilf. "most iv me frinds take their vacations long afther they are overdue. that's because they don't know how to take thim. they depind on railroads an' steamers an' what th' boss has to say about it. long afther th' vacation will do thim no good, about th' fifteenth iv august, they tear off for th' beauties iv nature. nachrally they can't tear off very far or they wudden't hear th' whistle whin it blew to call thim back. f'r a week or two they spind their avenin's larnin' th' profissyon iv baggageman, atin' off thrunks be day an sleepin' on thim be night. evenchooly th' time comes f'r thim to lave th' sthrife an' throuble iv th' city that they're used to f'r th' sthrife an' throuble iv th' counthry that they don't know how to handle. they catch th' two two f'r mudville-be-th'-cannery, or they are just about to catch it whin they remimber that they left their tickets, money an' little abigail ann behind thim, an' they catch th' six forty-five which doesn't stop at mudville excipt on choosdahs an' fridahs in lent, an' thin on'y on signal. fin'lly they're off. th' dust an' worry iv th' city with its sprinkled pavements an' its glowin' theaytres is left behind. th' cool counthry air blows into th' car laden with th' rich perfume iv dainty food with which th' fireman is plyin' his ir'n horse. th' thrain stops occasion'lly. in fact ye might betther say that occasion'lly it don't stop. a thrain that is goin' to anny iv th' penal colonies where most men spind their vacations will stop at more places thin a boy on an errand. whiniver it sees a human habitation it will pause an' exchange a few wurruds iv pleasant greetin'. it will stop at annything. it wud stop at nawthin'. "in this way ye get a good idee iv th' jography iv ye'er native land. ye make a ten minyit stay at bustlin' little villages that ye didn't know were on th' map, an' ain't on anny map that ye buy. th' on'y place th' thrain don't stop is at mudville-be-th'-cannery. ye look into th' folder an' see ye'er town marked 'see note b.' note b says: 'thrains two to sixteen stop at mudville on'y whin wrecked.' 'what is th' number iv this here cannon-ball express?' says ye to th' conductor man. 'number twelve,' says he. 'how am i goin' to get off there?' says ye. 'how do ye usually get off a movin' thrain?' says he. 'forward or backward?' says he. 'if ye'll go ahead to th' postal car an' get into a mail bag th' clerk may hang ye on th' hook as we pass. he's a good shot. he made three out iv tin last week,' he says. "but in due time ye reach ye'er destynation an' onpack ye'er thrunks an' come home again. a frind iv mine, a prom'nent railroad officyal who calls th' thrains at th' union deepo, tells me he's cured his wife iv wantin' to go on a vacation. whiniver he sees her readin' advertisements iv th' summer resorts he knows that th' fit is coming on, an' befure she gets to th' stage iv buyin' a cure f'r freckles he takes her down to th' deepo an' shows her th' people goin' on their vacations an' comin' back. thin he gives her a boat ride in th' park, takes her to th' theaytre, an' th' next mornin' she wakes up with hardly anny sign iv her indisposition. "but th' kind iv vacation i take does ye some good. it is well within me means. in fact it sildom costs me annything but now an' thin th' thrade iv a customer that i give a bottle iv pop to whin he ast f'r a gin sour, not knowin' that at th' minyit i was whilin' me time away in th' greek islands or climbin' mount vesoovyous. i don't have to carry anny baggage. i don't pay anny railroad fares. i'm not bothered be mosquitoes or rain. in fact, it's on rainy days that i thravel most. i'm away most iv th' time. i suppose me business suffers. but what care i? "in th' autumn i am pretty apt to be shootin' in th' rocky mountains. in th' winter i am liable to go to florida or to th' west indies or to monty carlo. i'm th' on'y american citizen that iver beat monty carlo. i plugged away at number siventeen an' it came up eighty-two times runnin'. 'tis thrue i squandhered th' money on th' fickle countess de brie, but aisy came aisy go. me disappointment was soon f'rgotten among th' gayeties iv algeers. i often go up th' nile because it's handy to th' ar-rchey road. i can get back befure bedtime. in summer i may go to newpoort, although it ain't th' place it was whin i first wint there. it was simple thin. people laughed at clarence von steenevant because he wore a hat encrusted in dimons instead iv th' rough-an'-ready goold bonnet that ye grabbed fr'm th' rubbish iv old pearl necklaces an' marredge certyficates on th' hall table whin ye wint out to play tennis. it has changed since. but there are still a few riprisintatives iv th' older memberships iv th' stock exchange who cannot lave th' familyar scenes, an' i like to dhrop in on these pathricyans an' gossip iv days that ar-re no more. faith, there's hardly a place that i don't spind me summers. if i don't like a place i can move. i sail me yacht into sthrange harbors. i take me private car wheriver i want to go. i hunt an' i fish. last year i wint to canada an' fished f'r salmon. i made a gr-reat catch--near thirty cans. an' whin i'm tired i can go to bed. an' it is a bed, not a rough sketch iv a brick-yard. "well, well, what places i have seen. an' i always see thim at their best. th' on'y way to see anny place at its best is niver to go there. no place can be thruly injyeable whin ye have to take ye'ersilf along an' pay rent f'r him whin ye get there. an' wan iv th' gr-reat comforts iv my kind iv a vacation is that i always knows what's goin' on at home. whin hogan goes on his kind iv vacation th' newspa-aper he gets was printed just afther th' third inning iv th' baseball game th' day befure yisterdah. th' result is that whin hogan comes home he don't know what's happened. he doesn't know who's been murdhered or whether chicago or pittsburg is at th' head iv th' league. "an' summer is th' best time iv th' year f'r news. th' heat an' sthrong dhrink brings out pleasant peculyarities in people. they do things that make readin' matther. they show signs iv janus. ivrything in th' pa-aper inthrests me. here's th' inside news iv a cillybrated murdher thrile blossomin' out in th' heat. here's a cillybrated lawyer goin' to th' cillybrated murdherer an' demandin' an increase in th' honoraryum iv his cillybrated collague. lawyers don't take money. what they get f'r their public sarvices in deludin' a jury is th' same as an offerin' in a church. ye don't give it thim openly. ye sind thim a bunch iv sweet peas with the money in it. this here larned counsel got wan honoraryum. but whin things begun to took tough f'r his protegee he suggested another honoraryum. honoraryum is fr'm th' latin wurruds honor an' aryum, mainin' i need th' money. "yes, sir, ye can't injye a vacation without th' pa-apers. how glad i am to know that congress has adjourned afther rejoocin' th' tariff to a level where th' poorest are within its reach. an' how cud i be happy away fr'm here if i didn't know how me frind willum taft was gettin' on at goluf. iv coorse i'm inthrested in all that goes on at th' summer capitol. i am glad to know that charles played tennis fr'm ten to iliven an' aftherward took a throlley car ride to lynn, where he bought a pair iv shoes an' a piece iv blueberry pie, but at two o'clock had entirely recovered. but th' rale inthrest is in th' prisidint's goluf. me fav'rite journal prints exthries about it. 'specyal exthry; six thirty. horrible rumor. prisidint taft repoorted stymied.' he's th' best goluf player we've iver had as prisidint. he cud give abra'm lincoln a shtroke a stick. he bate th' champeen iv the' wurruld last week be a scoore iv wan hundhred an' eighty-two to siventy-six. he did so. "here's a column about yisterdah's game. 'a large crowd assimbled to see th' match. prisidint appeared ca'm an' collected. he wore his club unyform, gray pants, black leather belt, an' blue shirt. his opponent, th' sicrety iv war, was visibly narvous. th' prisident was first off th' tee with an excellent three while his opponent was almost hopelessly bunkered in a camera. but he made a gallant recovery with a vaccuum cleaner an' was aven with th' prisidint in four. th' prisidint was slightly to th' left in th' long grass on his fifth, but, nawthin' daunted, he took a hoe an' was well out in siven. both players were in th' first bunker in eight, th' sicrety iv war havin' flubbed his sixth an' bein' punished f'r overdarin' on th' siventh. th' prisidint was first out iv th' bunker at a quarther past two, his opponent followin' at exactly three sixteen. th' prisidint was within hailin' distance iv home on his sixteenth shot, while his opponent had played eighteen. but th' pace had been too swift an' it was merely a question iv which wud be th' first to crack. that misfortune fell to th' lot iv th' sicrety iv war. findin' himsilf in a bad lie, he undhertook to use a brassy in a spirit iv nawthin' venture nawthin' gain. it was raaly a brillyant shot. a foot nearer th' ball an' he might have accomplished a feat in golufing histhry. but th' luck iv war was against him an' he sthruck himsilf upon th' ankle. th' prisidint, resolvin' to give him no mercy, took his dhriver an' made a sterling carry to within thirty yards iv th' green. there was now nawthin' to it. continuin' to play with great dash, but always prudently, he had a sure putt iv not more thin forty feet to bate th' records f'r prisidints f'r this hole, a record that was established be th' prisident iv th' women's christyan timp'rance union in nineteen hundhred an' three. his opponent cried 'i give it to ye,' an' th' prisidint was down in a brillyant twinty two. his opponent was obliged to contint himsilf with a more modest but still sound an' meritoryous thirty-eight (estimated). "an' there ye ar-re. i'm ivrywhere, but i can always keep in touch with what's goin' on." "what kind iv a game is goluf?" asked mr. hennessy. "why do they call it rile an' ancient?" "i don't know," said mr. dooley, "onless it is because th' prisidint iv th' united states has just took it up." none loewenstein, m.d. note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustrations. see -h.htm or -h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/ / / / / -h/ -h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/ / / / / -h.zip) the gentle grafter by o. henry illustrated by h. c. greening and may wilson preston [illustration: "they began to cuss, amiable, and throw down dollars." (frontispiece)] contents i. the octopus marooned ii. jeff peters as a personal magnet iii. modern rural sports iv. the chair of philanthromathematics v. the hand that riles the world vi. the exact science of matrimony vii. a midsummer masquerade viii. shearing the wolf ix. innocents of broadway x. conscience in art xi. the man higher up xii. a tempered wind xiii. hostages to momus xiv. the ethics of pig the octopus marooned "a trust is its weakest point," said jeff peters. "that," said i, "sounds like one of those unintelligible remarks such as, 'why is a policeman?'" "it is not," said jeff. "there are no relations between a trust and a policeman. my remark was an epitogram--an axis--a kind of mulct'em in parvo. what it means is that a trust is like an egg, and it is not like an egg. if you want to break an egg you have to do it from the outside. the only way to break up a trust is from the inside. keep sitting on it until it hatches. look at the brood of young colleges and libraries that's chirping and peeping all over the country. yes, sir, every trust bears in its own bosom the seeds of its destruction like a rooster that crows near a georgia colored methodist camp meeting, or a republican announcing himself a candidate for governor of texas." i asked jeff, jestingly, if he had ever, during his checkered, plaided, mottled, pied and dappled career, conducted an enterprise of the class to which the word "trust" had been applied. somewhat to my surprise he acknowledged the corner. "once," said he. "and the state seal of new jersey never bit into a charter that opened up a solider and safer piece of legitimate octopusing. we had everything in our favor--wind, water, police, nerve, and a clean monopoly of an article indispensable to the public. there wasn't a trust buster on the globe that could have found a weak spot in our scheme. it made rockefeller's little kerosene speculation look like a bucket shop. but we lost out." "some unforeseen opposition came up, i suppose," i said. "no, sir, it was just as i said. we were self-curbed. it was a case of auto-suppression. there was a rift within the loot, as albert tennyson says. "you remember i told you that me and andy tucker was partners for some years. that man was the most talented conniver at stratagems i ever saw. whenever he saw a dollar in another man's hands he took it as a personal grudge, if he couldn't take it any other way. andy was educated, too, besides having a lot of useful information. he had acquired a big amount of experience out of books, and could talk for hours on any subject connected with ideas and discourse. he had been in every line of graft from lecturing on palestine with a lot of magic lantern pictures of the annual custom-made clothiers' association convention at atlantic city to flooding connecticut with bogus wood alcohol distilled from nutmegs. "one spring me and andy had been over in mexico on a flying trip during which a philadelphia capitalist had paid us $ , for a half interest in a silver mine in chihuahua. oh, yes, the mine was all right. the other half interest must have been worth two or three thousand. i often wondered who owned that mine. "in coming back to the united states me and andy stubbed our toes against a little town in texas on the bank of the rio grande. the name of it was bird city; but it wasn't. the town had about , inhabitants, mostly men. i figured out that their principal means of existence was in living close to tall chaparral. some of 'em were stockmen and some gamblers and some horse peculators and plenty were in the smuggling line. me and andy put up at a hotel that was built like something between a roof-garden and a sectional bookcase. it began to rain the day we got there. as the saying is, juniper aquarius was sure turning on the water plugs on mount amphibious. "now, there were three saloons in bird city, though neither andy nor me drank. but we could see the townspeople making a triangular procession from one to another all day and half the night. everybody seemed to know what to do with as much money as they had. "the third day of the rain it slacked up awhile in the afternoon, so me and andy walked out to the edge of town to view the mudscape. bird city was built between the rio grande and a deep wide arroyo that used to be the old bed of the river. the bank between the stream and its old bed was cracking and giving away, when we saw it, on account of the high water caused by the rain. andy looks at it a long time. that man's intellects was never idle. and then he unfolds to me a instantaneous idea that has occurred to him. right there was organized a trust; and we walked back into town and put it on the market. "first we went to the main saloon in bird city, called the blue snake, and bought it. it cost us $ , . and then we dropped in, casual, at mexican joe's place, referred to the rain, and bought him out for $ . the other one came easy at $ . "the next morning bird city woke up and found itself an island. the river had busted through its old channel, and the town was surrounded by roaring torrents. the rain was still raining, and there was heavy clouds in the northwest that presaged about six more mean annual rainfalls during the next two weeks. but the worst was yet to come. "bird city hopped out of its nest, waggled its pin feathers and strolled out for its matutinal toot. lo! mexican joe's place was closed and likewise the other little 'dobe life saving station. so, naturally the body politic emits thirsty ejaculations of surprise and ports hellum for the blue snake. and what does it find there? "behind one end of the bar sits jefferson peters, octopus, with a sixshooter on each side of him, ready to make change or corpses as the case may be. there are three bartenders; and on the wall is a ten foot sign reading: 'all drinks one dollar.' andy sits on the safe in his neat blue suit and gold-banded cigar, on the lookout for emergencies. the town marshal is there with two deputies to keep order, having been promised free drinks by the trust. "well, sir, it took bird city just ten minutes to realize that it was in a cage. we expected trouble; but there wasn't any. the citizens saw that we had 'em. the nearest railroad was thirty miles away; and it would be two weeks at least before the river would be fordable. so they began to cuss, amiable, and throw down dollars on the bar till it sounded like a selection on the xylophone. "there was about , grown-up adults in bird city that had arrived at years of indiscretion; and the majority of 'em required from three to twenty drinks a day to make life endurable. the blue snake was the only place where they could get 'em till the flood subsided. it was beautiful and simple as all truly great swindles are. "about ten o'clock the silver dollars dropping on the bar slowed down to playing two-steps and marches instead of jigs. but i looked out the window and saw a hundred or two of our customers standing in line at bird city savings and loan co., and i knew they were borrowing more money to be sucked in by the clammy tendrils of the octopus. "at the fashionable hour of noon everybody went home to dinner. we told the bartenders to take advantage of the lull, and do the same. then me and andy counted the receipts. we had taken in $ , . we calculated that if bird city would only remain an island for two weeks the trust would be able to endow the chicago university with a new dormitory of padded cells for the faculty, and present every worthy poor man in texas with a farm, provided he furnished the site for it. "andy was especial inroaded by self-esteem at our success, the rudiments of the scheme having originated in his own surmises and premonitions. he got off the safe and lit the biggest cigar in the house. [illustration: "andy was especial inroaded by self-esteem."] "'jeff,' says he, 'i don't suppose that anywhere in the world you could find three cormorants with brighter ideas about down-treading the proletariat than the firm of peters, satan and tucker, incorporated. we have sure handed the small consumer a giant blow in the sole apoplectic region. no?' "'well,' says i, 'it does look as if we would have to take up gastritis and golf or be measured for kilts in spite of ourselves. this little turn in bug juice is, verily, all to the skibo. and i can stand it,' says i, 'i'd rather batten than bant any day.' "andy pours himself out four fingers of our best rye and does with it as was so intended. it was the first drink i had ever known him to take. "'by way of liberation,' says he, 'to the gods.' "and then after thus doing umbrage to the heathen diabetes he drinks another to our success. and then he begins to toast the trade, beginning with raisuli and the northern pacific, and on down the line to the little ones like the school book combine and the oleomargarine outrages and the lehigh valley and great scott coal federation. "'it's all right, andy,' says i, 'to drink the health of our brother monopolists, but don't overdo the wassail. you know our most eminent and loathed multi-corruptionists live on weak tea and dog biscuits.' "andy went in the back room awhile and came out dressed in his best clothes. there was a kind of murderous and soulful look of gentle riotousness in his eye that i didn't like. i watched him to see what turn the whiskey was going to take in him. there are two times when you never can tell what is going to happen. one is when a man takes his first drink; and the other is when a woman takes her latest. "in less than an hour andy's skate had turned to an ice yacht. he was outwardly decent and managed to preserve his aquarium, but inside he was impromptu and full of unexpectedness. "'jeff,' says he, 'do you know that i'm a crater--a living crater?' "'that's a self-evident hypothesis,' says i. 'but you're not irish. why don't you say 'creature,' according to the rules and syntax of america?' "'i'm the crater of a volcano,' says he. 'i'm all aflame and crammed inside with an assortment of words and phrases that have got to have an exodus. i can feel millions of synonyms and parts of speech rising in me,' says he, 'and i've got to make a speech of some sort. drink,' says andy, 'always drives me to oratory.' "'it could do no worse,' says i. "'from my earliest recollections,' says he, 'alcohol seemed to stimulate my sense of recitation and rhetoric. why, in bryan's second campaign,' says andy, 'they used to give me three gin rickeys and i'd speak two hours longer than billy himself could on the silver question. finally, they persuaded me to take the gold cure.' "'if you've got to get rid of your excess verbiage,' says i, 'why not go out on the river bank and speak a piece? it seems to me there was an old spell-binder named cantharides that used to go and disincorporate himself of his windy numbers along the seashore.' "'no,' says andy, 'i must have an audience. i feel like if i once turned loose people would begin to call senator beveridge the grand young sphinx of the wabash. i've got to get an audience together, jeff, and get this oral distension assuaged or it may turn in on me and i'd go about feeling like a deckle-edge edition de luxe of mrs. e. d. e. n. southworth.' "'on what special subject of the theorems and topics does your desire for vocality seem to be connected with?' i asks. "'i ain't particular,' says andy. 'i am equally good and varicose on all subjects. i can take up the matter of russian immigration, or the poetry of john w. keats, or the tariff, or kabyle literature, or drainage, and make my audience weep, cry, sob and shed tears by turns.' "'well, andy,' says i, 'if you are bound to get rid of this accumulation of vernacular suppose you go out in town and work it on some indulgent citizen. me and the boys will take care of the business. everybody will be through dinner pretty soon, and salt pork and beans makes a man pretty thirsty. we ought to take in $ , more by midnight.' "so andy goes out of the blue snake, and i see him stopping men on the street and talking to 'em. by and by he has half a dozen in a bunch listening to him; and pretty soon i see him waving his arms and elocuting at a good-sized crowd on a corner. when he walks away they string out after him, talking all the time; and he leads 'em down the main street of bird city with more men joining the procession as they go. it reminded me of the old legerdemain that i'd read in books about the pied piper of heidsieck charming the children away from the town. [illustration: "and he leads 'em down the main street of bird city."] "one o'clock came; and then two; and three got under the wire for place; and not a bird citizen came in for a drink. the streets were deserted except for some ducks and ladies going to the stores. there was only a light drizzle falling then. "a lonesome man came along and stopped in front of the blue snake to scrape the mud off his boots. "'pardner,' says i, 'what has happened? this morning there was hectic gaiety afoot; and now it seems more like one of them ruined cities of tyre and siphon where the lone lizard crawls on the walls of the main port-cullis.' "'the whole town,' says the muddy man, 'is up in sperry's wool warehouse listening to your side-kicker make a speech. he is some gravy on delivering himself of audible sounds relating to matters and conclusions,' says the man. "'well, i hope he'll adjourn, sine qua non, pretty soon,' says i, 'for trade languishes.' "not a customer did we have that afternoon. at six o'clock two mexicans brought andy to the saloon lying across the back of a burro. we put him in bed while he still muttered and gesticulated with his hands and feet. "then i locked up the cash and went out to see what had happened. i met a man who told me all about it. andy had made the finest two hour speech that had ever been heard in texas, he said, or anywhere else in the world. "'what was it about?' i asked. "'temperance,' says he. 'and when he got through, every man in bird city signed the pledge for a year.'" jeff peters as a personal magnet jeff peters has been engaged in as many schemes for making money as there are recipes for cooking rice in charleston, s.c. best of all i like to hear him tell of his earlier days when he sold liniments and cough cures on street corners, living hand to mouth, heart to heart with the people, throwing heads or tails with fortune for his last coin. "i struck fisher hill, arkansaw," said he, "in a buckskin suit, moccasins, long hair and a thirty-carat diamond ring that i got from an actor in texarkana. i don't know what he ever did with the pocket knife i swapped him for it. "i was dr. waugh-hoo, the celebrated indian medicine man. i carried only one best bet just then, and that was resurrection bitters. it was made of life-giving plants and herbs accidentally discovered by ta-qua-la, the beautiful wife of the chief of the choctaw nation, while gathering truck to garnish a platter of boiled dog for the annual corn dance. "business hadn't been good in the last town, so i only had five dollars. i went to the fisher hill druggist and he credited me for half a gross of eight-ounce bottles and corks. i had the labels and ingredients in my valise, left over from the last town. life began to look rosy again after i got in my hotel room with the water running from the tap, and the resurrection bitters lining up on the table by the dozen. [illustration: "life began to look rosy again..."] "fake? no, sir. there was two dollars' worth of fluid extract of cinchona and a dime's worth of aniline in that half-gross of bitters. i've gone through towns years afterwards and had folks ask for 'em again. "i hired a wagon that night and commenced selling the bitters on main street. fisher hill was a low, malarial town; and a compound hypothetical pneumocardiac anti-scorbutic tonic was just what i diagnosed the crowd as needing. the bitters started off like sweetbreads-on-toast at a vegetarian dinner. i had sold two dozen at fifty cents apiece when i felt somebody pull my coat tail. i knew what that meant; so i climbed down and sneaked a five dollar bill into the hand of a man with a german silver star on his lapel. [illustration: "i commenced selling the bitters on main street."] "'constable,' says i, 'it's a fine night.' "'have you got a city license,' he asks, 'to sell this illegitimate essence of spooju that you flatter by the name of medicine?' "'i have not,' says i. 'i didn't know you had a city. if i can find it to-morrow i'll take one out if it's necessary.' "'i'll have to close you up till you do,' says the constable. "i quit selling and went back to the hotel. i was talking to the landlord about it. "'oh, you won't stand no show in fisher hill,' says he. 'dr. hoskins, the only doctor here, is a brother-in-law of the mayor, and they won't allow no fake doctor to practice in town.' "'i don't practice medicine,' says i, 'i've got a state peddler's license, and i take out a city one wherever they demand it.' "i went to the mayor's office the next morning and they told me he hadn't showed up yet. they didn't know when he'd be down. so doc waugh-hoo hunches down again in a hotel chair and lights a jimpson-weed regalia, and waits. "by and by a young man in a blue necktie slips into the chair next to me and asks the time. "'half-past ten,' says i, 'and you are andy tucker. i've seen you work. wasn't it you that put up the great cupid combination package on the southern states? let's see, it was a chilian diamond engagement ring, a wedding ring, a potato masher, a bottle of soothing syrup and dorothy vernon--all for fifty cents.' "andy was pleased to hear that i remembered him. he was a good street man; and he was more than that--he respected his profession, and he was satisfied with per cent. profit. he had plenty of offers to go into the illegitimate drug and garden seed business; but he was never to be tempted off of the straight path. "i wanted a partner, so andy and me agreed to go out together. i told him about the situation in fisher hill and how finances was low on account of the local mixture of politics and jalap. andy had just got in on the train that morning. he was pretty low himself, and was going to canvass the whole town for a few dollars to build a new battleship by popular subscription at eureka springs. so we went out and sat on the porch and talked it over. "the next morning at eleven o'clock when i was sitting there alone, an uncle tom shuffles into the hotel and asked for the doctor to come and see judge banks, who, it seems, was the mayor and a mighty sick man. "'i'm no doctor,' says i. 'why don't you go and get the doctor?' "'boss,' says he. 'doc hoskins am done gone twenty miles in de country to see some sick persons. he's de only doctor in de town, and massa banks am powerful bad off. he sent me to ax you to please, suh, come.' "'as man to man,' says i, 'i'll go and look him over.' so i put a bottle of resurrection bitters in my pocket and goes up on the hill to the mayor's mansion, the finest house in town, with a mansard roof and two cast iron dogs on the lawn. "this mayor banks was in bed all but his whiskers and feet. he was making internal noises that would have had everybody in san francisco hiking for the parks. a young man was standing by the bed holding a cup of water. "'doc,' says the mayor, 'i'm awful sick. i'm about to die. can't you do nothing for me?' "'mr. mayor,' says i, 'i'm not a regular preordained disciple of s. q. lapius. i never took a course in a medical college,' says i. 'i've just come as a fellow man to see if i could be off assistance.' "'i'm deeply obliged,' says he. 'doc waugh-hoo, this is my nephew, mr. biddle. he has tried to alleviate my distress, but without success. oh, lordy! ow-ow-ow!!' he sings out. "i nods at mr. biddle and sets down by the bed and feels the mayor's pulse. 'let me see your liver--your tongue, i mean,' says i. then i turns up the lids of his eyes and looks close that the pupils of 'em. "'how long have you been sick?' i asked. "'i was taken down--ow-ouch--last night,' says the mayor. 'gimme something for it, doc, won't you?' "'mr. fiddle,' says i, 'raise the window shade a bit, will you?' "'biddle,' says the young man. 'do you feel like you could eat some ham and eggs, uncle james?' "'mr. mayor,' says i, after laying my ear to his right shoulder blade and listening, 'you've got a bad attack of super-inflammation of the right clavicle of the harpsichord!' "'good lord!' says he, with a groan, 'can't you rub something on it, or set it or anything?' "i picks up my hat and starts for the door. "'you ain't going, doc?' says the mayor with a howl. 'you ain't going away and leave me to die with this--superfluity of the clapboards, are you?' "'common humanity, dr. whoa-ha,' says mr. biddle, 'ought to prevent your deserting a fellow-human in distress.' "'dr. waugh-hoo, when you get through plowing,' says i. and then i walks back to the bed and throws back my long hair. "'mr. mayor,' says i, 'there is only one hope for you. drugs will do you no good. but there is another power higher yet, although drugs are high enough,' says i. "'and what is that?' says he. "'scientific demonstrations,' says i. 'the triumph of mind over sarsaparilla. the belief that there is no pain and sickness except what is produced when we ain't feeling well. declare yourself in arrears. demonstrate.' "'what is this paraphernalia you speak of, doc?' says the mayor. 'you ain't a socialist, are you?' "'i am speaking,' says i, 'of the great doctrine of psychic financiering--of the enlightened school of long-distance, sub-conscientious treatment of fallacies and meningitis--of that wonderful in-door sport known as personal magnetism.' "'can you work it, doc?' asks the mayor. "'i'm one of the sole sanhedrims and ostensible hooplas of the inner pulpit,' says i. 'the lame talk and the blind rubber whenever i make a pass at 'em. i am a medium, a coloratura hypnotist and a spirituous control. it was only through me at the recent seances at ann arbor that the late president of the vinegar bitters company could revisit the earth to communicate with his sister jane. you see me peddling medicine on the street,' says i, 'to the poor. i don't practice personal magnetism on them. i do not drag it in the dust,' says i, 'because they haven't got the dust.' "'will you treat my case?' asks the mayor. "'listen,' says i. 'i've had a good deal of trouble with medical societies everywhere i've been. i don't practice medicine. but, to save your life, i'll give you the psychic treatment if you'll agree as mayor not to push the license question.' "'of course i will,' says he. 'and now get to work, doc, for them pains are coming on again.' "'my fee will be $ . , cure guaranteed in two treatments,' says i. "'all right,' says the mayor. 'i'll pay it. i guess my life's worth that much.' "i sat down by the bed and looked him straight in the eye. "'now,' says i, 'get your mind off the disease. you ain't sick. you haven't got a heart or a clavicle or a funny bone or brains or anything. you haven't got any pain. declare error. now you feel the pain that you didn't have leaving, don't you?' "'i do feel some little better, doc,' says the mayor, 'darned if i don't. now state a few lies about my not having this swelling in my left side, and i think i could be propped up and have some sausage and buckwheat cakes.' "i made a few passes with my hands. "'now,' says i, 'the inflammation's gone. the right lobe of the perihelion has subsided. you're getting sleepy. you can't hold your eyes open any longer. for the present the disease is checked. now, you are asleep.' "the mayor shut his eyes slowly and began to snore. "'you observe, mr. tiddle,' says i, 'the wonders of modern science.' "'biddle,' says he, 'when will you give uncle the rest of the treatment, dr. pooh-pooh?' "'waugh-hoo,' says i. 'i'll come back at eleven to-morrow. when he wakes up give him eight drops of turpentine and three pounds of steak. good morning.' "the next morning i was back on time. 'well, mr. riddle,' says i, when he opened the bedroom door, 'and how is uncle this morning?' "'he seems much better,' says the young man. "the mayor's color and pulse was fine. i gave him another treatment, and he said the last of the pain left him. "'now,' says i, 'you'd better stay in bed for a day or two, and you'll be all right. it's a good thing i happened to be in fisher hill, mr. mayor,' says i, 'for all the remedies in the cornucopia that the regular schools of medicine use couldn't have saved you. and now that error has flew and pain proved a perjurer, let's allude to a cheerfuller subject--say the fee of $ . no checks, please, i hate to write my name on the back of a check almost as bad as i do on the front.' "'i've got the cash here,' says the mayor, pulling a pocket book from under his pillow. "he counts out five fifty-dollar notes and holds 'em in his hand. "'bring the receipt,' he says to biddle. "i signed the receipt and the mayor handed me the money. i put it in my inside pocket careful. "'now do your duty, officer,' says the mayor, grinning much unlike a sick man. "mr. biddle lays his hand on my arm. "'you're under arrest, dr. waugh-hoo, alias peters,' says he, 'for practising medicine without authority under the state law.' "'who are you?' i asks. "'i'll tell you who he is,' says mr. mayor, sitting up in bed. 'he's a detective employed by the state medical society. he's been following you over five counties. he came to me yesterday and we fixed up this scheme to catch you. i guess you won't do any more doctoring around these parts, mr. fakir. what was it you said i had, doc?' the mayor laughs, 'compound--well, it wasn't softening of the brain, i guess, anyway.' "'a detective,' says i. "'correct,' says biddle. 'i'll have to turn you over to the sheriff.' "'let's see you do it,' says i, and i grabs biddle by the throat and half throws him out the window, but he pulls a gun and sticks it under my chin, and i stand still. then he puts handcuffs on me, and takes the money out of my pocket. [illustration: "and i grabs biddle by the throat."] "'i witness,' says he, 'that they're the same bank bills that you and i marked, judge banks. i'll turn them over to the sheriff when we get to his office, and he'll send you a receipt. they'll have to be used as evidence in the case.' "'all right, mr. biddle,' says the mayor. 'and now, doc waugh-hoo,' he goes on, 'why don't you demonstrate? can't you pull the cork out of your magnetism with your teeth and hocus-pocus them handcuffs off?' "'come on, officer,' says i, dignified. 'i may as well make the best of it.' and then i turns to old banks and rattles my chains. "'mr. mayor,' says i, 'the time will come soon when you'll believe that personal magnetism is a success. and you'll be sure that it succeeded in this case, too.' "and i guess it did. "when we got nearly to the gate, i says: 'we might meet somebody now, andy. i reckon you better take 'em off, and--' hey? why, of course it was andy tucker. that was his scheme; and that's how we got the capital to go into business together." modern rural sports jeff peters must be reminded. whenever he is called upon, pointedly, for a story, he will maintain that his life has been as devoid of incident as the longest of trollope's novels. but lured, he will divulge. therefore i cast many and divers flies upon the current of his thoughts before i feel a nibble. "i notice," said i, "that the western farmers, in spite of their prosperity, are running after their old populistic idols again." "it's the running season," said jeff, "for farmers, shad, maple trees and the connemaugh river. i know something about farmers. i thought i struck one once that had got out of the rut; but andy tucker proved to me i was mistaken. 'once a farmer, always a sucker,' said andy. 'he's the man that's shoved into the front row among bullets, ballots and the ballet. he's the funny-bone and gristle of the country,' said andy, 'and i don't know who we would do without him.' "one morning me and andy wakes up with sixty-eight cents between us in a yellow pine hotel on the edge of the pre-digested hoe-cake belt of southern indiana. how we got off the train there the night before i can't tell you; for she went through the village so fast that what looked like a saloon to us through the car window turned out to be a composite view of a drug store and a water tank two blocks apart. why we got off at the first station we could, belongs to a little oroide gold watch and alaska diamond deal we failed to pull off the day before, over the kentucky line. "when i woke up i heard roosters crowing, and smelt something like the fumes of nitro-muriatic acid, and heard something heavy fall on the floor below us, and a man swearing. "'cheer up, andy,' says i. 'we're in a rural community. somebody has just tested a gold brick downstairs. we'll go out and get what's coming to us from a farmer; and then yoicks! and away.' "farmers was always a kind of reserve fund to me. whenever i was in hard luck i'd go to the crossroads, hook a finger in a farmer's suspender, recite the prospectus of my swindle in a mechanical kind of a way, look over what he had, give him back his keys, whetstone and papers that was of no value except to owner, and stroll away without asking any questions. farmers are not fair game to me as high up in our business as me and andy was; but there was times when we found 'em useful, just as wall street does the secretary of the treasury now and then. "when we went down stairs we saw we was in the midst of the finest farming section we ever see. about two miles away on a hill was a big white house in a grove surrounded by a wide-spread agricultural agglomeration of fields and barns and pastures and out-houses. "'whose house is that?' we asked the landlord. "'that,' says he, 'is the domicile and the arboreal, terrestrial and horticultural accessories of farmer ezra plunkett, one of our county's most progressive citizens.' "after breakfast me and andy, with eight cents capital left, casts the horoscope of the rural potentate. "'let me go alone,' says i. 'two of us against one farmer would look as one-sided as roosevelt using both hands to kill a grizzly.' "'all right,' says andy. 'i like to be a true sport even when i'm only collecting rebates from the rutabag raisers. what bait are you going to use for this ezra thing?' andy asks me. "'oh,' i says, 'the first thing that come to hand in the suit case. i reckon i'll take along some of the new income tax receipts, and the recipe for making clover honey out of clabber and apple peelings; and the order blanks for the mcguffey's readers, which afterwards turn out to be mccormick's reapers; and the pearl necklace found on the train; and a pocket-size goldbrick; and a--' "'that'll be enough,' says andy. 'any one of the lot ought to land on ezra. and say, jeff, make that succotash fancier give you nice, clean, new bills. it's a disgrace to our department of agriculture, civil service and pure food law the kind of stuff some of these farmers hand out to use. i've had to take rolls from 'em that looked like bundles of microbe cultures captured out of a red cross ambulance.' "so, i goes to a livery stable and hires a buggy on my looks. i drove out to the plunkett farm and hitched. there was a man sitting on the front steps of the house. he had on a white flannel suit, a diamond ring, golf cap and a pink ascot tie. 'summer boarder,' says i to myself. "'i'd like to see farmer ezra plunkett,' says i to him. "'you see him,' says he. 'what seems to be on your mind?' "i never answered a word. i stood still, repeating to myself the rollicking lines of that merry jingle, 'the man with the hoe.' when i looked at this farmer, the little devices i had in my pocket for buncoing the pushed-back brows seemed as hopeless as trying to shake down the beef trust with a mittimus and a parlor rifle. "'well,' says he, looking at me close, 'speak up. i see the left pocket of your coat sags a good deal. out with the goldbrick first. i'm rather more interested in the bricks than i am in the trick sixty-day notes and the lost silver mine story.' "i had a kind of cerebral sensation of foolishness in my ideas of ratiocination; but i pulled out the little brick and unwrapped my handkerchief off it. "'one dollar and eighty cents,' says the farmer hefting it in his hand. 'is it a trade?' "'the lead in it is worth more than that,' says i, dignified. i put it back in my pocket. "'all right,' says he. 'but i sort of wanted it for the collection i'm starting. i got a $ , one last week for $ . .' "just then a telephone bell rings in the house. "'come in, bunk,' says the farmer, 'and look at my place. it's kind of lonesome here sometimes. i think that's new york calling.' "we went inside. the room looked like a broadway stockbroker's--light oak desks, two 'phones, spanish leather upholstered chairs and couches, oil paintings in gilt frames a foot deep and a ticker hitting off the news in one corner. "'hello, hello!' says this funny farmer. 'is that the regent theatre? yes; this is plunkett, of woodbine centre. reserve four orchestra seats for friday evening--my usual ones. yes; friday--good-bye.' "'i run over to new york every two weeks to see a show,' says the farmer, hanging up the receiver. 'i catch the eighteen-hour flyer at indianapolis, spend ten hours in the heyday of night on the yappian way, and get home in time to see the chickens go to roost forty-eight hours later. oh, the pristine hubbard squasherino of the cave-dwelling period is getting geared up some for the annual meeting of the don't-blow-out-the-gas association, don't you think, mr. bunk?' "'i seem to perceive,' says i, 'a kind of hiatus in the agrarian traditions in which heretofore, i have reposed confidence.' "'sure, bunk,' says he. 'the yellow primrose on the river's brim is getting to look to us reubs like a holiday edition de luxe of the language of flowers with deckle edges and frontispiece.' "just then the telephone calls him again. "'hello, hello!' says he. 'oh, that's perkins, at milldale. i told you $ was too much for that horse. have you got him there? good. let me see him. get away from the transmitter. now make him trot in a circle. faster. yes, i can hear him. keep on--faster yet. ... that'll do. now lead him up to the phone. closer. get his nose nearer. there. now wait. no; i don't want that horse. what? no; not at any price. he interferes; and he's windbroken. goodbye.' "'now, bunk,' says the farmer, 'do you begin to realize that agriculture has had a hair cut? you belong in a bygone era. why, tom lawson himself knows better than to try to catch an up-to-date agriculturalist napping. it's saturday, the fourteenth, on the farm, you bet. now, look here, and see how we keep up with the day's doings.' "he shows me a machine on a table with two things for your ears like the penny-in-the-slot affairs. i puts it on and listens. a female voice starts up reading headlines of murders, accidents and other political casualities. "'what you hear,' says the farmer, 'is a synopsis of to-day's news in the new york, chicago, st. louis and san francisco papers. it is wired in to our rural news bureau and served hot to subscribers. on this table you see the principal dailies and weeklies of the country. also a special service of advance sheets of the monthly magazines.' "i picks up one sheet and sees that it's headed: 'special advance proofs. in july, , the _century_ will say'--and so forth. "the farmer rings up somebody--his manager, i reckon--and tells him to let that herd of jerseys go at $ a head; and to sow the -acre field in wheat; and to have extra cans ready at the station for the milk trolley car. then he passes the henry clays and sets out a bottle of green chartreuse, and goes over and looks at the ticker tape. "'consolidated gas up two points,' says he. 'oh, very well.' "'ever monkey with copper?' i asks. "'stand back!' says he, raising his hand, 'or i'll call the dog. i told you not to waste your time.' "after a while he says: 'bunk, if you don't mind my telling you, your company begins to cloy slightly. i've got to write an article on the chimera of communism for a magazine, and attend a meeting of the race track association this afternoon. of course you understand by now that you can't get my proxy for your remedy, whatever it may be.' "well, sir, all i could think of to do was to go out and get in the buggy. the horse turned round and took me back to the hotel. i hitched him and went in to see andy. in his room i told him about this farmer, word for word; and i sat picking at the table cover like one bereft of sagaciousness. "'i don't understand it,' says i, humming a sad and foolish little song to cover my humiliation. "andy walks up and down the room for a long time, biting the left end of his mustache as he does when in the act of thinking. "'jeff,' says he, finally, 'i believe your story of this expurgated rustic; but i am not convinced. it looks incredulous to me that he could have inoculated himself against all the preordained systems of bucolic bunco. now, you never regarded me as a man of special religious proclivities, did you, jeff?' says andy. "'well,' says i, 'no. but,' says i, not to wound his feelings, 'i have also observed many church members whose said proclivities were not so outwardly developed that they would show on a white handkerchief if you rubbed 'em with it.' "'i have always been a deep student of nature from creation down,' says andy, 'and i believe in an ultimatum design of providence. farmers was made for a purpose; and that was to furnish a livelihood to men like me and you. else why was we given brains? it is my belief that the manna that the israelites lived on for forty years in the wilderness was only a figurative word for farmers; and they kept up the practice to this day. and now,' says andy, 'i am going to test my theory "once a farmer, always a come-on," in spite of the veneering and the orifices that a spurious civilization has brought to him.' "'you'll fail, same as i did,' says i. 'this one's shook off the shackles of the sheep-fold. he's entrenched behind the advantages of electricity, education, literature and intelligence.' "'i'll try,' said andy. 'there are certain laws of nature that free rural delivery can't overcome.' "andy fumbles around awhile in the closet and comes out dressed in a suit with brown and yellow checks as big as your hand. his vest is red with blue dots, and he wears a high silk hat. i noticed he'd soaked his sandy mustache in a kind of blue ink. "'great barnums?' says i. 'you're a ringer for a circus thimblerig man.' "'right,' says andy. 'is the buggy outside? wait here till i come back. i won't be long.' "two hours afterwards andy steps into the room and lays a wad of money on the table. "'eight hundred and sixty dollars,' said he. 'let me tell you. he was in. he looked me over and began to guy me. i didn't say a word, but got out the walnut shells and began to roll the little ball on the table. i whistled a tune or two, and then i started up the old formula. "'step up lively, gentlemen,' says i, 'and watch the little ball. it costs you nothing to look. there you see it, and there you don't. guess where the little joker is. the quickness of the hand deceives the eye. "'i steals a look at the farmer man. i see the sweat coming out on his forehead. he goes over and closes the front door and watches me some more. directly he says: "i'll bet you twenty i can pick the shell the ball's under now." "'after that,' goes on andy, 'there is nothing new to relate. he only had $ cash in the house. when i left he followed me to the gate. there was tears in his eyes when he shook hands. "'"bunk," says he, "thank you for the only real pleasure i've had in years. it brings up happy old days when i was only a farmer and not an agriculturalist. god bless you."'" here jeff peters ceased, and i inferred that his story was done. "then you think"--i began. "yes," said jeff. "something like that. you let the farmers go ahead and amuse themselves with politics. farming's a lonesome life; and they've been against the shell game before." the chair of philanthromathematics "i see that the cause of education has received the princely gift of more than fifty millions of dollars," said i. i was gleaning the stray items from the evening papers while jeff peters packed his briar pipe with plug cut. "which same," said jeff, "calls for a new deck, and a recitation by the entire class in philanthromathematics." "is that an allusion?" i asked. "it is," said jeff. "i never told you about the time when me and andy tucker was philanthropists, did i? it was eight years ago in arizona. andy and me was out in the gila mountains with a two-horse wagon prospecting for silver. we struck it, and sold out to parties in tucson for $ , . they paid our check at the bank in silver--a thousand dollars in a sack. we loaded it in our wagon and drove east a hundred miles before we recovered our presence of intellect. twenty-five thousand dollars doesn't sound like so much when you're reading the annual report of the pennsylvania railroad or listening to an actor talking about his salary; but when you can raise up a wagon sheet and kick around your bootheel and hear every one of 'em ring against another it makes you feel like you was a night-and-day bank with the clock striking twelve. "the third day out we drove into one of the most specious and tidy little towns that nature or rand and mcnally ever turned out. it was in the foothills, and mitigated with trees and flowers and about , head of cordial and dilatory inhabitants. the town seemed to be called floresville, and nature had not contaminated it with many railroads, fleas or eastern tourists. "me and andy deposited our money to the credit of peters and tucker in the esperanza savings bank, and got rooms at the skyview hotel. after supper we lit up, and sat out on the gallery and smoked. then was when the philanthropy idea struck me. i suppose every grafter gets it sometime. "when a man swindles the public out of a certain amount he begins to get scared and wants to return part of it. and if you'll watch close and notice the way his charity runs you'll see that he tries to restore it to the same people he got it from. as a hydrostatical case, take, let's say, a. a made his millions selling oil to poor students who sit up nights studying political economy and methods for regulating the trusts. so, back to the universities and colleges goes his conscience dollars. "there's b got his from the common laboring man that works with his hands and tools. how's he to get some of the remorse fund back into their overalls? "'aha!' says b, 'i'll do it in the name of education. i've skinned the laboring man,' says he to himself, 'but, according to the old proverb, "charity covers a multitude of skins."' "so he puts up eighty million dollars' worth of libraries; and the boys with the dinner pail that builds 'em gets the benefit. "'where's the books?' asks the reading public. "'i dinna ken,' says b. 'i offered ye libraries; and there they are. i suppose if i'd given ye preferred steel trust stock instead ye'd have wanted the water in it set out in cut glass decanters. hoot, for ye!' "but, as i said, the owning of so much money was beginning to give me philanthropitis. it was the first time me and andy had ever made a pile big enough to make us stop and think how we got it. "'andy,' says i, 'we're wealthy--not beyond the dreams of average; but in our humble way we are comparatively as rich as greasers. i feel as if i'd like to do something for as well as to humanity.' "'i was thinking the same thing, jeff,' says he. 'we've been gouging the public for a long time with all kinds of little schemes from selling self-igniting celluloid collars to flooding georgia with hoke smith presidential campaign buttons. i'd like, myself, to hedge a bet or two in the graft game if i could do it without actually banging the cymbalines in the salvation army or teaching a bible class by the bertillon system. "'what'll we do?' says andy. 'give free grub to the poor or send a couple of thousand to george cortelyou?' "'neither,' says i. 'we've got too much money to be implicated in plain charity; and we haven't got enough to make restitution. so, we'll look about for something that's about half way between the two.' "the next day in walking around floresville we see on a hill a big red brick building that appears to be disinhabited. the citizens speak up and tell us that it was begun for a residence several years before by a mine owner. after running up the house he finds he only had $ . left to furnish it with, so he invests that in whiskey and jumps off the roof on a spot where he now requiescats in pieces. "as soon as me and andy saw that building the same idea struck both of us. we would fix it up with lights and pen wipers and professors, and put an iron dog and statues of hercules and father john on the lawn, and start one of the finest free educational institutions in the world right there. "so we talks it over to the prominent citizens of floresville, who falls in fine with the idea. they give a banquet in the engine house to us, and we make our bow for the first time as benefactors to the cause of progress and enlightenment. andy makes an hour-and-a-half speech on the subject of irrigation in lower egypt, and we have a moral tune on the phonograph and pineapple sherbet. "andy and me didn't lose any time in philanthropping. we put every man in town that could tell a hammer from a step ladder to work on the building, dividing it up into class rooms and lecture halls. we wire to frisco for a car load of desks, footballs, arithmetics, penholders, dictionaries, chairs for the professors, slates, skeletons, sponges, twenty-seven cravenetted gowns and caps for the senior class, and an open order for all the truck that goes with a first-class university. i took it on myself to put a campus and a curriculum on the list; but the telegraph operator must have got the words wrong, being an ignorant man, for when the goods come we found a can of peas and a curry-comb among 'em. "while the weekly papers was having chalk-plate cuts of me and andy we wired an employment agency in chicago to express us f.o.b., six professors immediately--one english literature, one up-to-date dead languages, one chemistry, one political economy--democrat preferred--one logic, and one wise to painting, italian and music, with union card. the esperanza bank guaranteed salaries, which was to run between $ and $ . . "well, sir, we finally got in shape. over the front door was carved the words: 'the world's university; peters & tucker, patrons and proprietors. and when september the first got a cross-mark on the calendar, the come-ons begun to roll in. first the faculty got off the tri-weekly express from tucson. they was mostly young, spectacled, and red-headed, with sentiments divided between ambition and food. andy and me got 'em billeted on the floresvillians and then laid for the students. "they came in bunches. we had advertised the university in all the state papers, and it did us good to see how quick the country responded. two hundred and nineteen husky lads aging along from up to chin whiskers answered the clarion call of free education. they ripped open that town, sponged the seams, turned it, lined it with new mohair; and you couldn't have told it from harvard or goldfields at the march term of court. "they marched up and down the streets waving flags with the world's university colors--ultra-marine and blue--and they certainly made a lively place of floresville. andy made them a speech from the balcony of the skyview hotel, and the whole town was out celebrating. "in about two weeks the professors got the students disarmed and herded into classes. i don't believe there's any pleasure equal to being a philanthropist. me and andy bought high silk hats and pretended to dodge the two reporters of the floresville gazette. the paper had a man to kodak us whenever we appeared on the street, and ran our pictures every week over the column headed 'educational notes.' andy lectured twice a week at the university; and afterward i would rise and tell a humorous story. once the gazette printed my pictures with abe lincoln on one side and marshall p. wilder on the other. "andy was as interested in philanthropy as i was. we used to wake up of nights and tell each other new ideas for booming the university. "'andy,' says i to him one day, 'there's something we overlooked. the boys ought to have dromedaries.' "'what's that?' andy asks. "'why, something to sleep in, of course,' says i. 'all colleges have 'em.' "'oh, you mean pajamas,' says andy. "'i do not,' says i. 'i mean dromedaries.' but i never could make andy understand; so we never ordered 'em. of course, i meant them long bedrooms in colleges where the scholars sleep in a row. "well, sir, the world's university was a success. we had scholars from five states and territories, and floresville had a boom. a new shooting gallery and a pawn shop and two more saloons started; and the boys got up a college yell that went this way: "'raw, raw, raw, done, done, done, peters, tucker, lots of fun, bow-wow-wow, haw-hee-haw, world university, hip, hurrah!' "the scholars was a fine lot of young men, and me and andy was as proud of 'em as if they belonged to our own family. "but one day about the last of october andy comes to me and asks if i have any idea how much money we had left in the bank. i guesses about sixteen thousand. 'our balance,' says andy, 'is $ . .' "'what!' says i, with a kind of a yell. 'do you mean to tell me that them infernal clod-hopping, dough-headed, pup-faced, goose-brained, gate-stealing, rabbit-eared sons of horse thieves have soaked us for that much?' "'no less,' says andy. "'then, to helvetia with philanthropy,' says i. "'not necessarily,' says andy. 'philanthropy,' says he, 'when run on a good business basis is one of the best grafts going. i'll look into the matter and see if it can't be straightened out.' "the next week i am looking over the payroll of our faculty when i run across a new name--professor james darnley mccorkle, chair of mathematics; salary $ per week. i yells so loud that andy runs in quick. "'what's this,' says i. 'a professor of mathematics at more than $ , a year? how did this happen? did he get in through the window and appoint himself?' "'i wired to frisco for him a week ago,' says andy. 'in ordering the faculty we seemed to have overlooked the chair of mathematics.' "'a good thing we did,' says i. 'we can pay his salary two weeks, and then our philanthropy will look like the ninth hole on the skibo golf links.' "'wait a while,' says andy, 'and see how things turn out. we have taken up too noble a cause to draw out now. besides, the further i gaze into the retail philanthropy business the better it looks to me. i never thought about investigating it before. come to think of it now,' goes on andy, 'all the philanthropists i ever knew had plenty of money. i ought to have looked into that matter long ago, and located which was the cause and which was the effect.' "i had confidence in andy's chicanery in financial affairs, so i left the whole thing in his hands. the university was flourishing fine, and me and andy kept our silk hats shined up, and floresville kept on heaping honors on us like we was millionaires instead of almost busted philanthropists. "the students kept the town lively and prosperous. some stranger came to town and started a faro bank over the red front livery stable, and began to amass money in quantities. me and andy strolled up one night and piked a dollar or two for sociability. there were about fifty of our students there drinking rum punches and shoving high stacks of blues and reds about the table as the dealer turned the cards up. "'why, dang it, andy,' says i, 'these free-school-hunting, gander-headed, silk-socked little sons of sap-suckers have got more money than you and me ever had. look at the rolls they're pulling out of their pistol pockets?' "'yes,' says andy, 'a good many of them are sons of wealthy miners and stockmen. it's very sad to see 'em wasting their opportunities this way.' "at christmas all the students went home to spend the holidays. we had a farewell blowout at the university, and andy lectured on 'modern music and prehistoric literature of the archipelagos.' each one of the faculty answered to toasts, and compared me and andy to rockefeller and the emperor marcus autolycus. i pounded on the table and yelled for professor mccorkle; but it seems he wasn't present on the occasion. i wanted a look at the man that andy thought could earn $ a week in philanthropy that was on the point of making an assignment. "the students all left on the night train; and the town sounded as quiet as the campus of a correspondence school at midnight. when i went to the hotel i saw a light in andy's room, and i opened the door and walked in. "there sat andy and the faro dealer at a table dividing a two-foot high stack of currency in thousand-dollar packages. "'correct,' says andy. 'thirty-one thousand apiece. come in, jeff,' says he. 'this is our share of the profits of the first half of the scholastic term of the world's university, incorporated and philanthropated. are you convinced now,' says andy, 'that philanthropy when practiced in a business way is an art that blesses him who gives as well as him who receives?' "'great!' says i, feeling fine. 'i'll admit you are the doctor this time.' "'we'll be leaving on the morning train,' says andy. 'you'd better get your collars and cuffs and press clippings together.' "'great!' says i. 'i'll be ready. but, andy,' says i, 'i wish i could have met that professor james darnley mccorkle before we went. i had a curiosity to know that man.' "'that'll be easy,' says andy, turning around to the faro dealer. "'jim,' says andy, 'shake hands with mr. peters.'" the hand that riles the world "many of our great men," said i (apropos of many things), "have declared that they owe their success to the aid and encouragement of some brilliant woman." "i know," said jeff peters. "i've read in history and mythology about joan of arc and mme. yale and mrs. caudle and eve and other noted females of the past. but, in my opinion, the woman of to-day is of little use in politics or business. what's she best in, anyway?--men make the best cooks, milliners, nurses, housekeepers, stenographers, clerks, hairdressers and launderers. about the only job left that a woman can beat a man in is female impersonator in vaudeville." "i would have thought," said i, "that occasionally, anyhow, you would have found the wit and intuition of woman valuable to you in your lines of--er--business." "now, wouldn't you," said jeff, with an emphatic nod--"wouldn't you have imagined that? but a woman is an absolutely unreliable partner in any straight swindle. she's liable to turn honest on you when you are depending upon her the most. i tried 'em once. "bill humble, an old friend of mine in the territories, conceived the illusion that he wanted to be appointed united states marshall. at that time me and andy was doing a square, legitimate business of selling walking canes. if you unscrewed the head of one and turned it up to your mouth a half pint of good rye whiskey would go trickling down your throat to reward you for your act of intelligence. the deputies was annoying me and andy some, and when bill spoke to me about his officious aspirations, i saw how the appointment as marshall might help along the firm of peters & tucker. [illustration: "selling walking canes."] "'jeff,' says bill to me, 'you are a man of learning and education, besides having knowledge and information concerning not only rudiments but facts and attainments.' "'i do,' says i, 'and i have never regretted it. i am not one,' says i, 'who would cheapen education by making it free. tell me,' says i, 'which is of the most value to mankind, literature or horse racing?' "'why--er--, playing the po--i mean, of course, the poets and the great writers have got the call, of course,' says bill. "'exactly,' says i. 'then why do the master minds of finance and philanthropy,' says i, 'charge us $ to get into a race-track and let us into a library free? is that distilling into the masses,' says i, 'a correct estimate of the relative value of the two means of self-culture and disorder?' "'you are arguing outside of my faculties of sense and rhetoric,' says bill. 'what i wanted you to do is to go to washington and dig out this appointment for me. i haven't no ideas of cultivation and intrigue. i'm a plain citizen and i need the job. i've killed seven men,' says bill; 'i've got nine children; i've been a good republican ever since the first of may; i can't read nor write, and i see no reason why i ain't illegible for the office. and i think your partner, mr. tucker,' goes on bill, 'is also a man of sufficient ingratiation and connected system of mental delinquency to assist you in securing the appointment. i will give you preliminary,' says bill, '$ , for drinks, bribes and carfare in washington. if you land the job i will pay you $ , more, cash down, and guarantee you impunity in boot-legging whiskey for twelve months. are you patriotic to the west enough to help me put this thing through the whitewashed wigwam of the great father of the most eastern flag station of the pennsylvania railroad?' says bill. [illustration: "i'm a plain citizen and i need the job."] "well, i talked to andy about it, and he liked the idea immense. andy was a man of an involved nature. he was never content to plod along, as i was, selling to the peasantry some little tool like a combination steak beater, shoe horn, marcel waver, monkey wrench, nail file, potato masher and multum in parvo tuning fork. andy had the artistic temper, which is not to be judged as a preacher's or a moral man's is by purely commercial deflections. so we accepted bill's offer, and strikes out for washington. "says i to andy, when we get located at a hotel on south dakota avenue, g.s.s.w. 'now andy, for the first time in our lives we've got to do a real dishonest act. lobbying is something we've never been used to; but we've got to scandalize ourselves for bill humble's sake. in a straight and legitimate business,' says i, 'we could afford to introduce a little foul play and chicanery, but in a disorderly and heinous piece of malpractice like this it seems to me that the straightforward and aboveboard way is the best. i propose,' says i, 'that we hand over $ of this money to the chairman of the national campaign committee, get a receipt, lay the receipt on the president's desk and tell him about bill. the president is a man who would appreciate a candidate who went about getting office that way instead of pulling wires.' "andy agreed with me, but after we talked the scheme over with the hotel clerk we give that plan up. he told us that there was only one way to get an appointment in washington, and that was through a lady lobbyist. he gave us the address of one he recommended, a mrs. avery, who he said was high up in sociable and diplomatic rings and circles. "the next morning at o'clock me and andy called at her hotel, and was shown up to her reception room. "this mrs. avery was a solace and a balm to the eyesight. she had hair the color of the back of a twenty dollar gold certificate, blue eyes and a system of beauty that would make the girl on the cover of a july magazine look like a cook on a monongahela coal barge. "she had on a low necked dress covered with silver spangles, and diamond rings and ear bobs. her arms was bare; and she was using a desk telephone with one hand, and drinking tea with the other. "'well, boys,' says she after a bit, 'what is it?' [illustration: "'well boys, what is it?'"] "i told her in as few words as possible what we wanted for bill, and the price we could pay. "'those western appointments,' says she, 'are easy. le'me see, now,' says she, 'who could put that through for us. no use fooling with the territorial delegates. i guess,' says she, 'that senator sniper would be about the man. he's from somewheres in the west. let's see how he stands on my private menu card.' she takes some papers out of a pigeon-hole with the letter 's' over it. "'yes,' says she, 'he's marked with a star; that means "ready to serve." now, let's see. "age ; married twice; presbyterian, likes blondes, tolstoi, poker and stewed terrapin; sentimental at third bottle of wine." yes,' she goes on, 'i am sure i can have your friend, mr. bummer, appointed minister to brazil.' "'humble,' says i. 'and united states marshal was the berth.' "'oh, yes,' says mrs. avery. 'i have so many deals of this sort i sometimes get them confused. give me all the memoranda you have of the case, mr. peters, and come back in four days. i think it can be arranged by then.' "so me and andy goes back to our hotel and waits. andy walks up and down and chews the left end of his mustache. "'a woman of high intellect and perfect beauty is a rare thing, jeff,' says he. "'as rare,' says i, 'as an omelet made from the eggs of the fabulous bird known as the epidermis,' says i. "'a woman like that,' says andy, 'ought to lead a man to the highest positions of opulence and fame.' "'i misdoubt,' says i, 'if any woman ever helped a man to secure a job any more than to have his meals ready promptly and spread a report that the other candidate's wife had once been a shoplifter. they are no more adapted for business and politics,' says i, 'than algernon charles swinburne is to be floor manager at one of chuck connor's annual balls. i know,' says i to andy, 'that sometimes a woman seems to step out into the kalsomine light as the charge d'affaires of her man's political job. but how does it come out? say, they have a neat little berth somewhere as foreign consul of record to afghanistan or lockkeeper on the delaware and raritan canal. one day this man finds his wife putting on her overshoes and three months supply of bird seed into the canary's cage. "sioux falls?" he asks with a kind of hopeful light in his eye. "no, arthur," says she, "washington. we're wasted here," says she. "you ought to be toady extraordinary to the court of st. bridget or head porter of the island of porto rico. i'm going to see about it." "'then this lady,' i says to andy, 'moves against the authorities at washington with her baggage and munitions, consisting of five dozen indiscriminating letters written to her by a member of the cabinet when she was ; a letter of introduction from king leopold to the smithsonian institution, and a pink silk costume with canary colored spats. "'well and then what?' i goes. 'she has the letters printed in the evening papers that match her costume, she lectures at an informal tea given in the palm room of the b. & o. depot and then calls on the president. the ninth assistant secretary of commerce and labor, the first aide-de-camp of the blue room and an unidentified colored man are waiting there to grasp her by the hands--and feet. they carry her out to s.w. b. street and leave her on a cellar door. that ends it. the next time we hear of her she is writing postcards to the chinese minister asking him to get arthur a job in a tea store.' "'then,' says andy, 'you don't think mrs. avery will land the marshalship for bill?' "'i do not,' says i. 'i do not wish to be a septic, but i doubt if she can do as well as you and me could have done.' "'i don't agree with you,' says andy. 'i'll bet you she does. i'm proud of having a higher opinion of the talent and the powers of negotiation of ladies.' "we was back at mrs. avery's hotel at the time she appointed. she was looking pretty and fine enough, as far as that went, to make any man let her name every officer in the country. but i hadn't much faith in looks, so i was certainly surprised when she pulls out a document with the great seal of the united states on it, and 'william henry humble' in a fine, big hand on the back. "'you might have had it the next day, boys,' says mrs. avery, smiling. 'i hadn't the slightest trouble in getting it,' says she. 'i just asked for it, that's all. now, i'd like to talk to you a while,' she goes on, 'but i'm awfully busy, and i know you'll excuse me. i've got an ambassadorship, two consulates and a dozen other minor applications to look after. i can hardly find time to sleep at all. you'll give my compliments to mr. humble when you get home, of course.' "well, i handed her the $ , which she pitched into her desk drawer without counting. i put bill's appointment in my pocket and me and andy made our adieus. "we started back for the territory the same day. we wired bill: 'job landed; get the tall glasses ready,' and we felt pretty good. "andy joshed me all the way about how little i knew about women. "'all right,' says i. 'i'll admit that she surprised me. but it's the first time i ever knew one of 'em to manipulate a piece of business on time without getting it bungled up in some way,' says i. "down about the edge of arkansas i got out bill's appointment and looked it over, and then i handed it to andy to read. andy read it, but didn't add any remarks to my silence. "the paper was for bill, all right, and a genuine document, but it appointed him postmaster of dade city, fla. "me and andy got off the train at little rock and sent bill's appointment to him by mail. then we struck northeast toward lake superior. "i never saw bill humble after that." the exact science of matrimony "as i have told you before," said jeff peters, "i never had much confidence in the perfidiousness of woman. as partners or coeducators in the most innocent line of graft they are not trustworthy." "they deserve the compliment," said i. "i think they are entitled to be called the honest sex." "why shouldn't they be?" said jeff. "they've got the other sex either grafting or working overtime for 'em. they're all right in business until they get their emotions or their hair touched up too much. then you want to have a flat footed, heavy breathing man with sandy whiskers, five kids and a building and loan mortgage ready as an understudy to take her desk. now there was that widow lady that me and andy tucker engaged to help us in that little matrimonial agency scheme we floated out in cairo. "when you've got enough advertising capital--say a roll as big as the little end of a wagon tongue--there's money in matrimonial agencies. we had about $ , and we expected to double it in two months, which is about as long as a scheme like ours can be carried on without taking out a new jersey charter. "we fixed up an advertisement that read about like this: "charming widow, beautiful, home loving, years, possessing $ , cash and owning valuable country property, would remarry. would prefer a poor man with affectionate disposition to one with means, as she realizes that the solid virtues are oftenest to be found in the humble walks of life. no objection to elderly man or one of homely appearance if faithful and true and competent to manage property and invest money with judgment. address, with particulars. lonely, care of peters & tucker, agents, cairo, ill. "'so far, so pernicious,' says i, when we had finished the literary concoction. 'and now,' says i, 'where is the lady.' "andy gives me one of his looks of calm irritation. "'jeff,' says he, 'i thought you had lost them ideas of realism in your art. why should there be a lady? when they sell a lot of watered stock on wall street would you expect to find a mermaid in it? what has a matrimonial ad got to do with a lady?' "'now listen,' says i. 'you know my rule, andy, that in all my illegitimate inroads against the legal letter of the law the article sold must be existent, visible, producible. in that way and by a careful study of city ordinances and train schedules i have kept out of all trouble with the police that a five dollar bill and a cigar could not square. now, to work this scheme we've got to be able to produce bodily a charming widow or its equivalent with or without the beauty, hereditaments and appurtenances set forth in the catalogue and writ of errors, or hereafter be held by a justice of the peace.' "'well,' says andy, reconstructing his mind, 'maybe it would be safer in case the post office or the peace commission should try to investigate our agency. but where,' he says, 'could you hope to find a widow who would waste time on a matrimonial scheme that had no matrimony in it?' "i told andy that i thought i knew of the exact party. an old friend of mine, zeke trotter, who used to draw soda water and teeth in a tent show, had made his wife a widow a year before by drinking some dyspepsia cure of the old doctor's instead of the liniment that he always got boozed up on. i used to stop at their house often, and i thought we could get her to work with us. "'twas only sixty miles to the little town where she lived, so i jumped out on the i. c. and finds her in the same cottage with the same sunflowers and roosters standing on the washtub. mrs. trotter fitted our ad first rate except, maybe for beauty and age and property valuation. but she looked feasible and praiseworthy to the eye, and it was a kindness to zeke's memory to give her the job. "'is this an honest deal you are putting on, mr. peters,' she asks me when i tell her what we want. "'mrs. trotter,' says i, 'andy tucker and me have computed the calculation that , men in this broad and unfair country will endeavor to secure your fair hand and ostensible money and property through our advertisement. out of that number something like thirty hundred will expect to give you in exchange, if they should win you, the carcass of a lazy and mercenary loafer, a failure in life, a swindler and contemptible fortune seeker. "'me and andy,' says i, 'propose to teach these preyers upon society a lesson. it was with difficulty,' says i, 'that me and andy could refrain from forming a corporation under the title of the great moral and millennial malevolent matrimonial agency. does that satisfy you?' "'it does, mr. peters,' says she. 'i might have known you wouldn't have gone into anything that wasn't opprobrious. but what will my duties be? do i have to reject personally these , ramscallions you speak of, or can i throw them out in bunches?' "'your job, mrs. trotter,' says i, 'will be practically a cynosure. you will live at a quiet hotel and will have no work to do. andy and i will attend to all the correspondence and business end of it. "'of course,' says i, 'some of the more ardent and impetuous suitors who can raise the railroad fare may come to cairo to personally press their suit or whatever fraction of a suit they may be wearing. in that case you will be probably put to the inconvenience of kicking them out face to face. we will pay you $ per week and hotel expenses.' "'give me five minutes,' says mrs. trotter, 'to get my powder rag and leave the front door key with a neighbor and you can let my salary begin.' "so i conveys mrs. trotter to cairo and establishes her in a family hotel far enough away from mine and andy's quarters to be unsuspicious and available, and i tell andy. "'great,' says andy. 'and now that your conscience is appeased as to the tangibility and proximity of the bait, and leaving mutton aside, suppose we revenoo a noo fish.' "so, we began to insert our advertisement in newspapers covering the country far and wide. one ad was all we used. we couldn't have used more without hiring so many clerks and marcelled paraphernalia that the sound of the gum chewing would have disturbed the postmaster-general. "we placed $ , in a bank to mrs. trotter's credit and gave her the book to show in case anybody might question the honesty and good faith of the agency. i knew mrs. trotter was square and reliable and it was safe to leave it in her name. "with that one ad andy and me put in twelve hours a day answering letters. "about one hundred a day was what came in. i never knew there was so many large hearted but indigent men in the country who were willing to acquire a charming widow and assume the burden of investing her money. [illustration: "about a day was what came in."] "most of them admitted that they ran principally to whiskers and lost jobs and were misunderstood by the world, but all of 'em were sure that they were so chock full of affection and manly qualities that the widow would be making the bargain of her life to get 'em. "every applicant got a reply from peters & tucker informing him that the widow had been deeply impressed by his straightforward and interesting letter and requesting them to write again; stating more particulars; and enclosing photograph if convenient. peters & tucker also informed the applicant that their fee for handing over the second letter to their fair client would be $ , enclosed therewith. "there you see the simple beauty of the scheme. about per cent. of them domestic foreign noblemen raised the price somehow and sent it in. that was all there was to it. except that me and andy complained an amount about being put to the trouble of slicing open them envelopes, and taking the money out. "some few clients called in person. we sent 'em to mrs. trotter and she did the rest; except for three or four who came back to strike us for carfare. after the letters began to get in from the r.f.d. districts andy and me were taking in about $ a day. "one afternoon when we were busiest and i was stuffing the two and ones into cigar boxes and andy was whistling 'no wedding bells for her' a small slick man drops in and runs his eye over the walls like he was on the trail of a lost gainesborough painting or two. as soon as i saw him i felt a glow of pride, because we were running our business on the level. "'i see you have quite a large mail to-day,' says the man. "i reached and got my hat. "'come on,' says i. 'we've been expecting you. i'll show you the goods. how was teddy when you left washington?' "i took him down to the riverview hotel and had him shake hands with mrs. trotter. then i showed him her bank book with the $ , to her credit. "'it seems to be all right,' says the secret service. "'it is,' says i. 'and if you're not a married man i'll leave you to talk a while with the lady. we won't mention the two dollars.' "'thanks,' says he. 'if i wasn't, i might. good day, mrs. peters.' "toward the end of three months we had taken in something over $ , , and we saw it was time to quit. we had a good many complaints made to us; and mrs. trotter seemed to be tired of the job. a good many suitors had been calling to see her, and she didn't seem to like that. "so we decides to pull out, and i goes down to mrs. trotter's hotel to pay her last week's salary and say farewell and get her check for the $ , . "when i got there i found her crying like a kid that don't want to go to school. "'now, now,' says i, 'what's it all about? somebody sassed you or you getting homesick?' "'no, mr. peters,' says she. 'i'll tell you. you was always a friend of zeke's, and i don't mind. mr. peters, i'm in love. i just love a man so hard i can't bear not to get him. he's just the ideal i've always had in mind.' [illustration: "'mr. peters, i'm in love.'"] "'then take him,' says i. 'that is, if it's a mutual case. does he return the sentiment according to the specifications and painfulness you have described?' "'he does,' says she. 'but he's one of the gentlemen that's been coming to see me about the advertisement and he won't marry me unless i give him the $ , . his name is william wilkinson.' and then she goes off again in the agitations and hysterics of romance. "'mrs. trotter,' says i, 'there's no man more sympathizing with a woman's affections than i am. besides, you was once the life partner of one of my best friends. if it was left to me i'd say take this $ , and the man of your choice and be happy. "'we could afford to do that, because we have cleaned up over $ , from these suckers that wanted to marry you. but,' says i, 'andy tucker is to be consulted. "'he is a good man, but keen in business. he is my equal partner financially. i will talk to andy,' says i, 'and see what can be done.' "i goes back to our hotel and lays the case before andy. "'i was expecting something like this all the time,' says andy. 'you can't trust a woman to stick by you in any scheme that involves her emotions and preferences.' "'it's a sad thing, andy,' says i, 'to think that we've been the cause of the breaking of a woman's heart.' "'it is,' says andy, 'and i tell you what i'm willing to do, jeff. you've always been a man of a soft and generous heart and disposition. perhaps i've been too hard and worldly and suspicious. for once i'll meet you half way. go to mrs. trotter and tell her to draw the $ , from the bank and give it to this man she's infatuated with and be happy.' "i jumps up and shakes andy's hand for five minutes, and then i goes back to mrs. trotter and tells her, and she cries as hard for joy as she did for sorrow. "two days afterward me and andy packed up to go. "'wouldn't you like to go down and meet mrs. trotter once before we leave?' i asks him. 'she'd like mightily to know you and express her encomiums and gratitude.' "'why, i guess not,' says andy. 'i guess we'd better hurry and catch that train.' "i was strapping our capital around me in a memory belt like we always carried it, when andy pulls a roll of large bills out of his pocket and asks me to put 'em with the rest. "'what's this?' says i. [illustration: "'what's this?' says i."] "'it's mrs. trotter's two thousand,' says andy. "'how do you come to have it?' i asks. "'she gave it to me,' says andy. 'i've been calling on her three evenings a week for more than a month.' "'then are you william wilkinson?' says i. "'i was,' says andy." a midsummer masquerade "satan," said jeff peters, "is a hard boss to work for. when other people are having their vacation is when he keeps you the busiest. as old dr. watts or st. paul or some other diagnostician says: 'he always finds somebody for idle hands to do.' "i remember one summer when me and my partner, andy tucker, tried to take a layoff from our professional and business duties; but it seems that our work followed us wherever we went. "now, with a preacher it's different. he can throw off his responsibilities and enjoy himself. on the st of may he wraps mosquito netting and tin foil around the pulpit, grabs his niblick, breviary and fishing pole and hikes for lake como or atlantic city according to the size of the loudness with which he has been called by his congregation. and, sir, for three months he don't have to think about business except to hunt around in deuteronomy and proverbs and timothy to find texts to cover and exculpate such little midsummer penances as dropping a couple of looey door on rouge or teaching a presbyterian widow to swim. "but i was going to tell you about mine and andy's summer vacation that wasn't one. "we was tired of finance and all the branches of unsanctified ingenuity. even andy, whose brain rarely ever stopped working, began to make noises like a tennis cabinet. "'heigh ho!' says andy. 'i'm tired. i've got that steam up the yacht corsair and ho for the riviera! feeling. i want to loaf and indict my soul, as walt whittier says. i want to play pinochle with merry del val or give a knouting to the tenants on my tarrytown estates or do a monologue at a chautauqua picnic in kilts or something summery and outside the line of routine and sand-bagging.' "'patience,' says i. 'you'll have to climb higher in the profession before you can taste the laurels that crown the footprints of the great captains of industry. now, what i'd like, andy,' says i, 'would be a summer sojourn in a mountain village far from scenes of larceny, labor and overcapitalization. i'm tired, too, and a month or so of sinlessness ought to leave us in good shape to begin again to take away the white man's burdens in the fall.' "andy fell in with the rest cure at once, so we struck the general passenger agents of all the railroads for summer resort literature, and took a week to study out where we should go. i reckon the first passenger agent in the world was that man genesis. but there wasn't much competition in his day, and when he said: 'the lord made the earth in six days, and all very good,' he hadn't any idea to what extent the press agents of the summer hotels would plagiarize from him later on. "when we finished the booklets we perceived, easy, that the united states from passadumkeg, maine, to el paso, and from skagway to key west was a paradise of glorious mountain peaks, crystal lakes, new laid eggs, golf, girls, garages, cooling breezes, straw rides, open plumbing and tennis; and all within two hours' ride. "so me and andy dumps the books out the back window and packs our trunk and takes the o'clock tortoise flyer for crow knob, a kind of a dernier resort in the mountains on the line of tennessee and north carolina. [illustration: "dumps the books out of the back window."] "we was directed to a kind of private hotel called woodchuck inn, and thither me and andy bent and almost broke our footsteps over the rocks and stumps. the inn set back from the road in a big grove of trees, and it looked fine with its broad porches and a lot of women in white dresses rocking in the shade. the rest of crow knob was a post office and some scenery set an angle of forty-five degrees and a welkin. "well, sir, when we got to the gate who do you suppose comes down the walk to greet us? old smoke-'em-out smithers, who used to be the best open air painless dentist and electric liver pad faker in the southwest. "old smoke-'em-out is dressed clerico-rural, and has the mingled air of a landlord and a claim jumper. which aspect he corroborates by telling us that he is the host and perpetrator of woodchuck inn. i introduces andy, and we talk about a few volatile topics, such as will go around at meetings of boards of directors and old associates like us three were. old smoke-'em-out leads us into a kind of summer house in the yard near the gate and took up the harp of life and smote on all the chords with his mighty right. "'gents,' says he, 'i'm glad to see you. maybe you can help me out of a scrape. i'm getting a bit old for street work, so i leased this dogdays emporium so the good things would come to me. two weeks before the season opened i gets a letter signed lieut. peary and one from the duke of marlborough, each wanting to engage board for part of the summer. "'well, sir, you gents know what a big thing for an obscure hustlery it would be to have for guests two gentlemen whose names are famous from long association with icebergs and the coburgs. so i prints a lot of handbills announcing that woodchuck inn would shelter these distinguished boarders during the summer, except in places where it leaked, and i sends 'em out to towns around as far as knoxville and charlotte and fish dam and bowling green. "'and now look up there on the porch, gents,' says smoke-'em-out, 'at them disconsolate specimens of their fair sex waiting for the arrival of the duke and the lieutenant. the house is packed from rafters to cellar with hero worshippers. "'there's four normal school teachers and two abnormal; there's three high school graduates between and ; there's two literary old maids and one that can write; there's a couple of society women and a lady from haw river. two elocutionists are bunking in the corn crib, and i've put cots in the hay loft for the cook and the society editress of the chattanooga _opera glass_. you see how names draw, gents.' "'well,' says i, 'how is it that you seem to be biting your thumbs at good luck? you didn't use to be that way.' "'i ain't through,' says smoke-'em-out. 'yesterday was the day for the advent of the auspicious personages. i goes down to the depot to welcome 'em. two apparently animate substances gets off the train, both carrying bags full of croquet mallets and these magic lanterns with pushbuttons. "i compares these integers with the original signatures to the letters --and, well, gents, i reckon the mistake was due to my poor eyesight. instead of being the lieutenant, the daisy chain and wild verbena explorer was none other than levi t. peevy, a soda water clerk from asheville. and the duke of marlborough turned out to be theo. drake of murfreesborough, a bookkeeper in a grocery. what did i do? i kicked 'em both back on the train and watched 'em depart for the lowlands, the low. [illustration: instead of the lieut. and the duke.] "'now you see the fix i'm in, gents,' goes on smoke-'em-out smithers. 'i told the ladies that the notorious visitors had been detained on the road by some unavoidable circumstances that made a noise like an ice jam and an heiress, but they would arrive a day or two later. when they find out that they've been deceived,' says smoke-'em-out, 'every yard of cross barred muslin and natural waved switch in the house will pack up and leave. it's a hard deal,' says old smoke-'em-out. "'friend,' says andy, touching the old man on the æsophagus, 'why this jeremiad when the polar regions and the portals of blenheim are conspiring to hand you prosperity on a hall-marked silver salver. we have arrived.' "a light breaks out on smoke-'em-out's face. "'can you do it, gents?' he asks. 'could ye do it? could ye play the polar man and the little duke for the nice ladies? will ye do it?' [illustration: "'can ye do it, gents?' he asks."] "i see that andy is superimposed with his old hankering for the oral and polyglot system of buncoing. that man had a vocabulary of about , words and synonyms, which arrayed themselves into contraband sophistries and parables when they came out. "'listen,' says andy to old smoke-'em-out. 'can we do it? you behold before you, mr. smithers, two of the finest equipped men on earth for inveigling the proletariat, whether by word of mouth, sleight-of-hand or swiftness of foot. dukes come and go, explorers go and get lost, but me and jeff peters,' says andy, 'go after the come-ons forever. if you say so, we're the two illustrious guests you were expecting. and you'll find,' says andy, 'that we'll give you the true local color of the title rôles from the aurora borealis to the ducal portcullis.' "old smoke-'em-out is delighted. he takes me and andy up to the inn by an arm apiece, telling us on the way that the finest fruits of the can and luxuries of the fast freights should be ours without price as long as we would stay. "on the porch smoke-'em-out says: 'ladies, i have the honor to introduce his gracefulness the duke of marlborough and the famous inventor of the north pole, lieut. peary.' "the skirts all flutter and the rocking chairs squeak as me and andy bows and then goes on in with old smoke-'em-out to register. and then we washed up and turned our cuffs, and the landlord took us to the rooms he'd been saving for us and got out a demijohn of north carolina real mountain dew. "i expected trouble when andy began to drink. he has the artistic metempsychosis which is half drunk when sober and looks down on airships when stimulated. "after lingering with the demijohn me and andy goes out on the porch, where the ladies are to begin to earn our keep. we sit in two special chairs and then the schoolma'ams and literaterrers hunched their rockers close around us. "one lady says to me: 'how did that last venture of yours turn out, sir?' "now, i'd clean forgot to have an understanding with andy which i was to be, the duke or the lieutenant. and i couldn't tell from her question whether she was referring to arctic or matrimonial expeditions. so i gave an answer that would cover both cases. "'well, ma'am,' says i, 'it was a freeze out--right smart of a freeze out, ma'am.' "and then the flood gates of andy's perorations was opened and i knew which one of the renowned ostensible guests i was supposed to be. i wasn't either. andy was both. and still furthermore it seemed that he was trying to be the mouthpiece of the whole british nobility and of arctic exploration from sir john franklin down. it was the union of corn whiskey and the conscientious fictional form that mr. w. d. howletts admires so much. "'ladies,' says andy, smiling semicircularly, 'i am truly glad to visit america. i do not consider the magna charta,' says he, 'or gas balloons or snow-shoes in any way a detriment to the beauty and charm of your american women, skyscrapers or the architecture of your icebergs. the next time,' says andy, 'that i go after the north pole all the vanderbilts in greenland won't be able to turn me out in the cold--i mean make it hot for me.' "'tell us about one of your trips, lieutenant,' says one of the normals. "'sure,' says andy, getting the decision over a hiccup. 'it was in the spring of last year that i sailed the castle of blenheim up to latitude degrees fahrenheit and beat the record. ladies,' says andy, 'it was a sad sight to see a duke allied by a civil and liturgical chattel mortgage to one of your first families lost in a region of semiannual days.' and then he goes on, 'at four bells we sighted westminster abbey, but there was not a drop to eat. at noon we threw out five sandbags, and the ship rose fifteen knots higher. at midnight,' continues andy, 'the restaurants closed. sitting on a cake of ice we ate seven hot dogs. all around us was snow and ice. six times a night the boatswain rose up and tore a leaf off the calendar, so we could keep time with the barometer. at ,' says andy, with a lot of anguish on his face, 'three huge polar bears sprang down the hatchway, into the cabin. and then--' "'what then, lieutenant?' says a schoolma'am, excitedly. "andy gives a loud sob. "'the duchess shook me,' he cries out, and slides out of the chair and weeps on the porch. "well, of course, that fixed the scheme. the women boarders all left the next morning. the landlord wouldn't speak to us for two days, but when he found we had money to pay our way he loosened up. "so me and andy had a quiet, restful summer after all, coming away from crow knob with $ , , that we enticed out of old smoke-'em-out playing seven up." shearing the wolf jeff peters was always eloquent when the ethics of his profession was under discussion. "the only times," said he, "that me and andy tucker ever had any hiatuses in our cordial intents was when we differed on the moral aspects of grafting. andy had his standards and i had mine. i didn't approve of all of andy's schemes for levying contributions from the public, and he thought i allowed my conscience to interfere too often for the financial good of the firm. we had high arguments sometimes. one word led on to another till he said i reminded him of rockefeller. "'i don't know how you mean that, andy,' says i, 'but we have been friends too long for me to take offense at a taunt that you will regret when you cool off. i have yet,' says i, 'to shake hands with a subpoena server.' "one summer me and andy decided to rest up a spell in a fine little town in the mountains of kentucky called grassdale. we was supposed to be horse drovers, and good decent citizens besides, taking a summer vacation. the grassdale people liked us, and me and andy declared a cessation of hostilities, never so much as floating the fly leaf of a rubber concession prospectus or flashing a brazilian diamond while we was there. "one day the leading hardware merchant of grassdale drops around to the hotel where me and andy stopped, and smokes with us, sociable, on the side porch. we knew him pretty well from pitching quoits in the afternoons in the court house yard. he was a loud, red man, breathing hard, but fat and respectable beyond all reason. [illustration: "pitching quoits in the afternoon in the court house yard."] "after we talk on all the notorious themes of the day, this murkison-- for such was his entitlements--takes a letter out of his coat pocket in a careful, careless way and hands it to us to read. "'now, what do you think of that?' says he, laughing--'a letter like that to me!' "me and andy sees at a glance what it is; but we pretend to read it through. it was one of them old time typewritten green goods letters explaining how for $ , you could get $ , in bills that an expert couldn't tell from the genuine; and going on to tell how they were made from plates stolen by an employee of the treasury at washington. "'think of 'em sending a letter like that to me!' says murkison again. [illustration: "'think of 'em sending a letter like that to me!'"] "'lot's of good men get 'em,' says andy. 'if you don't answer the first letter they let you drop. if you answer it they write again asking you to come on with your money and do business.' "'but think of 'em writing to me!' says murkison. "a few days later he drops around again. "'boys,' says he, 'i know you are all right or i wouldn't confide in you. i wrote to them rascals again just for fun. they answered and told me to come on to chicago. they said telegraph to j. smith when i would start. when i get there i'm to wait on a certain street corner till a man in a gray suit comes along and drops a newspaper in front of me. then i am to ask him how the water is, and he knows it's me and i know it's him.' "'ah, yes,' says andy, gaping, 'it's the same old game. i've often read about it in the papers. then he conducts you to the private abattoir in the hotel, where mr. jones is already waiting. they show you brand new real money and sell you all you want at five for one. you see 'em put it in a satchel for you and know it's there. of course it's brown paper when you come to look at it afterward.' [illustration: "'of course, it's brown paper.'"] "'oh, they couldn't switch it on me,' says murkison. 'i haven't built up the best paying business in grassdale without having witticisms about me. you say it's real money they show you, mr. tucker?' "'i've always--i see by the papers that it always is,' says andy. "'boys,' says murkison, 'i've got it in my mind that them fellows can't fool me. i think i'll put a couple of thousand in my jeans and go up there and put it all over 'em. if bill murkison gets his eyes once on them bills they show him he'll never take 'em off of 'em. they offer $ for $ , and they'll have to stick to the bargain if i tackle 'em. that's the kind of trader bill murkison is. yes, i jist believe i'll drop up chicago way and take a to shot on j. smith. i guess the water'll be fine enough.' "me and andy tries to get this financial misquotation out of murkison's head, but we might as well have tried to keep the man who rolls peanuts with a toothpick from betting on bryan's election. no, sir; he was going to perform a public duty by catching these green goods swindlers at their own game. maybe it would teach 'em a lesson. "after murkison left us me and andy sat a while prepondering over our silent meditations and heresies of reason. in our idle hours we always improved our higher selves by ratiocination and mental thought. "'jeff,' says andy after a long time, 'quite unseldom i have seen fit to impugn your molars when you have been chewing the rag with me about your conscientious way of doing business. i may have been often wrong. but here is a case where i think we can agree. i feel that it would be wrong for us to allow mr. murkison to go alone to meet those chicago green goods men. there is but one way it can end. don't you think we would both feel better if we was to intervene in some way and prevent the doing of this deed?' "i got up and shook andy tucker's hand hard and long. "'andy,' says i, 'i may have had one or two hard thoughts about the heartlessness of your corporation, but i retract 'em now. you have a kind nucleus at the interior of your exterior after all. it does you credit. i was just thinking the same thing that you have expressed. it would not be honorable or praiseworthy,' says i, 'for us to let murkison go on with this project he has taken up. if he is determined to go let us go with him and prevent this swindle from coming off.' "andy agreed with me; and i was glad to see that he was in earnest about breaking up this green goods scheme. "'i don't call myself a religious man,' says i, 'or a fanatic in moral bigotry, but i can't stand still and see a man who has built up his business by his own efforts and brains and risk be robbed by an unscrupulous trickster who is a menace to the public good.' "'right, jeff,' says andy. 'we'll stick right along with murkison if he insists on going and block this funny business. i'd hate to see any money dropped in it as bad as you would.' "well, we went to see murkison. "'no, boys,' says he. 'i can't consent to let the song of this chicago siren waft by me on the summer breeze. i'll fry some fat out of this ignis fatuus or burn a hole in the skillet. but i'd be plumb diverted to death to have you all go along with me. maybe you could help some when it comes to cashing in the ticket to that to shot. yes, i'd really take it as a pastime and regalement if you boys would go along too.' "murkison gives it out in grassdale that he is going for a few days with mr. peters and mr. tucker to look over some iron ore property in west virginia. he wires j. smith that he will set foot in the spider web on a given date; and the three of us lights out for chicago. "on the way murkison amuses himself with premonitions and advance pleasant recollections. "'in a gray suit,' says he, 'on the southwest corner of wabash avenue and lake street. he drops the paper, and i ask how the water is. oh, my, my, my!' and then he laughs all over for five minutes. "sometimes murkison was serious and tried to talk himself out of his cogitations, whatever they was. "'boys,' says he, 'i wouldn't have this to get out in grassdale for ten times a thousand dollars. it would ruin me there. but i know you all are all right. i think it's the duty of every citizen,' says he, 'to try to do up these robbers that prey upon the public. i'll show 'em whether the water's fine. five dollars for one--that's what j. smith offers, and he'll have to keep his contract if he does business with bill murkison.' "we got into chicago about p.m. murkison was to meet the gray man at half past . we had dinner at a hotel and then went up to murkison's room to wait for the time to come. "'now, boys,' says murkison, 'let's get our gumption together and inoculate a plan for defeating the enemy. suppose while i'm exchanging airy bandage with the gray capper you gents come along, by accident, you know, and holler: "hello, murk!" and shake hands with symptoms of surprise and familiarity. then i take the capper aside and tell him you all are jenkins and brown of grassdale, groceries and feed, good men and maybe willing to take a chance while away from home.' "'"bring 'em along," he'll say, of course, "if they care to invest." now, how does that scheme strike you?' "'what do you say, jeff?' says andy, looking at me. "'why, i'll tell you what i say,' says i. 'i say let's settle this thing right here now. i don't see any use of wasting any more time.' i took a nickel-plated . out of my pocket and clicked the cylinder around a few times. "'you undevout, sinful, insidious hog,' says i to murkison, 'get out that two thousand and lay it on the table. obey with velocity,' says i, 'for otherwise alternatives are impending. i am preferably a man of mildness, but now and then i find myself in the middle of extremities. such men as you,' i went on after he had laid the money out, 'is what keeps the jails and court houses going. you come up here to rob these men of their money. does it excuse you?' i asks, 'that they were trying to skin you? no, sir; you was going to rob peter to stand off paul. you are ten times worse,' says i, 'than that green goods man. you go to church at home and pretend to be a decent citizen, but you'll come to chicago and commit larceny from men that have built up a sound and profitable business by dealing with such contemptible scoundrels as you have tried to be to-day. how do you know,' says i, 'that that green goods man hasn't a large family dependent upon his extortions? it's you supposedly respectable citizens who are always on the lookout to get something for nothing,' says i, 'that support the lotteries and wild-cat mines and stock exchanges and wire tappers of this country. if it wasn't for you they'd go out of business. the green goods man you was going to rob,' says i, 'studied maybe for years to learn his trade. every turn he makes he risks his money and liberty and maybe his life. you come up here all sanctified and vanoplied with respectability and a pleasing post office address to swindle him. if he gets the money you can squeal to the police. if you get it he hocks the gray suit to buy supper and says nothing. mr. tucker and me sized you up,' says i, 'and came along to see that you got what you deserved. hand over the money,' says i, 'you grass fed hypocrite.' "i put the two thousand, which was all in $ bills, in my inside pocket. "'now get out your watch,' says i to murkison. 'no, i don't want it,' says i. 'lay it on the table and you sit in that chair till it ticks off an hour. then you can go. if you make any noise or leave any sooner we'll handbill you all over grassdale. i guess your high position there is worth more than $ , to you.' "then me and andy left. "on the train andy was a long time silent. then he says: 'jeff, do you mind my asking you a question?' "'two,' says i, 'or forty.' "'was that the idea you had,' says he, 'when we started out with murkison?' "'why, certainly,' says i. 'what else could it have been? wasn't it yours, too?' "in about half an hour andy spoke again. i think there are times when andy don't exactly understand my system of ethics and moral hygiene. "'jeff,' says he, 'some time when you have the leisure i wish you'd draw off a diagram and foot-notes of that conscience of yours. i'd like to have it to refer to occasionally.'" innocents of broadway "i hope some day to retire from business," said jeff peters; "and when i do i don't want anybody to be able to say that i ever got a dollar of any man's money without giving him a quid pro rata for it. i've always managed to leave a customer some little gewgaw to paste in his scrapbook or stick between his seth thomas clock and the wall after we are through trading. "there was one time i came near having to break this rule of mine and do a profligate and illaudable action, but i was saved from it by the laws and statutes of our great and profitable country. "one summer me and andy tucker, my partner, went to new york to lay in our annual assortment of clothes and gents' furnishings. we was always pompous and regardless dressers, finding that looks went further than anything else in our business, except maybe our knowledge of railroad schedules and an autograph photo of the president that loeb sent us, probably by mistake. andy wrote a nature letter once and sent it in about animals that he had seen caught in a trap lots of times. loeb must have read it 'triplets,' instead of 'trap lots,' and sent the photo. anyhow, it was useful to us to show people as a guarantee of good faith. "me and andy never cared much to do business in new york. it was too much like pothunting. catching suckers in that town is like dynamiting a texas lake for bass. all you have to do anywhere between the north and east rivers is to stand in the street with an open bag marked, 'drop packages of money here. no checks or loose bills taken.' you have a cop handy to club pikers who try to chip in post office orders and canadian money, and that's all there is to new york for a hunter who loves his profession. so me and andy used to just nature fake the town. we'd get out our spyglasses and watch the woodcocks along the broadway swamps putting plaster casts on their broken legs, and then we'd sneak away without firing a shot. "one day in the papier mâché palm room of a chloral hydrate and hops agency in a side street about eight inches off broadway me and andy had thrust upon us the acquaintance of a new yorker. we had beer together until we discovered that each of us knew a man named hellsmith, traveling for a stove factory in duluth. this caused us to remark that the world was a very small place, and then this new yorker busts his string and takes off his tin foil and excelsior packing and starts in giving us his ellen terris, beginning with the time he used to sell shoelaces to the indians on the spot where tammany hall now stands. "this new yorker had made his money keeping a cigar store in beekman street, and he hadn't been above fourteenth street in ten years. moreover, he had whiskers, and the time had gone by when a true sport will do anything to a man with whiskers. no grafter except a boy who is soliciting subscribers to an illustrated weekly to win the prize air rifle, or a widow, would have the heart to tamper with the man behind with the razor. he was a typical city reub--i'd bet the man hadn't been out of sight of a skyscraper in twenty-five years. "well, presently this metropolitan backwoodsman pulls out a roll of bills with an old blue sleeve elastic fitting tight around it and opens it up. "'there's $ , , mr. peters,' says he, shoving it over the table to me, 'saved during my fifteen years of business. put that in your pocket and keep it for me, mr. peters. i'm glad to meet you gentlemen from the west, and i may take a drop too much. i want you to take care of my money for me. now, let's have another beer.' [illustration: "'i want you to take care of my money for me.'"] "'you'd better keep this yourself,' says i. 'we are strangers to you, and you can't trust everybody you meet. put your roll back in your pocket,' says i. 'and you'd better run along home before some farm-hand from the kaw river bottoms strolls in here and sells you a copper mine.' "'oh, i don't know,' says whiskers. 'i guess little old new york can take care of herself. i guess i know a man that's on the square when i see him. i've always found the western people all right. i ask you as a favor, mr. peters,' says he, 'to keep that roll in your pocket for me. i know a gentleman when i see him. and now let's have some more beer.' "in about ten minutes this fall of manna leans back in his chair and snores. andy looks at me and says: 'i reckon i'd better stay with him for five minutes or so, in case the waiter comes in.' "i went out the side door and walked half a block up the street. and then i came back and sat down at the table. "'andy,' says i, 'i can't do it. it's too much like swearing off taxes. i can't go off with this man's money without doing something to earn it like taking advantage of the bankrupt act or leaving a bottle of eczema lotion in his pocket to make it look more like a square deal.' "'well,' says andy, 'it does seem kind of hard on one's professional pride to lope off with a bearded pard's competency, especially after he has nominated you custodian of his bundle in the sappy insouciance of his urban indiscrimination. suppose we wake him up and see if we can formulate some commercial sophistry by which he will be enabled to give us both his money and a good excuse.' "we wakes up whiskers. he stretches himself and yawns out the hypothesis that he must have dropped off for a minute. and then he says he wouldn't mind sitting in at a little gentleman's game of poker. he used to play some when he attended high school in brooklyn; and as he was out for a good time, why--and so forth. "andy brights up a little at that, for it looks like it might be a solution to our financial troubles. so we all three go to our hotel further down broadway and have the cards and chips brought up to andy's room. i tried once more to make this babe in the horticultural gardens take his five thousand. but no. "'keep that little roll for me, mr. peters,' says he, 'and oblige. i'll ask you fer it when i want it. i guess i know when i'm among friends. a man that's done business on beekman street for twenty years, right in the heart of the wisest old village on earth, ought to know what he's about. i guess i can tell a gentleman from a con man or a flimflammer when i meet him. i've got some odd change in my clothes --enough to start the game with, i guess.' "he goes through his pockets and rains $ gold certificates on the table till it looked like a $ , 'autumn day in a lemon grove' picture by turner in the salons. andy almost smiled. "the first round that was dealt, this boulevardier slaps down his hand, claims low and jack and big casino and rakes in the pot. "andy always took a pride in his poker playing. he got up from the table and looked sadly out of the window at the street cars. "'well, gentlemen,' says the cigar man, 'i don't blame you for not wanting to play. i've forgotten the fine points of the game, i guess, it's been so long since i indulged. now, how long are you gentlemen going to be in the city?' "i told him about a week longer. he says that'll suit him fine. his cousin is coming over from brooklyn that evening and they are going to see the sights of new york. his cousin, he says, is in the artificial limb and lead casket business, and hasn't crossed the bridge in eight years. they expect to have the time of their lives, and he winds up by asking me to keep his roll of money for him till next day. i tried to make him take it, but it only insulted him to mention it. "'i'll use what i've got in loose change,' says he. 'you keep the rest for me. i'll drop in on you and mr. tucker to-morrow afternoon about or ,' says he, 'and we'll have dinner together. be good.' "after whiskers had gone andy looked at me curious and doubtful. "'well, jeff,' says he, 'it looks like the ravens are trying to feed us two elijahs so hard that if we turned 'em down again we ought to have the audubon society after us. it won't do to put the crown aside too often. i know this is something like paternalism, but don't you think opportunity has skinned its knuckles about enough knocking at our door?' "i put my feet up on the table and my hands in my pockets, which is an attitude unfavorable to frivolous thoughts. "'andy,' says i, 'this man with the hirsute whiskers has got us in a predicament. we can't move hand or foot with his money. you and me have got a gentleman's agreement with fortune that we can't break. we've done business in the west where it's more of a fair game. out there the people we skin are trying to skin us, even the farmers and the remittance men that the magazines send out to write up goldfields. but there's little sport in new york city for rod, reel or gun. they hunt here with either one of two things--a slungshot or a letter of introduction. the town has been stocked so full of carp that the game fish are all gone. if you spread a net here, do you catch legitimate suckers in it, such as the lord intended to be caught--fresh guys who know it all, sports with a little coin and the nerve to play another man's game, street crowds out for the fun of dropping a dollar or two and village smarties who know just where the little pea is? no, sir,' says i. 'what the grafters live on here is widows and orphans, and foreigners who save up a bag of money and hand it out over the first counter they see with an iron railing to it, and factory girls and little shopkeepers that never leave the block they do business on. that's what they call suckers here. they're nothing but canned sardines, and all the bait you need to catch 'em is a pocketknife and a soda cracker. "'now, this cigar man,' i went on, 'is one of the types. he's lived twenty years on one street without learning as much as you would in getting a once-over shave from a lockjawed barber in a kansas crossroads town. but he's a new yorker, and he'll brag about that all the time when he isn't picking up live wires or getting in front of street cars or paying out money to wire-tappers or standing under a safe that's being hoisted into a skyscraper. when a new yorker does loosen up,' says i, 'it's like the spring decomposition of the ice jam in the allegheny river. he'll swamp you with cracked ice and back-water if you don't get out of the way. "'it's mighty lucky for us, andy,' says i, 'that this cigar exponent with the parsley dressing saw fit to bedeck us with his childlike trust and altruism. for,' says i, 'this money of his is an eyesore to my sense of rectitude and ethics. we can't take it, andy; you know we can't,' says i, 'for we haven't a shadow of a title to it--not a shadow. if there was the least bit of a way we could put in a claim to it i'd be willing to see him start in for another twenty years and make another $ , for himself, but we haven't sold him anything, we haven't been embroiled in a trade or anything commercial. he approached us friendly,' says i, 'and with blind and beautiful idiocy laid the stuff in our hands. we'll have to give it back to him when he wants it.' [illustration: "'we can't take it, andy.'"] "'your arguments,' says andy, 'are past criticism or comprehension. no, we can't walk off with the money--as things now stand. i admire your conscious way of doing business, jeff,' says andy, 'and i wouldn't propose anything that wasn't square in line with your theories of morality and initiative. "'but i'll be away to-night and most of to-morrow jeff,' says andy. 'i've got some business affairs that i want to attend to. when this free greenbacks party comes in to-morrow afternoon hold him here till i arrive. we've all got an engagement for dinner, you know.' "well, sir, about the next afternoon in trips the cigar man, with his eyes half open. "'been having a glorious time, mr. peters,' says he. 'took in all the sights. i tell you new york is the onliest only. now if you don't mind,' says he, 'i'll lie down on that couch and doze off for about nine minutes before mr. tucker comes. i'm not used to being up all night. and to-morrow, if you don't mind, mr. peters, i'll take that five thousand. i met a man last night that's got a sure winner at the racetrack to-morrow. excuse me for being so impolite as to go to sleep, mr. peters.' "and so this inhabitant of the second city in the world reposes himself and begins to snore, while i sit there musing over things and wishing i was back in the west, where you could always depend on a customer fighting to keep his money hard enough to let your conscience take it from him. "at half-past andy comes in and sees the sleeping form. "'i've been over to trenton,' says andy, pulling a document out of his pocket. 'i think i've got this matter fixed up all right, jeff. look at that.' "i open the paper and see that it is a corporation charter issued by the state of new jersey to 'the peters & tucker consolidated and amalgamated aerial franchise development company, limited.' "'it's to buy up rights of way for airship lines,' explained andy. 'the legislature wasn't in session, but i found a man at a postcard stand in the lobby that kept a stock of charters on hand. there are , shares,' says andy, 'expected to reach a par value of $ . i had one blank certificate of stock printed.' "andy takes out the blank and begins to fill it in with a fountain pen. "'the whole bunch,' says he, 'goes to our friend in dreamland for $ , . did you learn his name?' "'make it out to bearer,' says i. "we put the certificate of stock in the cigar man's hand and went out to pack our suit cases. [illustration: "we put the certificate of stock in the cigarman's hand."] "on the ferryboat andy says to me: 'is your conscience easy about taking the money now, jeff?' "'why shouldn't it be?' says i. 'are we any better than any other holding corporation?'" conscience in art "i never could hold my partner, andy tucker, down to legitimate ethics of pure swindling," said jeff peters to me one day. "andy had too much imagination to be honest. he used to devise schemes of money-getting so fraudulent and high-financial that they wouldn't have been allowed in the bylaws of a railroad rebate system. "myself, i never believed in taking any man's dollars unless i gave him something for it--something in the way of rolled gold jewelry, garden seeds, lumbago lotion, stock certificates, stove polish or a crack on the head to show for his money. i guess i must have had new england ancestors away back and inherited some of their stanch and rugged fear of the police. "but andy's family tree was in different kind. i don't think he could have traced his descent any further back than a corporation. "one summer while we was in the middle west, working down the ohio valley with a line of family albums, headache powders and roach destroyer, andy takes one of his notions of high and actionable financiering. "'jeff,' says he, 'i've been thinking that we ought to drop these rutabaga fanciers and give our attention to something more nourishing and prolific. if we keep on snapshooting these hinds for their egg money we'll be classed as nature fakers. how about plunging into the fastnesses of the skyscraper country and biting some big bull caribous in the chest?' "'well,' says i, 'you know my idiosyncrasies. i prefer a square, non-illegal style of business such as we are carrying on now. when i take money i want to leave some tangible object in the other fellow's hands for him to gaze at and to distract his attention from my spoor, even if it's only a komical kuss trick finger ring for squirting perfume in a friend's eye. but if you've got a fresh idea, andy,' says i, 'let's have a look at it. i'm not so wedded to petty graft that i would refuse something better in the way of a subsidy.' "'i was thinking,' says andy, 'of a little hunt without horn, hound or camera among the great herd of the midas americanus, commonly known as the pittsburg millionaires.' "'in new york?' i asks. "'no, sir,' says andy, 'in pittsburg. that's their habitat. they don't like new york. they go there now and then just because it's expected of 'em.' "'a pittsburg millionaire in new york is like a fly in a cup of hot coffee--he attracts attention and comment, but he don't enjoy it. new york ridicules him for "blowing" so much money in that town of sneaks and snobs, and sneers. the truth is, he don't spend anything while he is there. i saw a memorandum of expenses for a ten days trip to bunkum town made by a pittsburg man worth $ , , once. here's the way he set it down: r. r. fare to and from . . . . . . . . $ cab fare to and from hotel . . . . . . hotel bill @ $ per day . . . . . . . tips . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . , ---------- total . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . $ , "'that's the voice of new york,' goes on andy. 'the town's nothing but a head waiter. if you tip it too much it'll go and stand by the door and make fun of you to the hat check boy. when a pittsburger wants to spend money and have a good time he stays at home. that's where we'll go to catch him.' "well, to make a dense story more condensed, me and andy cached our paris green and antipyrine powders and albums in a friend's cellar, and took the trail to pittsburg. andy didn't have any especial prospectus of chicanery and violence drawn up, but he always had plenty of confidence that his immoral nature would rise to any occasion that presented itself. "as a concession to my ideas of self-preservation and rectitude he promised that if i should take an active and incriminating part in any little business venture that we might work up there should be something actual and cognizant to the senses of touch, sight, taste or smell to transfer to the victim for the money so my conscience might rest easy. after that i felt better and entered more cheerfully into the foul play. "'andy,' says i, as we strayed through the smoke along the cinderpath they call smithfield street, 'had you figured out how we are going to get acquainted with these coke kings and pig iron squeezers? not that i would decry my own worth or system of drawing room deportment, and work with the olive fork and pie knife,' says i, 'but isn't the entree nous into the salons of the stogie smokers going to be harder than you imagined?' "'if there's any handicap at all,' says andy, 'it's our own refinement and inherent culture. pittsburg millionaires are a fine body of plain, wholehearted, unassuming, democratic men. "'they are rough but uncivil in their manners, and though their ways are boisterous and unpolished, under it all they have a great deal of impoliteness and discourtesy. nearly every one of 'em rose from obscurity,' says andy, 'and they'll live in it till the town gets to using smoke consumers. if we act simple and unaffected and don't go too far from the saloons and keep making a noise like an import duty on steel rails we won't have any trouble in meeting some of 'em socially.' "well andy and me drifted about town three or four days getting our bearings. we got to knowing several millionaires by sight. "one used to stop his automobile in front of our hotel and have a quart of champagne brought out to him. when the waiter opened it he'd turn it up to his mouth and drink it out of the bottle. that showed he used to be a glassblower before he made his money. "one evening andy failed to come to the hotel for dinner. about o'clock he came into my room. "'landed one, jeff,' says he. 'twelve millions. oil, rolling mills, real estate and natural gas. he's a fine man; no airs about him. made all his money in the last five years. he's got professors posting him up now in education--art and literature and haberdashery and such things. "'when i saw him he'd just won a bet of $ , with a steel corporation man that there'd be four suicides in the allegheny rolling mills to-day. so everybody in sight had to walk up and have drinks on him. he took a fancy to me and asked me to dinner with him. we went to a restaurant in diamond alley and sat on stools and had a sparkling moselle and clam chowder and apple fritters. "'then he wanted to show me his bachelor apartment on liberty street. he's got ten rooms over a fish market with privilege of the bath on the next floor above. he told me it cost him $ , to furnish his apartment, and i believe it. "'he's got $ , worth of pictures in one room, and $ , worth of curios and antiques in another. his name's scudder, and he's , and taking lessons on the piano and , barrels of oil a day out of his wells.' "'all right,' says i. 'preliminary canter satisfactory. but, kay vooly, voo? what good is the art junk to us? and the oil?' "'now, that man,' says andy, sitting thoughtfully on the bed, 'ain't what you would call an ordinary scutt. when he was showing me his cabinet of art curios his face lighted up like the door of a coke oven. he says that if some of his big deals go through he'll make j. p. morgan's collection of sweatshop tapestry and augusta, me., beadwork look like the contents of an ostrich's craw thrown on a screen by a magic lantern. "'and then he showed me a little carving,' went on andy, 'that anybody could see was a wonderful thing. it was something like , years old, he said. it was a lotus flower with a woman's face in it carved out of a solid piece of ivory. "scudder looks it up in a catalogue and describes it. an egyptian carver named khafra made two of 'em for king rameses ii. about the year b.c. the other one can't be found. the junkshops and antique bugs have rubbered all europe for it, but it seems to be out of stock. scudder paid $ , for the one he has.' "'oh, well,' says i, 'this sounds like the purling of a rill to me. i thought we came here to teach the millionaires business, instead of learning art from 'em?' "'be patient,' says andy, kindly. 'maybe we will see a rift in the smoke ere long.' "all the next morning andy was out. i didn't see him until about noon. he came to the hotel and called me into his room across the hall. he pulled a roundish bundle about as big as a goose egg out of his pocket and unwrapped it. it was an ivory carving just as he had described the millionaire's to me. "'i went in an old second hand store and pawnshop a while ago,' says andy, 'and i see this half hidden under a lot of old daggers and truck. the pawnbroker said he'd had it several years and thinks it was soaked by some arabs or turks or some foreign dubs that used to live down by the river. "'i offered him $ for it, and i must have looked like i wanted it, for he said it would be taking the pumpernickel out of his children's mouths to hold any conversation that did not lead up to a price of $ . i finally got it for $ . "'jeff,' goes on andy, 'this is the exact counterpart of scudder's carving. it's absolutely a dead ringer for it. he'll pay $ , for it as quick as he'd tuck a napkin under his chin. and why shouldn't it be the genuine other one, anyhow, that the old gypsy whittled out?' "'why not, indeed?' says i. 'and how shall we go about compelling him to make a voluntary purchase of it?' "andy had his plan all ready, and i'll tell you how we carried it out. "i got a pair of blue spectacles, put on my black frock coat, rumpled my hair up and became prof. pickleman. i went to another hotel, registered, and sent a telegram to scudder to come to see me at once on important art business. the elevator dumped him on me in less than an hour. he was a foggy man with a clarion voice, smelling of connecticut wrappers and naphtha. "'hello, profess!' he shouts. 'how's your conduct?' "i rumpled my hair some more and gave him a blue glass stare. "'sir,' says i, 'are you cornelius t. scudder? of pittsburg, pennsylvania?' "'i am,' says he. 'come out and have a drink.' "'i've neither the time nor the desire,' says i, 'for such harmful and deleterious amusements. i have come from new york,' says i, 'on a matter of busi--on a matter of art. "'i learned there that you are the owner of an egyptian ivory carving of the time of rameses ii., representing the head of queen isis in a lotus flower. there were only two of such carvings made. one has been lost for many years. i recently discovered and purchased the other in a pawn--in an obscure museum in vienna. i wish to purchase yours. name your price.' "'well, the great ice jams, profess!' says scudder. 'have you found the other one? me sell? no. i don't guess cornelius scudder needs to sell anything that he wants to keep. have you got the carving with you, profess?' "i shows it to scudder. he examines it careful all over. "'it's the article,' says he. 'it's a duplicate of mine, every line and curve of it. tell you what i'll do,' he says. 'i won't sell, but i'll buy. give you $ , for yours.' "'since you won't sell, i will,' says i. 'large bills, please. i'm a man of few words. i must return to new york to-night. i lecture to-morrow at the aquarium.' "scudder sends a check down and the hotel cashes it. he goes off with his piece of antiquity and i hurry back to andy's hotel, according to arrangement. "andy is walking up and down the room looking at his watch. "'well?' he says. "'twenty-five hundred,' says i. 'cash.' "'we've got just eleven minutes,' says andy, 'to catch the b. & o. westbound. grab your baggage.' "'what's the hurry,' says i. 'it was a square deal. and even if it was only an imitation of the original carving it'll take him some time to find it out. he seemed to be sure it was the genuine article.' "'it was,' says andy. 'it was his own. when i was looking at his curios yesterday he stepped out of the room for a moment and i pocketed it. now, will you pick up your suit case and hurry?' "'then,' says i, 'why was that story about finding another one in the pawn--' "'oh,' says andy, 'out of respect for that conscience of yours. come on.'" the man higher up across our two dishes of spaghetti, in a corner of provenzano's restaurant, jeff peters was explaining to me the three kinds of graft. every winter jeff comes to new york to eat spaghetti, to watch the shipping in east river from the depths of his chinchilla overcoat, and to lay in a supply of chicago-made clothing at one of the fulton street stores. during the other three seasons he may be found further west--his range is from spokane to tampa. in his profession he takes a pride which he supports and defends with a serious and unique philosophy of ethics. his profession is no new one. he is an incorporated, uncapitalized, unlimited asylum for the reception of the restless and unwise dollars of his fellowmen. in the wilderness of stone in which jeff seeks his annual lonely holiday he is glad to palaver of his many adventures, as a boy will whistle after sundown in a wood. wherefore, i mark on my calendar the time of his coming, and open a question of privilege at provenzano's concerning the little wine-stained table in the corner between the rakish rubber plant and the framed palazzio della something on the wall. "there are two kinds of graft," said jeff, "that ought to be wiped out by law. i mean wall street speculation, and burglary." "nearly everybody will agree with you as to one of them," said i, with a laugh. "well, burglary ought to be wiped out, too," said jeff; and i wondered whether the laugh had been redundant. "about three months ago," said jeff, "it was my privilege to become familiar with a sample of each of the aforesaid branches of illegitimate art. i was _sine qua grata_ with a member of the housebreakers' union and one of the john d. napoleons of finance at the same time." "interesting combination," said i, with a yawn. "did i tell you i bagged a duck and a ground-squirrel at one shot last week over in the ramapos?" i knew well how to draw jeff's stories. "let me tell you first about these barnacles that clog the wheels of society by poisoning the springs of rectitude with their upas-like eye," said jeff, with the pure gleam of the muck-raker in his own. "as i said, three months ago i got into bad company. there are two times in a man's life when he does this--when he's dead broke, and when he's rich. "now and then the most legitimate business runs out of luck. it was out in arkansas i made the wrong turn at a cross-road, and drives into this town of peavine by mistake. it seems i had already assaulted and disfigured peavine the spring of the year before. i had sold $ worth of young fruit trees there--plums, cherries, peaches and pears. the peaviners were keeping an eye on the country road and hoping i might pass that way again. i drove down main street as far as the crystal palace drugstore before i realized i had committed ambush upon myself and my white horse bill. "the peaviners took me by surprise and bill by the bridle and began a conversation that wasn't entirely disassociated with the subject of fruit trees. a committee of 'em ran some trace-chains through the armholes of my vest, and escorted me through their gardens and orchards. "their fruit trees hadn't lived up to their labels. most of 'em had turned out to be persimmons and dogwoods, with a grove or two of blackjacks and poplars. the only one that showed any signs of bearing anything was a fine young cottonwood that had put forth a hornet's nest and half of an old corset-cover. "the peaviners protracted our fruitless stroll to the edge of town. they took my watch and money on account; and they kept bill and the wagon as hostages. they said the first time one of them dogwood trees put forth an amsden's june peach i might come back and get my things. then they took off the trace chains and jerked their thumbs in the direction of the rocky mountains; and i struck a lewis and clark lope for the swollen rivers and impenetrable forests. "when i regained intellectualness i found myself walking into an unidentified town on the a., t. & s. f. railroad. the peaviners hadn't left anything in my pockets except a plug of chewing--they wasn't after my life--and that saved it. i bit off a chunk and sits down on a pile of ties by the track to recogitate my sensations of thought and perspicacity. "and then along comes a fast freight which slows up a little at the town; and off of it drops a black bundle that rolls for twenty yards in a cloud of dust and then gets up and begins to spit soft coal and interjections. i see it is a young man broad across the face, dressed more for pullmans than freights, and with a cheerful kind of smile in spite of it all that made phoebe snow's job look like a chimney-sweep's. "'fall off?' says i. "'nunk,' says he. 'got off. arrived at my destination. what town is this?' "'haven't looked it up on the map yet,' says i. 'i got in about five minutes before you did. how does it strike you?' "'hard,' says he, twisting one of his arms around. 'i believe that shoulder--no, it's all right.' "he stoops over to brush the dust off his clothes, when out of his pocket drops a fine, nine-inch burglar's steel jimmy. he picks it up and looks at me sharp, and then grins and holds out his hand. "'brother,' says he, 'greetings. didn't i see you in southern missouri last summer selling colored sand at half-a-dollar a teaspoonful to put into lamps to keep the oil from exploding?' "'oil,' says i, 'never explodes. it's the gas that forms that explodes.' but i shakes hands with him, anyway. "'my name's bill bassett,' says he to me, 'and if you'll call it professional pride instead of conceit, i'll inform you that you have the pleasure of meeting the best burglar that ever set a gum-shoe on ground drained by the mississippi river.' "well, me and this bill bassett sits on the ties and exchanges brags as artists in kindred lines will do. it seems he didn't have a cent, either, and we went into close caucus. he explained why an able burglar sometimes had to travel on freights by telling me that a servant girl had played him false in little rock, and he was making a quick get-away. "'it's part of my business,' says bill bassett, 'to play up to the ruffles when i want to make a riffle as raffles. 'tis loves that makes the bit go 'round. show me a house with a swag in it and a pretty parlor-maid, and you might as well call the silver melted down and sold, and me spilling truffles and that chateau stuff on the napkin under my chin, while the police are calling it an inside job just because the old lady's nephew teaches a bible class. i first make an impression on the girl,' says bill, 'and when she lets me inside i make an impression on the locks. but this one in little rock done me,' says he. 'she saw me taking a trolley ride with another girl, and when i came 'round on the night she was to leave the door open for me it was fast. and i had keys made for the doors upstairs. but, no sir. she had sure cut off my locks. she was a delilah,' says bill bassett. "it seems that bill tried to break in anyhow with his jimmy, but the girl emitted a succession of bravura noises like the top-riders of a tally-ho, and bill had to take all the hurdles between there and the depot. as he had no baggage they tried hard to check his departure, but he made a train that was just pulling out. "'well,' says bill bassett, when we had exchanged memories of our dead lives, 'i could eat. this town don't look like it was kept under a yale lock. suppose we commit some mild atrocity that will bring in temporary expense money. i don't suppose you've brought along any hair tonic or rolled gold watch-chains, or similar law-defying swindles that you could sell on the plaza to the pikers of the paretic populace, have you?' "'no,' says i, 'i left an elegant line of patagonian diamond earrings and rainy-day sunbursts in my valise at peavine. but they're to stay there until some of those black-gum trees begin to glut the market with yellow clings and japanese plums. i reckon we can't count on them unless we take luther burbank in for a partner.' "'very well,' says bassett, 'we'll do the best we can. maybe after dark i'll borrow a hairpin from some lady, and open the farmers and drovers marine bank with it.' "while we were talking, up pulls a passenger train to the depot near by. a person in a high hat gets off on the wrong side of the train and comes tripping down the track towards us. he was a little, fat man with a big nose and rat's eyes, but dressed expensive, and carrying a hand-satchel careful, as if it had eggs or railroads bonds in it. he passes by us and keeps on down the track, not appearing to notice the town. "'come on,' says bill bassett to me, starting after him. "'where?' i asks. "'lordy!' says bill, 'had you forgot you was in the desert? didn't you see colonel manna drop down right before your eyes? don't you hear the rustling of general raven's wings? i'm surprised at you, elijah.' "we overtook the stranger in the edge of some woods, and, as it was after sun-down and in a quiet place, nobody saw us stop him. bill takes the silk hat off the man's head and brushes it with his sleeve and puts it back. "'what does this mean, sir?' says the man. "'when i wore one of these,' says bill, 'and felt embarrassed, i always done that. not having one now i had to use yours. i hardly know how to begin, sir, in explaining our business with you, but i guess we'll try your pockets first.' "bill bassett felt in all of them, and looked disgusted. "'not even a watch,' he says. 'ain't you ashamed of yourself, you whited sculpture? going about dressed like a head-waiter, and financed like a count! you haven't even got carfare. what did you do with your transfer?' "the man speaks up and says he has no assets or valuables of any sort. but bassett takes his hand-satchel and opens it. out comes some collars and socks and a half a page of a newspaper clipped out. bill reads the clipping careful, and holds out his hand to the held-up party. "'brother,' says he, 'greetings! accept the apologies of friends. i am bill bassett, the burglar. mr. peters, you must make the acquaintance of mr. alfred e. ricks. shake hands. mr. peters,' says bill, 'stands about halfway between me and you, mr. ricks, in the line of havoc and corruption. he always gives something for the money he gets. i'm glad to meet you, mr. ricks--you and mr. peters. this is the first time i ever attended a full gathering of the national synod of sharks-- housebreaking, swindling, and financiering all represented. please examine mr. rick's credentials, mr. peters.' "the piece of newspaper that bill bassett handed me had a good picture of this ricks on it. it was a chicago paper, and it had obloquies of ricks in every paragraph. by reading it over i harvested the intelligence that said alleged ricks had laid off all that portion of the state of florida that lies under water into town lots and sold 'em to alleged innocent investors from his magnificently furnished offices in chicago. after he had taken in a hundred thousand or so dollars one of these fussy purchasers that are always making trouble (i've had 'em actually try gold watches i've sold 'em with acid) took a cheap excursion down to the land where it is always just before supper to look at his lot and see if it didn't need a new paling or two on the fence, and market a few lemons in time for the christmas present trade. he hires a surveyor to find his lot for him. they run the line out and find the flourishing town of paradise hollow, so advertised, to be about rods and poles s., degrees e. of the middle of lake okeechobee. this man's lot was under thirty-six feet of water, and, besides, had been preempted so long by the alligators and gars that his title looked fishy. "naturally, the man goes back to chicago and makes it as hot for alfred e. ricks as the morning after a prediction of snow by the weather bureau. ricks defied the allegation, but he couldn't deny the alligators. one morning the papers came out with a column about it, and ricks come out by the fire-escape. it seems the alleged authorities had beat him to the safe-deposit box where he kept his winnings, and ricks has to westward ho! with only feetwear and a dozen -and-a-half english pokes in his shopping bag. he happened to have some mileage left in his book, and that took him as far as the town in the wilderness where he was spilled out on me and bill bassett as elijah iii. with not a raven in sight for any of us. "then this alfred e. ricks lets out a squeak that he is hungry, too, and denies the hypothesis that he is good for the value, let alone the price, of a meal. and so, there was the three of us, representing, if we had a mind to draw syllogisms and parabolas, labor and trade and capital. now, when trade has no capital there isn't a dicker to be made. and when capital has no money there's a stagnation in steak and onions. that put it up to the man with the jimmy. "'brother bushrangers,' says bill bassett, 'never yet, in trouble, did i desert a pal. hard by, in yon wood, i seem to see unfurnished lodgings. let us go there and wait till dark.' "there was an old, deserted cabin in the grove, and we three took possession of it. after dark bill bassett tells us to wait, and goes out for half an hour. he comes back with a armful of bread and spareribs and pies. "'panhandled 'em at a farmhouse on washita avenue,' says he. 'eat, drink and be leary.' "the full moon was coming up bright, so we sat on the floor of the cabin and ate in the light of it. and this bill bassett begins to brag. "'sometimes,' says he, with his mouth full of country produce, 'i lose all patience with you people that think you are higher up in the profession than i am. now, what could either of you have done in the present emergency to set us on our feet again? could you do it, ricksy?' "'i must confess, mr. bassett,' says ricks, speaking nearly inaudible out of a slice of pie, 'that at this immediate juncture i could not, perhaps, promote an enterprise to relieve the situation. large operations, such as i direct, naturally require careful preparation in advance. i--' "'i know, ricksy,' breaks in bill bassett. 'you needn't finish. you need $ to make the first payment on a blond typewriter, and four roomsful of quartered oak furniture. and you need $ more for advertising contracts. and you need two weeks' time for the fish to begin to bite. your line of relief would be about as useful in an emergency as advocating municipal ownership to cure a man suffocated by eighty-cent gas. and your graft ain't much swifter, brother peters,' he winds up. "'oh,' says i, 'i haven't seen you turn anything into gold with your wand yet, mr. good fairy. 'most anybody could rub the magic ring for a little left-over victuals.' "'that was only getting the pumpkin ready,' says bassett, braggy and cheerful. 'the coach and six'll drive up to the door before you know it, miss cinderella. maybe you've got some scheme under your sleeve-holders that will give us a start.' "'son,' says i, 'i'm fifteen years older than you are, and young enough yet to take out an endowment policy. i've been broke before. we can see the lights of that town not half a mile away. i learned under montague silver, the greatest street man that ever spoke from a wagon. there are hundreds of men walking those streets this moment with grease spots on their clothes. give me a gasoline lamp, a dry-goods box, and a two-dollar bar of white castile soap, cut into little--' "'where's your two dollars?' snickered bill bassett into my discourse. there was no use arguing with that burglar. "'no,' he goes on; 'you're both babes-in-the-wood. finance has closed the mahogany desk, and trade has put the shutters up. both of you look to labor to start the wheels going. all right. you admit it. to-night i'll show you what bill bassett can do.' "bassett tells me and ricks not to leave the cabin till he comes back, even if it's daylight, and then he starts off toward town, whistling gay. "this alfred e. ricks pulls off his shoes and his coat, lays a silk handkerchief over his hat, and lays down on the floor. "'i think i will endeavor to secure a little slumber,' he squeaks. 'the day has been fatiguing. good-night, my dear mr. peters.' "'my regards to morpheus,' says i. 'i think i'll sit up a while.' "about two o'clock, as near as i could guess by my watch in peavine, home comes our laboring man and kicks up ricks, and calls us to the streak of bright moonlight shining in the cabin door. then he spreads out five packages of one thousand dollars each on the floor, and begins to cackle over the nest-egg like a hen. "'i'll tell you a few things about that town,' says he. 'it's named rocky springs, and they're building a masonic temple, and it looks like the democratic candidate for mayor is going to get soaked by a pop, and judge tucker's wife, who has been down with pleurisy, is getting some better. i had a talk on these liliputian thesises before i could get a siphon in the fountain of knowledge that i was after. and there's a bank there called the lumberman's fidelity and plowman's savings institution. it closed for business yesterday with $ , cash on hand. it will open this morning with $ , --all silver-- that's the reason i didn't bring more. there you are, trade and capital. now, will you be bad?' "'my young friend,' says alfred e. ricks, holding up his hands, 'have you robbed this bank? dear me, dear me!' "'you couldn't call it that,' says bassett. 'robbing" sounds harsh. all i had to do was to find out what street it was on. that town is so quiet that i could stand on the corner and hear the tumblers clicking in that safe lock--"right to ; left twice to ; right once to ; left to "--as plain as the yale captain giving orders in the football dialect. now, boys,' says bassett, 'this is an early rising town. they tell me the citizens are all up and stirring before daylight. i asked what for, and they said because breakfast was ready at that time. and what of merry robin hood? it must be yoicks! and away with the tinkers' chorus. i'll stake you. how much do you want? speak up. capital.' "'my dear young friend,' says this ground squirrel of a ricks, standing on his hind legs and juggling nuts in his paws, 'i have friends in denver who would assist me. if i had a hundred dollars i--' "basset unpins a package of the currency and throws five twenties to ricks. "'trade, how much?' he says to me. "'put your money up, labor,' says i. 'i never yet drew upon honest toil for its hard-earned pittance. the dollars i get are surplus ones that are burning the pockets of damfools and greenhorns. when i stand on a street corner and sell a solid gold diamond ring to a yap for $ . , i make just $ . . and i know he's going to give it to a girl in return for all the benefits accruing from a $ . ring. his profits are $ . . which of us is the biggest fakir?' "'and when you sell a poor woman a pinch of sand for fifty cents to keep her lamp from exploding,' says bassett, 'what do you figure her gross earnings to be, with sand at forty cents a ton?' "'listen,' says i. 'i instruct her to keep her lamp clean and well filled. if she does that it can't burst. and with the sand in it she knows it can't, and she don't worry. it's a kind of industrial christian science. she pays fifty cents, and gets both rockefeller and mrs. eddy on the job. it ain't everybody that can let the gold-dust twins do their work.' "alfred e. ricks all but licks the dust off of bill bassett's shoes. "'my dear young friend,' says he, 'i will never forget your generosity. heaven will reward you. but let me implore you to turn from your ways of violence and crime.' "'mousie,' says bill, 'the hole in the wainscoting for yours. your dogmas and inculcations sound to me like the last words of a bicycle pump. what has your high moral, elevator-service system of pillage brought you to? penuriousness and want. even brother peters, who insists upon contaminating the art of robbery with theories of commerce and trade, admitted he was on the lift. both of you live by the gilded rule. brother peters,' says bill, 'you'd better choose a slice of this embalmed currency. you're welcome.' "i told bill bassett once more to put his money in his pocket. i never had the respect for burglary that some people have. i always gave something for the money i took, even if it was only some little trifle for a souvenir to remind 'em not to get caught again. "and then alfred e. ricks grovels at bill's feet again, and bids us adieu. he says he will have a team at a farmhouse, and drive to the station below, and take the train for denver. it salubrified the atmosphere when that lamentable boll-worm took his departure. he was a disgrace to every non-industrial profession in the country. with all his big schemes and fine offices he had wound up unable even to get an honest meal except by the kindness of a strange and maybe unscrupulous burglar. i was glad to see him go, though i felt a little sorry for him, now that he was ruined forever. what could such a man do without a big capital to work with? why, alfred e. ricks, as we left him, was as helpless as turtle on its back. he couldn't have worked a scheme to beat a little girl out of a penny slate-pencil. "when me and bill bassett was left alone i did a little sleight-of-mind turn in my head with a trade secret at the end of it. thinks i, i'll show this mr. burglar man the difference between business and labor. he had hurt some of my professional self-adulation by casting his persians upon commerce and trade. "'i won't take any of your money as a gift, mr. bassett,' says i to him, 'but if you'll pay my expenses as a travelling companion until we get out of the danger zone of the immoral deficit you have caused in this town's finances to-night, i'll be obliged.' "bill bassett agreed to that, and we hiked westward as soon as we could catch a safe train. "when we got to a town in arizona called los perros i suggested that we once more try our luck on terra-cotta. that was the home of montague silver, my old instructor, now retired from business. i knew monty would stake me to web money if i could show him a fly buzzing 'round the locality. bill bassett said all towns looked alike to him as he worked mainly in the dark. so we got off the train in los perros, a fine little town in the silver region. "i had an elegant little sure thing in the way of a commercial slungshot that i intended to hit bassett behind the ear with. i wasn't going to take his money while he was asleep, but i was going to leave him with a lottery ticket that would represent in experience to him $ , --i think that was the amount he had when we got off the train. but the first time i hinted to him about an investment, he turns on me and disencumbers himself of the following terms and expressions. "'brother peters,' says he, 'it ain't a bad idea to go into an enterprise of some kind, as you suggest. i think i will. but if i do it will be such a cold proposition that nobody but robert e. peary and charlie fairbanks will be able to sit on the board of directors.' "'i thought you might want to turn your money over,' says i. "'i do,' says he, 'frequently. i can't sleep on one side all night. i'll tell you, brother peters,' says he, 'i'm going to start a poker room. i don't seem to care for the humdrum in swindling, such as peddling egg-beaters and working off breakfast food on barnum and bailey for sawdust to strew in their circus rings. but the gambling business,' says he, 'from the profitable side of the table is a good compromise between swiping silver spoons and selling penwipers at a waldorf-astoria charity bazar.' "'then,' says i, 'mr. bassett, you don't care to talk over my little business proposition?' "'why,' says he, 'do you know, you can't get a pasteur institute to start up within fifty miles of where i live. i bite so seldom.' "so, bassett rents a room over a saloon and looks around for some furniture and chromos. the same night i went to monty silver's house, and he let me have $ on my prospects. then i went to the only store in los perros that sold playing cards and bought every deck in the house. the next morning when the store opened i was there bringing all the cards back with me. i said that my partner that was going to back me in the game had changed his mind; and i wanted to sell the cards back again. the storekeeper took 'em at half price. "yes, i was seventy-five dollars loser up to that time. but while i had the cards that night i marked every one in every deck. that was labor. and then trade and commerce had their innings, and the bread i had cast upon the waters began to come back in the form of cottage pudding with wine sauce. "of course i was among the first to buy chips at bill bassett's game. he had bought the only cards there was to be had in town; and i knew the back of every one of them better than i know the back of my head when the barber shows me my haircut in the two mirrors. "when the game closed i had the five thousand and a few odd dollars, and all bill bassett had was the wanderlust and a black cat he had bought for a mascot. bill shook hands with me when i left. "'brother peters,' says he, 'i have no business being in business. i was preordained to labor. when a no. burglar tries to make a james out of his jimmy he perpetrates an improfundity. you have a well-oiled and efficacious system of luck at cards,' says he. 'peace go with you.' and i never afterward sees bill bassett again." "well, jeff," said i, when the autolycan adventurer seemed to have divulged the gist of his tale, "i hope you took care of the money. that would be a respecta--that is a considerable working capital if you should choose some day to settle down to some sort of regular business." "me?" said jeff, virtuously. "you can bet i've taken care of that five thousand." he tapped his coat over the region of his chest exultantly. "gold mining stock," he explained, "every cent of it. shares par value one dollar. bound to go up per cent. within a year. non-assessable. the blue gopher mine. just discovered a month ago. better get in yourself if you've any spare dollars on hand." "sometimes," said i, "these mines are not--" "oh, this one's solid as an old goose," said jeff. "fifty thousand dollars' worth of ore in sight, and per cent. monthly earnings guaranteed." he drew out a long envelope from his pocket and cast it on the table. "always carry it with me," said he. "so the burglar can't corrupt or the capitalist break in and water it." i looked at the beautifully engraved certificate of stock. "in colorado, i see," said i. "and, by the way, jeff, what was the name of the little man who went to denver--the one you and bill met at the station?" "alfred e. ricks," said jeff, "was the toad's designation." "i see," said i, "the president of this mining company signs himself a. l. fredericks. i was wondering--" "let me see that stock," said jeff quickly, almost snatching it from me. to mitigate, even though slightly, the embarrassment i summoned the waiter and ordered another bottle of the barbera. i thought it was the least i could do. a tempered wind the first time my optical nerves was disturbed by the sight of buckingham skinner was in kansas city. i was standing on a corner when i see buck stick his straw-colored head out of a third-story window of a business block and holler, "whoa, there! whoa!" like you would in endeavoring to assuage a team of runaway mules. i looked around; but all the animals i see in sight is a policeman, having his shoes shined, and a couple of delivery wagons hitched to posts. then in a minute downstairs tumbles this buckingham skinner, and runs to the corner, and stands and gazes down the other street at the imaginary dust kicked up by the fabulous hoofs of the fictitious team of chimerical quadrupeds. and then b. skinner goes back up to the third-story room again, and i see that the lettering on the window is "the farmers' friend loan company." by and by straw-top comes down again, and i crossed the street to meet him, for i had my ideas. yes, sir, when i got close i could see where he overdone it. he was reub all right as far as his blue jeans and cowhide boots went, but he had a matinee actor's hands, and the rye straw stuck over his ear looked like it belonged to the property man of the old homestead co. curiosity to know what his graft was got the best of me. "was that your team broke away and run just now?" i asks him, polite. "i tried to stop 'em," says i, "but i couldn't. i guess they're half way back to the farm by now." "gosh blame them darned mules," says straw-top, in a voice so good that i nearly apologized; "they're a'lus bustin' loose." and then he looks at me close, and then he takes off his hayseed hat, and says, in a different voice: "i'd like to shake hands with parleyvoo pickens, the greatest street man in the west, barring only montague silver, which you can no more than allow." i let him shake hands with me. "i learned under silver," i said; "i don't begrudge him the lead. but what's your graft, son? i admit that the phantom flight of the non-existing animals at which you remarked 'whoa!' has puzzled me somewhat. how do you win out on the trick?" buckingham skinner blushed. "pocket money," says he; "that's all. i am temporarily unfinanced. this little coup de rye straw is good for forty dollars in a town of this size. how do i work it? why, i involve myself, as you perceive, in the loathsome apparel of the rural dub. thus embalmed i am jonas stubblefield--a name impossible to improve upon. i repair noisily to the office of some loan company conveniently located in the third-floor, front. there i lay my hat and yarn gloves on the floor and ask to mortgage my farm for $ , to pay for my sister's musical education in europe. loans like that always suit the loan companies. it's ten to one that when the note falls due the foreclosure will be leading the semiquavers by a couple of lengths. "well, sir, i reach in my pocket for the abstract of title; but i suddenly hear my team running away. i run to the window and emit the word--or exclamation, which-ever it may be--viz, 'whoa!' then i rush down-stairs and down the street, returning in a few minutes. 'dang them mules,' i says; 'they done run away and busted the doubletree and two traces. now i got to hoof it home, for i never brought no money along. reckon we'll talk about that loan some other time, gen'lemen.' "then i spreads out my tarpaulin, like the israelites, and waits for the manna to drop. "'why, no, mr. stubblefield,' says the lobster-colored party in the specs and dotted pique vest; 'oblige us by accepting this ten-dollar bill until to-morrow. get your harness repaired and call in at ten. we'll be pleased to accommodate you in the matter of this loan.' "it's a slight thing," says buckingham skinner, modest, "but, as i said, only for temporary loose change." "it's nothing to be ashamed of," says i, in respect for his mortification; "in case of an emergency. of course, it's small compared to organizing a trust or bridge whist, but even the chicago university had to be started in a small way." "what's your graft these days?" buckingham skinner asks me. "the legitimate," says i. "i'm handling rhinestones and dr. oleum sinapi's electric headache battery and the swiss warbler's bird call, a small lot of the new queer ones and twos, and the bonanza budget, consisting of a rolled-gold wedding and engagement ring, six egyptian lily bulbs, a combination pickle fork and nail-clipper, and fifty engraved visiting cards--no two names alike--all for the sum of cents." "two months ago," says buckingham skinner, "i was doing well down in texas with a patent instantaneous fire kindler, made of compressed wood ashes and benzine. i sold loads of 'em in towns where they like to burn niggers quick, without having to ask somebody for a light. and just when i was doing the best they strikes oil down there and puts me out of business. 'your machine's too slow, now, pardner,' they tells me. 'we can have a coon in hell with this here petroleum before your old flint-and-tinder truck can get him warm enough to perfess religion.' and so i gives up the kindler and drifts up here to k.c. this little curtain-raiser you seen me doing, mr. pickens, with the simulated farm and the hypothetical teams, ain't in my line at all, and i'm ashamed you found me working it." "no man," says i, kindly, "need to be ashamed of putting the skibunk on a loan corporation for even so small a sum as ten dollars, when he is financially abashed. still, it wasn't quite the proper thing. it's too much like borrowing money without paying it back." i liked buckingham skinner from the start, for as good a man as ever stood over the axles and breathed gasoline smoke. and pretty soon we gets thick, and i let him in on a scheme i'd had in mind for some time, and offers to go partners. "anything," says buck, "that is not actually dishonest will find me willing and ready. let us perforate into the inwardness of your proposition. i feel degraded when i am forced to wear property straw in my hair and assume a bucolic air for the small sum of ten dollars. actually, mr. pickens, it makes me feel like the ophelia of the great occidental all-star one-night consolidated theatrical aggregation." this scheme of mine was one that suited my proclivities. by nature i am some sentimental, and have always felt gentle toward the mollifying elements of existence. i am disposed to be lenient with the arts and sciences; and i find time to instigate a cordiality for the more human works of nature, such as romance and the atmosphere and grass and poetry and the seasons. i never skin a sucker without admiring the prismatic beauty of his scales. i never sell a little auriferous beauty to the man with the hoe without noticing the beautiful harmony there is between gold and green. and that's why i liked this scheme; it was so full of outdoor air and landscapes and easy money. we had to have a young lady assistant to help us work this graft; and i asked buck if he knew of one to fill the bill. "one," says i, "that is cool and wise and strictly business from her pompadour to her oxfords. no ex-toe-dancers or gum-chewers or crayon portrait canvassers for this." buck claimed he knew a suitable feminine and he takes me around to see miss sarah malloy. the minute i see her i am pleased. she looked to be the goods as ordered. no sign of the three p's about her--no peroxide, patchouli, nor peau de soie; about twenty-two, brown hair, pleasant ways--the kind of a lady for the place. "a description of the sandbag, if you please," she begins. "why, ma'am," says i, "this graft of ours is so nice and refined and romantic, it would make the balcony scene in 'romeo and juliet' look like second-story work." we talked it over, and miss malloy agreed to come in as a business partner. she said she was glad to get a chance to give up her place as stenographer and secretary to a suburban lot company, and go into something respectable. this is the way we worked our scheme. first, i figured it out by a kind of a proverb. the best grafts in the world are built up on copy-book maxims and psalms and proverbs and esau's fables. they seem to kind of hit off human nature. our peaceful little swindle was constructed on the old saying: "the whole push loves a lover." one evening buck and miss malloy drives up like blazes in a buggy to a farmer's door. she is pale but affectionate, clinging to his arm-- always clinging to his arm. any one can see that she is a peach and of the cling variety. they claim they are eloping for to be married on account of cruel parents. they ask where they can find a preacher. farmer says, "b'gum there ain't any preacher nigher than reverend abels, four miles over on caney creek." farmeress wipes her hand on her apron and rubbers through her specs. [illustration: she is a peach and of the cling variety.] then, lo and look ye! up the road from the other way jogs parleyvoo pickens in a gig, dressed in black, white necktie, long face, sniffing his nose, emitting a spurious kind of noise resembling the long meter doxology. "b'jinks!" says farmer, "if thar ain't a preacher now!" it transpires that i am rev. abijah green, travelling over to little bethel school-house for to preach next sunday. the young folks will have it they must be married, for pa is pursuing them with the plow mules and the buckboard. so the reverend green, after hesitating, marries 'em in the farmer's parlor. and farmer grins, and has in cider, and says "b'gum!" and farmeress sniffles a bit and pats the bride on the shoulder. and parleyvoo pickens, the wrong reverend, writes out a marriage certificate, and farmer and farmeress sign it as witnesses. and the parties of the first, second and third part gets in their vehicles and rides away. oh, that was an idyllic graft! true love and the lowing kine and the sun shining on the red barns--it certainly had all other impostures i know about beat to a batter. [so the reverend green, after hesitations, marries 'em in the farmer's parlor.] i suppose i happened along in time to marry buck and miss malloy at about twenty farm-houses. i hated to think how the romance was going to fade later on when all them marriage certificates turned up in banks where we'd discounted 'em, and the farmers had to pay them notes of hand they'd signed, running from $ to $ . on the th day of may us three divided about $ , . miss malloy nearly cried with joy. you don't often see a tenderhearted girl or one that is bent on doing right. [illustration: on the th day of may us three divided about $ , .] "boys," says she, dabbing her eyes with a little handkerchief, "this stake comes in handier than a powder rag at a fat men's ball. it gives me a chance to reform. i was trying to get out of the real estate business when you fellows came along. but if you hadn't taken me in on this neat little proposition for removing the cuticle of the rutabaga propagators i'm afraid i'd have got into something worse. i was about to accept a place in one of these women's auxiliary bazars, where they build a parsonage by selling a spoonful of chicken salad and a cream-puff for seventy-five cents and calling it a business man's lunch. "now i can go into a square, honest business, and give all them queer jobs the shake. i'm going to cincinnati and start a palm reading and clairvoyant joint. as madame saramaloi, the egyptian sorceress, i shall give everybody a dollar's worth of good honest prognostication. good-by, boys. take my advice and go into some decent fake. get friendly with the police and newspapers and you'll be all right." so then we all shook hands, and miss malloy left us. me and buck also rose up and sauntered off a few hundred miles; for we didn't care to be around when them marriage certificates fell due. with about $ , between us we hit that bumptious little town off the new jersey coast they call new york. if there ever was an aviary overstocked with jays it is that yaptown-on-the-hudson. cosmopolitan they call it. you bet. so's a piece of fly-paper. you listen close when they're buzzing and trying to pull their feet out of the sticky stuff. "little old new york's good enough for us"--that's what they sing. there's enough reubs walk down broadway in one hour to buy up a week's output of the factory in augusta, maine, that makes knaughty knovelties and the little phine phun oroide gold finger ring that sticks a needle in your friend's hand. you'd think new york people was all wise; but no. they don't get a chance to learn. everything's too compressed. even the hayseeds are baled hayseeds. but what else can you expect from a town that's shut off from the world by the ocean on one side and new jersey on the other? it's no place for an honest grafter with a small capital. there's too big a protective tariff on bunco. even when giovanni sells a quart of warm worms and chestnut hulls he has to hand out a pint to an insectivorous cop. and the hotel man charges double for everything in the bill that he sends by the patrol wagon to the altar where the duke is about to marry the heiress. but old badville-near-coney is the ideal burg for a refined piece of piracy if you can pay the bunco duty. imported grafts come pretty high. the custom-house officers that look after it carry clubs, and it's hard to smuggle in even a bib-and-tucker swindle to work brooklyn with unless you can pay the toll. but now, me and buck, having capital, descends upon new york to try and trade the metropolitan backwoodsmen a few glass beads for real estate just as the vans did a hundred or two years ago. at an east side hotel we gets acquainted with romulus g. atterbury, a man with the finest head for financial operations i ever saw. it was all bald and glossy except for gray side whiskers. seeing that head behind an office railing, and you'd deposit a million with it without a receipt. this atterbury was well dressed, though he ate seldom; and the synopsis of his talk would make the conversation of a siren sound like a cab driver's kick. he said he used to be a member of the stock exchange, but some of the big capitalists got jealous and formed a ring that forced him to sell his seat. atterbury got to liking me and buck and he begun to throw on the canvas for us some of the schemes that had caused his hair to evacuate. he had one scheme for starting a national bank on $ that made the mississippi bubble look as solid as a glass marble. he talked this to us for three days, and when his throat was good and sore we told him about the roll we had. atterbury borrowed a quarter from us and went out and got a box of throat lozenges and started all over again. this time he talked bigger things, and he got us to see 'em as he did. the scheme he laid out looked like a sure winner, and he talked me and buck into putting our capital against his burnished dome of thought. it looked all right for a kid-gloved graft. it seemed to be just about an inch and a half outside of the reach of the police, and as money-making as a mint. it was just what me and buck wanted--a regular business at a permanent stand, with an open air spieling with tonsilitis on the street corners every evening. so, in six weeks you see a handsome furnished set of offices down in the wall street neighborhood, with "the golconda gold bond and investment company" in gilt letters on the door. and you see in his private room, with the door open, the secretary and treasurer, mr. buckingham skinner, costumed like the lilies of the conservatory, with his high silk hat close to his hand. nobody yet ever saw buck outside of an instantaneous reach for his hat. and you might perceive the president and general manager, mr. r. g. atterbury, with his priceless polished poll, busy in the main office room dictating letters to a shorthand countess, who has got pomp and a pompadour that is no less than a guarantee to investors. [illustration: busy in the main office room dictating letters to a shorthand countess.] there is a bookkeeper and an assistant, and a general atmosphere of varnish and culpability. at another desk the eye is relieved by the sight of an ordinary man, attired with unscrupulous plainness, sitting with his feet up, eating apples, with his obnoxious hat on the back of his head. that man is no other than colonel tecumseh (once "parleyvoo") pickens, the vice-president of the company. "no recherché rags for me," i says to atterbury, when we was organizing the stage properties of the robbery. "i'm a plain man," says i, "and i do not use pajamas, french, or military hair-brushes. cast me for the role of the rhinestone-in-the-rough or i don't go on exhibition. if you can use me in my natural, though displeasing form, do so." "dress you up?" says atterbury; "i should say not! just as you are you're worth more to the business than a whole roomful of the things they pin chrysanthemums on. you're to play the part of the solid but disheveled capitalist from the far west. you despise the conventions. you've got so many stocks you can afford to shake socks. conservative, homely, rough, shrewd, saving--that's your pose. it's a winner in new york. keep your feet on the desk and eat apples. whenever anybody comes in eat an apple. let 'em see you stuff the peelings in a drawer of your desk. look as economical and rich and rugged as you can." i followed out atterbury's instructions. i played the rocky mountain capitalist without ruching or frills. the way i deposited apple peelings to my credit in a drawer when any customers came in made hetty green look like a spendthrift. i could hear atterbury saying to victims, as he smiled at me, indulgent and venerating, "that's our vice-president, colonel pickens . . . fortune in western investments . . . delightfully plain manners, but . . . could sign his check for half a million . . . simple as a child . . . wonderful head . . . conservative and careful almost to a fault." [illustration: "that's our vice-president, colonel pickens."] atterbury managed the business. me and buck never quite understood all of it, though he explained it to us in full. it seems the company was a kind of cooperative one, and everybody that bought stock shared in the profits. first, we officers bought up a controlling interest--we had to have that--of the shares at cents a hundred--just what the printer charged us--and the rest went to the public at a dollar each. the company guaranteed the stockholders a profit of ten per cent. each month, payable on the last day thereof. when any stockholder had paid in as much as $ , the company issued him a gold bond and he became a bondholder. i asked atterbury one day what benefits and appurtenances these gold bonds was to an investor more so than the immunities and privileges enjoyed by the common sucker who only owned stock. atterbury picked up one of them gold bonds, all gilt and lettered up with flourishes and a big red seal tied with a blue ribbon in a bowknot, and he looked at me like his feelings was hurt. "my dear colonel pickens," says he, "you have no soul for art. think of a thousand homes made happy by possessing one of these beautiful gems of the lithographer's skill! think of the joy in the household where one of these gold bonds hangs by a pink cord to the what-not, or is chewed by the baby, caroling gleefully upon the floor! ah, i see your eye growing moist, colonel--i have touched you, have i not?" "you have not," says i, "for i've been watching you. the moisture you see is apple juice. you can't expect one man to act as a human cider-press and an art connoisseur too." atterbury attended to the details of the concern. as i understand it, they was simple. the investors in stock paid in their money, and-- well, i guess that's all they had to do. the company received it, and --i don't call to mind anything else. me and buck knew more about selling corn salve than we did about wall street, but even we could see how the golconda gold bond investment company was making money. you take in money and pay back ten per cent. of it; it's plain enough that you make a clean, legitimate profit of per cent., less expenses, as long as the fish bite. atterbury wanted to be president and treasurer too, but buck winks an eye at him and says: "you was to furnish the brains. do you call it good brain work when you propose to take in money at the door, too? think again. i hereby nominate myself treasurer ad valorem, sine die, and by acclamation. i chip in that much brain work free. me and pickens, we furnished the capital, and we'll handle the unearned increment as it incremates." it costs us $ for office rent and first payment on furniture; $ , more went for printing and advertising. atterbury knew his business. "three months to a minute we'll last," says he. "a day longer than that and we'll have to either go under or go under an alias. by that time we ought to clean up $ , . and then a money belt and a lower berth for me, and the yellow journals and the furniture men can pick the bones." our ads. done the work. "country weeklies and washington hand-press dailies, of course," says i when we was ready to make contracts. "man," says atterbury, "as its advertising manager you would cause a limburger cheese factory to remain undiscovered during a hot summer. the game we're after is right here in new york and brooklyn and the harlem reading-rooms. they're the people that the street-car fenders and the answers to correspondents columns and the pickpocket notices are made for. we want our ads. in the biggest city dailies, top of column, next to editorials on radium and pictures of the girl doing health exercises." pretty soon the money begins to roll in. buck didn't have to pretend to be busy; his desk was piled high up with money orders and checks and greenbacks. people began to drop in the office and buy stock every day. most of the shares went in small amounts--$ and $ and $ , and a good many $ and $ lots. and the bald and inviolate cranium of president atterbury shines with enthusiasm and demerit, while colonel tecumseh pickens, the rude but reputable croesus of the west, consumes so many apples that the peelings hang to the floor from the mahogany garbage chest that he calls his desk. just as atterbury said, we ran along about three months without being troubled. buck cashed the paper as fast as it came in and kept the money in a safe deposit vault a block or so away. buck never thought much of banks for such purposes. we paid the interest regular on the stock we'd sold, so there was nothing for anybody to squeal about. we had nearly $ , on hand and all three of us had been living as high as prize fighters out of training. one morning, as me and buck sauntered into the office, fat and flippant, from our noon grub, we met an easy-looking fellow, with a bright eye and a pipe in his mouth, coming out. we found atterbury looking like he'd been caught a mile from home in a wet shower. "know that man?" he asked us. we said we didn't. "i don't either," says atterbury, wiping off his head; "but i'll bet enough gold bonds to paper a cell in the tombs that he's a newspaper reporter." "what did he want?" asks buck. "information," says our president. "said he was thinking of buying some stock. he asked me about nine hundred questions, and every one of 'em hit some sore place in the business. i know he's on a paper. you can't fool me. you see a man about half shabby, with an eye like a gimlet, smoking cut plug, with dandruff on his coat collar, and knowing more than j. p. morgan and shakespeare put together--if that ain't a reporter i never saw one. i was afraid of this. i don't mind detectives and post-office inspectors--i talk to 'em eight minutes and then sell 'em stock--but them reporters take the starch out of my collar. boys, i recommend that we declare a dividend and fade away. the signs point that way." me and buck talked to atterbury and got him to stop sweating and stand still. that fellow didn't look like a reporter to us. reporters always pull out a pencil and tablet on you, and tell you a story you've heard, and strikes you for the drinks. but atterbury was shaky and nervous all day. the next day me and buck comes down from the hotel about ten-thirty. on the way we buys the papers, and the first thing we see is a column on the front page about our little imposition. it was a shame the way that reporter intimated that we were no blood relatives of the late george w. childs. he tells all about the scheme as he sees it, in a rich, racy kind of a guying style that might amuse most anybody except a stockholder. yes, atterbury was right; it behooveth the gaily clad treasurer and the pearly pated president and the rugged vice-president of the golconda gold bond and investment company to go away real sudden and quick that their days might be longer upon the land. me and buck hurries down to the office. we finds on the stairs and in the hall a crowd of people trying to squeeze into our office, which is already jammed full inside to the railing. they've nearly all got golconda stock and gold bonds in their hands. me and buck judged they'd been reading the papers, too. we stopped and looked at our stockholders, some surprised. it wasn't quite the kind of a gang we supposed had been investing. they all looked like poor people; there was plenty of old women and lots of young girls that you'd say worked in factories and mills. some was old men that looked like war veterans, and some was crippled, and a good many was just kids--bootblacks and newsboys and messengers. some was working-men in overalls, with their sleeves rolled up. not one of the gang looked like a stockholder in anything unless it was a peanut stand. but they all had golconda stock and looked as sick as you please. [illustration: but they all had golconda stock and looked as sick as you please.] i saw a queer kind of a pale look come on buck's face when he sized up the crowd. he stepped up to a sickly looking woman and says: "madam, do you own any of this stock?" "i put in a hundred dollars," says the woman, faint like. "it was all i had saved in a year. one of my children is dying at home now and i haven't a cent in the house. i came to see if i could draw out some. the circulars said you could draw it at any time. but they say now i will lose it all." there was a smart kind of kid in the gang--i guess he was a newsboy. "i got in twenty-fi', mister," he says, looking hopeful at buck's silk hat and clothes. "dey paid me two-fifty a mont' on it. say, a man tells me dey can't do dat and be on de square. is dat straight? do you guess i can get out my twenty-fi'?" some of the old women was crying. the factory girls was plumb distracted. they'd lost all their savings and they'd be docked for the time they lost coming to see about it. there was one girl--a pretty one--in a red shawl, crying in a corner like her heart would dissolve. buck goes over and asks her about it. "it ain't so much losing the money, mister," says she, shaking all over, "though i've been two years saving it up; but jakey won't marry me now. he'll take rosa steinfeld. i know j--j--jakey. she's got $ in the savings bank. ai, ai, ai--" she sings out. [illustration: "jakey won't marry me now. he'll take rosa steinfeld."] buck looks all around with that same funny look on his face. and then we see leaning against the wall, puffing at his pipe, with his eye shining at us, this newspaper reporter. buck and me walks over to him. "you're a real interesting writer," says buck. "how far do you mean to carry it? anything more up your sleeve?" "oh, i'm just waiting around," says the reporter, smoking away, "in case any news turns up. it's up to your stockholders now. some of them might complain, you know. isn't that the patrol wagon now?" he says, listening to a sound outside. "no," he goes on, "that's doc. whittleford's old cadaver coupé from the roosevelt. i ought to know that gong. yes, i suppose i've written some interesting stuff at times." "you wait," says buck; "i'm going to throw an item of news in your way." buck reaches in his pocket and hands me a key. i knew what he meant before he spoke. confounded old buccaneer--i knew what he meant. they don't make them any better than buck. "pick," says he, looking at me hard, "ain't this graft a little out of our line? do we want jakey to marry rosa steinfeld?" "you've got my vote," says i. "i'll have it here in ten minutes." and i starts for the safe deposit vaults. i comes back with the money done up in a big bundle, and then buck and me takes the journalist reporter around to another door and we let ourselves into one of the office rooms. "now, my literary friend," says buck, "take a chair, and keep still, and i'll give you an interview. you see before you two grafters from graftersville, grafter county, arkansas. me and pick have sold brass jewelry, hair tonic, song books, marked cards, patent medicines, connecticut smyrna rugs, furniture polish, and albums in every town from old point comfort to the golden gate. we've grafted a dollar whenever we saw one that had a surplus look to it. but we never went after the simoleon in the toe of the sock under the loose brick in the corner of the kitchen hearth. there's an old saying you may have heard --'fussily decency averni'--which means it's an easy slide from the street faker's dry goods box to a desk in wall street. we've took that slide, but we didn't know exactly what was at the bottom of it. now, you ought to be wise, but you ain't. you've got new york wiseness, which means that you judge a man by the outside of his clothes. that ain't right. you ought to look at the lining and seams and the button-holes. while we are waiting for the patrol wagon you might get out your little stub pencil and take notes for another funny piece in the paper." and then buck turns to me and says: "i don't care what atterbury thinks. he only put in brains, and if he gets his capital out he's lucky. but what do you say, pick?" "me?" says i. "you ought to know me, buck. i didn't know who was buying the stock." "all right," says buck. and then he goes through the inside door into the main office and looks at the gang trying to squeeze through the railing. atterbury and his hat was gone. and buck makes 'em a short speech. "all you lambs get in line. you're going to get your wool back. don't shove so. get in a line--a _line_--not in a pile. lady, will you please stop bleating? your money's waiting for you. here, sonny, don't climb over that railing; your dimes are safe. don't cry, sis; you ain't out a cent. get in _line_, i say. here, pick, come and straighten 'em out and let 'em through and out by the other door." buck takes off his coat, pushes his silk hat on the back of his head, and lights up a reina victoria. he sets at the table with the boodle before him, all done up in neat packages. i gets the stockholders strung out and marches 'em, single file, through from the main room; and the reporter man passes 'em out of the side door into the hall again. as they go by, buck takes up the stock and the gold bonds, paying 'em cash, dollar for dollar, the same as they paid in. the shareholders of the golconda gold bond and investment company can't hardly believe it. they almost grabs the money out of buck's hands. some of the women keep on crying, for it's a custom of the sex to cry when they have sorrow, to weep when they have joy, and to shed tears whenever they find themselves without either. [illustration: the shareholders of the golconda gold bond and investment company can't hardly believe it.] the old women's fingers shake when they stuff the skads in the bosom of their rusty dresses. the factory girls just stoop over and flap their dry goods a second, and you hear the elastic go "pop" as the currency goes down in the ladies' department of the "old domestic lisle-thread bank." some of the stockholders that had been doing the jeremiah act the loudest outside had spasms of restored confidence and wanted to leave the money invested. "salt away that chicken feed in your duds, and skip along," says buck. "what business have you got investing in bonds? the tea-pot or the crack in the wall behind the clock for your hoard of pennies." when the pretty girl in the red shawl cashes in buck hands her an extra twenty. "a wedding present," says our treasurer, "from the golconda company. and say--if jakey ever follows his nose, even at a respectful distance, around the corner where rosa steinfeld lives, you are hereby authorized to knock a couple of inches of it off." when they was all paid off and gone, buck calls the newspaper reporter and shoves the rest of the money over to him. "you begun this," says buck; "now finish it. over there are the books, showing every share and bond issued. here's the money to cover, except what we've spent to live on. you'll have to act as receiver. i guess you'll do the square thing on account of your paper. this is the best way we know how to settle it. me and our substantial but apple-weary vice-president are going to follow the example of our revered president, and skip. now, have you got enough news for to-day, or do you want to interview us on etiquette and the best way to make over an old taffeta skirt?" "news!" says the newspaper man, taking his pipe out; "do you think i could use this? i don't want to lose my job. suppose i go around to the office and tell 'em this happened. what'll the managing editor say? he'll just hand me a pass to bellevue and tell me to come back when i get cured. i might turn in a story about a sea serpent wiggling up broadway, but i haven't got the nerve to try 'em with a pipe like this. a get-rich-quick scheme--excuse me--gang giving back the boodle! oh, no. i'm not on the comic supplement." "you can't understand it, of course," says buck, with his hand on the door knob. "me and pick ain't wall streeters like you know 'em. we never allowed to swindle sick old women and working girls and take nickels off of kids. in the lines of graft we've worked we took money from the people the lord made to be buncoed--sports and rounders and smart alecks and street crowds, that always have a few dollars to throw away, and farmers that wouldn't ever be happy if the grafters didn't come around and play with 'em when they sold their crops. we never cared to fish for the kind of suckers that bite here. no, sir. we got too much respect for the profession and for ourselves. good-by to you, mr. receiver." "here!" says the journalist reporter; "wait a minute. there's a broker i know on the next floor. wait till i put this truck in his safe. i want you fellows to take a drink on me before you go." "on you?" says buck, winking solemn. "don't you go and try to make 'em believe at the office you said that. thanks. we can't spare the time, i reckon. so long." and me and buck slides out the door; and that's the way the golconda company went into involuntary liquefaction. if you had seen me and buck the next night you'd have had to go to a little bum hotel over near the west side ferry landings. we was in a little back room, and i was filling up a gross of six-ounce bottles with hydrant water colored red with aniline and flavored with cinnamon. buck was smoking, contented, and he wore a decent brown derby in place of his silk hat. "it's a good thing, pick," says he, as he drove in the corks, "that we got brady to lend us his horse and wagon for a week. we'll rustle up the stake by then. this hair tonic'll sell right along over in jersey. bald heads ain't popular over there on account of the mosquitoes." directly i dragged out my valise and went down in it for labels. "hair tonic labels are out," says i. "only about a dozen on hand." "buy some more," says buck. we investigated our pockets and found we had just enough money to settle our hotel bill in the morning and pay our passage over the ferry. "plenty of the 'shake-the-shakes chill cure' labels," says i, after looking. "what more do you want?" says buck. "slap 'em on. the chill season is just opening up in the hackensack low grounds. what's hair, anyway, if you have to shake it off?" we pasted on the chill cure labels about half an hour and buck says: "making an honest livin's better than that wall street, anyhow; ain't it, pick?" "you bet," says i. hostages to momus i i never got inside of the legitimate line of graft but once. but, one time, as i say, i reversed the decision of the revised statutes and undertook a thing that i'd have to apologize for even under the new jersey trust laws. me and caligula polk, of muskogee in the creek nation, was down in the mexican state of tamaulipas running a peripatetic lottery and monte game. now, selling lottery tickets is a government graft in mexico, just like selling forty-eight cents' worth of postage-stamps for forty-nine cents is over here. so uncle porfirio he instructs the _rurales_ to attend to our case. _rurales_? they're a sort of country police; but don't draw any mental crayon portraits of the worthy constables with a tin star and a gray goatee. the _rurales_--well, if we'd mount our supreme court on broncos, arm 'em with winchesters, and start 'em out after john doe _et al_. we'd have about the same thing. when the _rurales_ started for us we started for the states. they chased us as far as matamoras. we hid in a brickyard; and that night we swum the rio grande, caligula with a brick in each hand, absent-minded, which he drops upon the soil of texas, forgetting he had 'em. from there we emigrated to san antone, and then over to new orleans, where we took a rest. and in that town of cotton bales and other adjuncts to female beauty we made the acquaintance of drinks invented by the creoles during the period of louey cans, in which they are still served at the side doors. the most i can remember of this town is that me and caligula and a frenchman named mccarty--wait a minute; adolph mccarty--was trying to make the french quarter pay up the back trading-stamps due on the louisiana purchase, when somebody hollers that the johndarms are coming. i have an insufficient recollection of buying two yellow tickets through a window; and i seemed to see a man swing a lantern and say "all aboard!" i remembered no more, except that the train butcher was covering me and caligula up with augusta j. evans's works and figs. when we become revised, we find that we have collided up against the state of georgia at a spot hitherto unaccounted for in time tables except by an asterisk, which means that trains stop every other thursday on signal by tearing up a rail. we was waked up in a yellow pine hotel by the noise of flowers and the smell of birds. yes, sir, for the wind was banging sunflowers as big as buggy wheels against the weatherboarding and the chicken coop was right under the window. me and caligula dressed and went down-stairs. the landlord was shelling peas on the front porch. he was six feet of chills and fever, and hongkong in complexion though in other respects he seemed amenable in the exercise of his sentiments and features. caligula, who is a spokesman by birth, and a small man, though red-haired and impatient of painfulness of any kind, speaks up. "pardner," says he, "good-morning, and be darned to you. would you mind telling us why we are at? we know the reason we are where, but can't exactly figure out on account of at what place." "well, gentlemen," says the landlord, "i reckoned you-all would be inquiring this morning. you-all dropped off of the nine-thirty train here last night; and you was right tight. yes, you was right smart in liquor. i can inform you that you are now in the town of mountain valley, in the state of georgia." "on top of that," says caligula, "don't say that we can't have anything to eat." "sit down, gentlemen," says the landlord, "and in twenty minutes i'll call you to the best breakfast you can get anywhere in town." that breakfast turned out to be composed of fried bacon and a yellowish edifice that proved up something between pound cake and flexible sandstone. the landlord calls it corn pone; and then he sets out a dish of the exaggerated breakfast food known as hominy; and so me and caligula makes the acquaintance of the celebrated food that enabled every johnny reb to lick one and two-thirds yankees for nearly four years at a stretch. "the wonder to me is," says caligula, "that uncle robert lee's boys didn't chase the grant and sherman outfit clear up into hudson's bay. it would have made me that mad to eat this truck they call mahogany!" "hog and hominy," i explains, "is the staple food of this section." "then," says caligula, "they ought to keep it where it belongs. i thought this was a hotel and not a stable. now, if we was in muskogee at the st. lucifer house, i'd show you some breakfast grub. antelope steaks and fried liver to begin on, and venison cutlets with _chili con carne_ and pineapple fritters, and then some sardines and mixed pickles; and top it off with a can of yellow clings and a bottle of beer. you won't find a layout like that on the bill of affairs of any of your eastern restauraws." "too lavish," says i. "i've traveled, and i'm unprejudiced. there'll never be a perfect breakfast eaten until some man grows arms long enough to stretch down to new orleans for his coffee and over to norfolk for his rolls, and reaches up to vermont and digs a slice of butter out of a spring-house, and then turns over a beehive close to a white clover patch out in indiana for the rest. then he'd come pretty close to making a meal on the amber that the gods eat on mount olympia." "too ephemeral," says caligula. "i'd want ham and eggs, or rabbit stew, anyhow, for a chaser. what do you consider the most edifying and casual in the way of a dinner?" "i've been infatuated from time to time," i answers, "with fancy ramifications of grub such as terrapins, lobsters, reed birds, jambolaya, and canvas-covered ducks; but after all there's nothing less displeasing to me than a beefsteak smothered in mushrooms on a balcony in sound of the broadway streetcars, with a hand-organ playing down below, and the boys hollering extras about the latest suicide. for the wine, give me a reasonable ponty cany. and that's all, except a _demi-tasse_." "well," says caligula, "i reckon in new york you get to be a conniseer; and when you go around with the _demi-tasse_ you are naturally bound to buy 'em stylish grub." "it's a great town for epicures," says i. "you'd soon fall into their ways if you was there." "i've heard it was," says caligula. "but i reckon i wouldn't. i can polish my fingernails all they need myself." ii after breakfast we went out on the front porch, lighted up two of the landlord's _flor de upas_ perfectos, and took a look at georgia. the installment of scenery visible to the eye looked mighty poor. as far as we could see was red hills all washed down with gullies and scattered over with patches of piny woods. blackberry bushes was all that kept the rail fences from falling down. about fifteen miles over to the north was a little range of well-timbered mountains. that town of mountain valley wasn't going. about a dozen people permeated along the sidewalks; but what you saw mostly was rain-barrels and roosters, and boys poking around with sticks in piles of ashes made by burning the scenery of uncle tom shows. and just then there passes down on the other side of the street a high man in a long black coat and a beaver hat. all the people in sight bowed, and some crossed the street to shake hands with him; folks came out of stores and houses to holler at him; women leaned out of windows and smiled; and all the kids stopped playing to look at him. our landlord stepped out on the porch and bent himself double like a carpenter's rule, and sung out, "good-morning, colonel," when he was a dozen yards gone by. "and is that alexander, pa?" says caligula to the landlord; "and why is he called great?" "that, gentlemen," says the landlord, "is no less than colonel jackson t. rockingham, the president of the sunrise & edenville tap railroad, mayor of mountain valley, and chairman of the perry county board of immigration and public improvements." "been away a good many years, hasn't he?" i asked. "no, sir; colonel rockingham is going down to the post-office for his mail. his fellow-citizens take pleasure in greeting him thus every morning. the colonel is our most prominent citizen. besides the height of the stock of the sunrise & edenville tap railroad, he owns a thousand acres of that land across the creek. mountain valley delights, sir, to honor a citizen of such worth and public spirit." for an hour that afternoon caligula sat on the back of his neck on the porch and studied a newspaper, which was unusual in a man who despised print. when he was through he took me to the end of the porch among the sunlight and drying dish-towels. i knew that caligula had invented a new graft. for he chewed the ends of his mustache and ran the left catch of his suspenders up and down, which was his way. "what is it now?" i asks. "just so it ain't floating mining stocks or raising pennsylvania pinks, we'll talk it over." "pennsylvania pinks? oh, that refers to a coin-raising scheme of the keystoners. they burn the soles of old women's feet to make them tell where their money's hid." caligula's words in business was always few and bitter. "you see them mountains," said he, pointing. "and you seen that colonel man that owns railroads and cuts more ice when he goes to the post-office than roosevelt does when he cleans 'em out. what we're going to do is to kidnap the latter into the former, and inflict a ransom of ten thousand dollars." "illegality," says i, shaking my head. "i knew you'd say that," says caligula. "at first sight it does seem to jar peace and dignity. but it don't. i got the idea out of that newspaper. would you commit aspersions on a equitable graft that the united states itself has condoned and indorsed and ratified?" "kidnapping," says i, "is an immoral function in the derogatory list of the statutes. if the united states upholds it, it must be a recent enactment of ethics, along with race suicide and rural delivery." "listen," says caligula, "and i'll explain the case set down in the papers. here was a greek citizen named burdick harris," says he, "captured for a graft by africans; and the united states sends two gunboats to the state of tangiers and makes the king of morocco give up seventy thousand dollars to raisuli." "go slow," says i. "that sounds too international to take in all at once. it's like 'thimble, thimble, who's got the naturalization papers?'" "'twas press despatches from constantinople," says caligula. "you'll see, six months from now. they'll be confirmed by the monthly magazines; and then it won't be long till you'll notice 'em alongside the photos of the mount pelee eruption photos in the while-you-get-your-hair-cut weeklies. it's all right, pick. this african man raisuli hides burdick harris up in the mountains, and advertises his price to the governments of different nations. now, you wouldn't think for a minute," goes on caligula, "that john hay would have chipped in and helped this graft along if it wasn't a square game, would you?" "why, no," says i. "i've always stood right in with bryan's policies, and i couldn't consciously say a word against the republican administration just now. but if harris was a greek, on what system of international protocols did hay interfere?" "it ain't exactly set forth in the papers," says caligula. "i suppose it's a matter of sentiment. you know he wrote this poem, 'little breeches'; and them greeks wear little or none. but anyhow, john hay sends the brooklyn and the olympia over, and they cover africa with thirty-inch guns. and then hay cables after the health of the _persona grata_. 'and how are they this morning?' he wires. 'is burdick harris alive yet, or mr. raisuli dead?' and the king of morocco sends up the seventy thousand dollars, and they turn burdick harris loose. and there's not half the hard feelings among the nations about this little kidnapping matter as there was about the peace congress. and burdick harris says to the reporters, in the greek language, that he's often heard about the united states, and he admires roosevelt next to raisuli, who is one of the whitest and most gentlemanly kidnappers that he ever worked alongside of. so you see, pick," winds up caligula, "we've got the law of nations on our side. we'll cut this colonel man out of the herd, and corral him in them little mountains, and stick up his heirs and assigns for ten thousand dollars." "well, you seldom little red-headed territorial terror," i answers, "you can't bluff your uncle tecumseh pickens! i'll be your company in this graft. but i misdoubt if you've absorbed the inwardness of this burdick harris case, calig; and if on any morning we get a telegram from the secretary of state asking about the health of the scheme, i propose to acquire the most propinquitous and celeritous mule in this section and gallop diplomatically over into the neighboring and peaceful nation of alabama." iii me and caligula spent the next three days investigating the bunch of mountains into which we proposed to kidnap colonel jackson t. rockingham. we finally selected an upright slice of topography covered with bushes and trees that you could only reach by a secret path that we cut out up the side of it. and the only way to reach the mountain was to follow up the bend of a branch that wound among the elevations. then i took in hand an important subdivision of the proceedings. i went up to atlanta on the train and laid in a two-hundred-and-fifty-dollar supply of the most gratifying and efficient lines of grub that money could buy. i always was an admirer of viands in their more palliative and revised stages. hog and hominy are not only inartistic to my stomach, but they give indigestion to my moral sentiments. and i thought of colonel jackson t. rockingham, president of the sunrise & edenville tap railroad, and how he would miss the luxury of his home fare as is so famous among wealthy southerners. so i sunk half of mine and caligula's capital in as elegant a layout of fresh and canned provisions as burdick harris or any other professional kidnappee ever saw in a camp. i put another hundred in a couple of cases of bordeaux, two quarts of cognac, two hundred havana regalias with gold bands, and a camp stove and stools and folding cots. i wanted colonel rockingham to be comfortable; and i hoped after he gave up the ten thousand dollars he would give me and caligula as good a name for gentlemen and entertainers as the greek man did the friend of his that made the united states his bill collector against africa. when the goods came down from atlanta, we hired a wagon, moved them up on the little mountain, and established camp. and then we laid for the colonel. we caught him one morning about two miles out from mountain valley, on his way to look after some of his burnt umber farm land. he was an elegant old gentleman, as thin and tall as a trout rod, with frazzled shirt-cuffs and specs on a black string. we explained to him, brief and easy, what we wanted; and caligula showed him, careless, the handle of his forty-five under his coat. "what?" says colonel rockingham. "bandits in perry county, georgia! i shall see that the board of immigration and public improvements hears of this!" "be so unfoolhardy as to climb into that buggy," says caligula, "by order of the board of perforation and public depravity. this is a business meeting, and we're anxious to adjourn _sine qua non_." we drove colonel rockingham over the mountain and up the side of it as far as the buggy could go. then we tied the horse, and took our prisoner on foot up to the camp. "now, colonel," i says to him, "we're after the ransom, me and my partner; and no harm will come to you if the king of mor--if your friends send up the dust. in the mean time we are gentlemen the same as you. and if you give us your word not to try to escape, the freedom of the camp is yours." "i give you my word," says the colonel. "all right," says i; "and now it's eleven o'clock, and me and mr. polk will proceed to inculcate the occasion with a few well-timed trivialities in the way of grub." "thank you," says the colonel; "i believe i could relish a slice of bacon and a plate of hominy." "but you won't," says i emphatic. "not in this camp. we soar in higher regions than them occupied by your celebrated but repulsive dish." while the colonel read his paper, me and caligula took off our coats and went in for a little luncheon _de luxe_ just to show him. caligula was a fine cook of the western brand. he could toast a buffalo or fricassee a couple of steers as easy as a woman could make a cup of tea. he was gifted in the way of knocking together edibles when haste and muscle and quantity was to be considered. he held the record west of the arkansas river for frying pancakes with his left hand, broiling venison cutlets with his right, and skinning a rabbit with his teeth at the same time. but i could do things _en casserole_ and _à la creole_, and handle the oil and tobasco as gently and nicely as a french _chef_. so at twelve o'clock we had a hot lunch ready that looked like a banquet on a mississippi river steamboat. we spread it on the tops of two or three big boxes, opened two quarts of the red wine, set the olives and a canned oyster cocktail and a ready-made martini by the colonel's plate, and called him to grub. colonel rockingham drew up his campstool, wiped off his specs, and looked at the things on the table. then i thought he was swearing; and i felt mean because i hadn't taken more pains with the victuals. but he wasn't; he was asking a blessing; and me and caligula hung our heads, and i saw a tear drop from the colonel's eye into his cocktail. i never saw a man eat with so much earnestness and application--not hastily, like a grammarian, or one of the canal, but slow and appreciative, like a anaconda, or a real _vive bonjour_. in an hour and a half the colonel leaned back. i brought him a pony of brandy and his black coffee, and set the box of havana regalias on the table. "gentlemen," says he, blowing out the smoke and trying to breathe it back again, "when we view the eternal hills and the smiling and beneficent landscape, and reflect upon the goodness of the creator who--" "excuse me, colonel," says i, "but there's some business to attend to now"; and i brought out paper and pen and ink and laid 'em before him. "who do you want to send to for the money?" i asks. "i reckon," says he, after thinking a bit, "to the vice-president of our railroad, at the general offices of the company in edenville." "how far is it to edenville from here?" i asked. "about ten miles," says he. then i dictated these lines, and colonel rockingham wrote them out: i am kidnapped and held a prisoner by two desperate outlaws in a place which is useless to attempt to find. they demand ten thousand dollars at once for my release. the amount must be raised immediately, and these directions followed. come alone with the money to stony creek, which runs out of blacktop mountains. follow the bed of the creek till you come to a big flat rock on the left bank, on which is marked a cross in red chalk. stand on the rock and wave a white flag. a guide will come to you and conduct you to where i am held. lose no time. after the colonel had finished this, he asked permission to take on a postscript about how he was being treated, so the railroad wouldn't feel uneasy in its bosom about him. we agreed to that. he wrote down that he had just had lunch with the two desperate ruffians; and then he set down the whole bill of fare, from cocktails to coffee. he wound up with the remark that dinner would be ready about six, and would probably be a more licentious and intemperate affair than lunch. me and caligula read it, and decided to let it go; for we, being cooks, were amenable to praise, though it sounded out of place on a sight draft for ten thousand dollars. i took the letter over to the mountain valley road and watched for a messenger. by and by a colored equestrian came along on horseback, riding toward edenville. i gave him a dollar to take the letter to the railroad offices; and then i went back to camp. iv about four o'clock in the afternoon, caligula, who was acting as lookout, calls to me: "i have to report a white shirt signalling on the starboard bow, sir." i went down the mountain and brought back a fat, red man in an alpaca coat and no collar. "gentlemen," says colonel rockingham, "allow me to introduce my brother, captain duval c. rockingham, vice-president of the sunrise & edenville tap railroad." "otherwise the king of morocco," says i. "i reckon you don't mind my counting the ransom, just as a business formality." "well, no, not exactly," says the fat man, "not when it comes. i turned that matter over to our second vice-president. i was anxious after brother jackson's safetiness. i reckon he'll be along right soon. what does that lobster salad you mentioned taste like, brother jackson?" "mr. vice-president," says i, "you'll oblige us by remaining here till the second v. p. arrives. this is a private rehearsal, and we don't want any roadside speculators selling tickets." in half an hour caligula sings out again: "sail ho! looks like an apron on a broomstick." i perambulated down the cliff again, and escorted up a man six foot three, with a sandy beard and no other dimension that you could notice. thinks i to myself, if he's got ten thousand dollars on his person it's in one bill and folded lengthwise. "mr. patterson g. coble, our second vice-president," announces the colonel. "glad to know you, gentlemen," says this coble. "i came up to disseminate the tidings that major tallahassee tucker, our general passenger agent, is now negotiating a peachcrate full of our railroad bonds with the perry county bank for a loan. my dear colonel rockingham, was that chicken gumbo or cracked goobers on the bill of fare in your note? me and the conductor of fifty-six was having a dispute about it." "another white wings on the rocks!" hollers caligula. "if i see any more i'll fire on 'em and swear they was torpedo-boats!" the guide goes down again, and convoys into the lair a person in blue overalls carrying an amount of inebriety and a lantern. i am so sure that this is major tucker that i don't even ask him until we are up above; and then i discover that it is uncle timothy, the yard switchman at edenville, who is sent ahead to flag our understandings with the gossip that judge pendergast, the railroad's attorney, is in the process of mortgaging colonel rockingham's farming lands to make up the ransom. while he is talking, two men crawl from under the bushes into camp, and caligula, with no white flag to disinter him from his plain duty, draws his gun. but again colonel rockingham intervenes and introduces mr. jones and mr. batts, engineer and fireman of train number forty-two. "excuse us," says batts, "but me and jim have hunted squirrels all over this mounting, and we don't need no white flag. was that straight, colonel, about the plum pudding and pineapples and real store cigars?" "towel on a fishing-pole in the offing!" howls caligula. "suppose it's the firing line of the freight conductors and brakeman." "my last trip down," says i, wiping off my face. "if the s. & e. t. wants to run an excursion up here just because we kidnapped their president, let 'em. we'll put out our sign. 'the kidnapper's cafe and trainmen's home.'" this time i caught major tallahassee tucker by his own confession, and i felt easier. i asked him into the creek, so i could drown him if he happened to be a track-walker or caboose porter. all the way up the mountain he driveled to me about asparagus on toast, a thing that his intelligence in life had skipped. up above i got his mind segregated from food and asked if he had raised the ransom. "my dear sir," says he, "i succeeded in negotiating a loan on thirty thousand dollars' worth of the bonds of our railroad, and--" "never mind just now, major," says i. "it's all right, then. wait till after dinner, and we'll settle the business. all of you gentlemen," i continues to the crowd, "are invited to stay to dinner. we have mutually trusted one another, and the white flag is supposed to wave over the proceedings." "the correct idea," says caligula, who was standing by me. "two baggage-masters and a ticket-agent dropped out of a tree while you was below the last time. did the major man bring the money?" "he says," i answered, "that he succeeded in negotiating the loan." if any cooks ever earned ten thousand dollars in twelve hours, me and caligula did that day. at six o'clock we spread the top of the mountain with as fine a dinner as the personnel of any railroad ever engulfed. we opened all the wine, and we concocted entrées and _pièces de resistance_, and stirred up little savory _chef de cuisines_ and organized a mass of grub such as has been seldom instigated out of canned and bottled goods. the railroad gathered around it, and the wassail and diversions was intense. after the feast me and caligula, in the line of business, takes major tucker to one side and talks ransom. the major pulls out an agglomeration of currency about the size of the price of a town lot in the suburbs of rabbitville, arizona, and makes this outcry. "gentlemen," says he, "the stock of the sunrise & edenville railroad has depreciated some. the best i could do with thirty thousand dollars' worth of the bonds was to secure a loan of eighty-seven dollars and fifty cents. on the farming lands of colonel rockingham, judge pendergast was able to obtain, on a ninth mortgage, the sum of fifty dollars. you will find the amount, one hundred and thirty-seven fifty, correct." "a railroad president," said i, looking this tucker in the eye, "and the owner of a thousand acres of land; and yet--" "gentlemen," says tucker, "the railroad is ten miles long. there don't any train run on it except when the crew goes out in the pines and gathers enough lightwood knots to get up steam. a long time ago, when times was good, the net earnings used to run as high as eighteen dollars a week. colonel rockingham's land has been sold for taxes thirteen times. there hasn't been a peach crop in this part of georgia for two years. the wet spring killed the watermelons. nobody around here has money enough to buy fertilizer; and land is so poor the corn crop failed and there wasn't enough grass to support the rabbits. all the people have had to eat in this section for over a year is hog and hominy, and--" "pick," interrupts caligula, mussing up his red hair, "what are you going to do with that chicken-feed?" i hands the money back to major tucker; and then i goes over to colonel rockingham and slaps him on the back. "colonel," says i, "i hope you've enjoyed our little joke. we don't want to carry it too far. kidnappers! well, wouldn't it tickle your uncle? my name's rhinegelder, and i'm a nephew of chauncey depew. my friend's a second cousin of the editor of _puck_. so you can see. we are down south enjoying ourselves in our humorous way. now, there's two quarts of cognac to open yet, and then the joke's over." what's the use to go into details? one or two will be enough. i remember major tallahassee tucker playing on a jew's-harp, and caligula waltzing with his head on the watch pocket of a tall baggage-master. i hesitate to refer to the cake-walk done by me and mr. patterson g. coble with colonel jackson t. rockingham between us. and even on the next morning, when you wouldn't think it possible, there was a consolation for me and caligula. we knew that raisuli himself never made half the hit with burdick harris that we did with the sunrise & edenville tap railroad. the ethics of pig on an east-bound train i went into the smoker and found jefferson peters, the only man with a brain west of the wabash river who can use his cerebrum, cerebellum, and medulla oblongata at the same time. jeff is in the line of unillegal graft. he is not to be dreaded by widows and orphans; he is a reducer of surplusage. his favorite disguise is that of the target-bird at which the spendthrift or the reckless investor may shy a few inconsequential dollars. he is readily vocalized by tobacco; so, with the aid of two thick and easy-burning brevas, i got the story of his latest autolycan adventure. "in my line of business," said jeff, "the hardest thing is to find an upright, trustworthy, strictly honorable partner to work a graft with. some of the best men i ever worked with in a swindle would resort to trickery at times. "so, last summer, i thinks i will go over into this section of country where i hear the serpent has not yet entered, and see if i can find a partner naturally gifted with a talent for crime, but not yet contaminated by success. "i found a village that seemed to show the right kind of a layout. the inhabitants hadn't found that adam had been dispossessed, and were going right along naming the animals and killing snakes just as if they were in the garden of eden. they call this town mount nebo, and it's up near the spot where kentucky and west virginia and north carolina corner together. them states don't meet? well, it was in that neighborhood, anyway. "after putting in a week proving i wasn't a revenue officer, i went over to the store where the rude fourflushers of the hamlet lied, to see if i could get a line on the kind of man i wanted. "'gentlemen,' says i, after we had rubbed noses and gathered 'round the dried-apple barrel. 'i don't suppose there's another community in the whole world into which sin and chicanery has less extensively permeated than this. life here, where all the women are brave and propitious and all the men honest and expedient, must, indeed, be an idol. it reminds me,' says i, 'of goldstein's beautiful ballad entitled "the deserted village," which says: 'ill fares the land, to hastening ills a prey, what art can drive its charms away? the judge rode slowly down the lane, mother. for i'm to be queen of the may.' "'why, yes, mr. peters,' says the storekeeper. 'i reckon we air about as moral and torpid a community as there be on the mounting, according to censuses of opinion; but i reckon you ain't ever met rufe tatum.' "'why, no,' says the town constable, 'he can't hardly have ever. that air rufe is shore the monstrousest scalawag that has escaped hangin' on the galluses. and that puts me in mind that i ought to have turned rufe out of the lockup before yesterday. the thirty days he got for killin' yance goodloe was up then. a day or two more won't hurt rufe any, though.' "'shucks, now,' says i, in the mountain idiom, 'don't tell me there's a man in mount nebo as bad as that.' "'worse,' says the storekeeper. 'he steals hogs.' "i think i will look up this mr. tatum; so a day or two after the constable turned him out i got acquainted with him and invited him out on the edge of town to sit on a log and talk business. "what i wanted was a partner with a natural rural make-up to play a part in some little one-act outrages that i was going to book with the pitfall & gin circuit in some of the western towns; and this r. tatum was born for the role as sure as nature cast fairbanks for the stuff that kept _eliza_ from sinking into the river. "he was about the size of a first baseman; and he had ambiguous blue eyes like the china dog on the mantelpiece that aunt harriet used to play with when she was a child. his hair waved a little bit like the statue of the dinkus-thrower at the vacation in rome, but the color of it reminded you of the 'sunset in the grand canon, by an american artist,' that they hang over the stove-pipe holes in the salongs. he was the reub, without needing a touch. you'd have known him for one, even if you'd seen him on the vaudeville stage with one cotton suspender and a straw over his ear. "i told him what i wanted, and found him ready to jump at the job. "'overlooking such a trivial little peccadillo as the habit of manslaughter,' says i, 'what have you accomplished in the way of indirect brigandage or nonactionable thriftiness that you could point to, with or without pride, as an evidence of your qualifications for the position?' "'why,' says he, in his kind of southern system of procrastinated accents, 'hain't you heard tell? there ain't any man, black or white, in the blue ridge that can tote off a shoat as easy as i can without bein' heard, seen, or cotched. i can lift a shoat,' he goes on, 'out of a pen, from under a porch, at the trough, in the woods, day or night, anywhere or anyhow, and i guarantee nobody won't hear a squeal. it's all in the way you grab hold of 'em and carry 'em atterwards. some day,' goes on this gentle despoiler of pig-pens, 'i hope to become reckernized as the champion shoat-stealer of the world.' "'it's proper to be ambitious,' says i; 'and hog-stealing will do very well for mount nebo; but in the outside world, mr. tatum, it would be considered as crude a piece of business as a bear raid on bay state gas. however, it will do as a guarantee of good faith. we'll go into partnership. i've got a thousand dollars cash capital; and with that homeward-plods atmosphere of yours we ought to be able to win out a few shares of soon parted, preferred, in the money market.' "so i attaches rufe, and we go away from mount nebo down into the lowlands. and all the way i coach him for his part in the grafts i had in mind. i had idled away two months on the florida coast, and was feeling all to the ponce de leon, besides having so many new schemes up my sleeve that i had to wear kimonos to hold 'em. "i intended to assume a funnel shape and mow a path nine miles wide though the farming belt of the middle west; so we headed in that direction. but when we got as far as lexington we found binkley brothers' circus there, and the blue-grass peasantry romping into town and pounding the belgian blocks with their hand-pegged sabots as artless and arbitrary as an extra session of a datto bryan drama. i never pass a circus without pulling the valve-cord and coming down for a little key west money; so i engaged a couple of rooms and board for rufe and me at a house near the circus grounds run by a widow lady named peevy. then i took rufe to a clothing store and gent's-outfitted him. he showed up strong, as i knew he would, after he was rigged up in the ready-made rutabaga regalia. me and old misfitzky stuffed him into a bright blue suit with a nile green visible plaid effect, and riveted on a fancy vest of a light tuskegee normal tan color, a red necktie, and the yellowest pair of shoes in town. "they were the first clothes rufe had ever worn except the gingham layette and the butternut top-dressing of his native kraal, and he looked as self-conscious as an igorrote with a new nose-ring. "that night i went down to the circus tents and opened a small shell game. rufe was to be the capper. i gave him a roll of phony currency to bet with and kept a bunch of it in a special pocket to pay his winnings out of. no; i didn't mistrust him; but i simply can't manipulate the ball to lose when i see real money bet. my fingers go on a strike every time i try it. "i set up my little table and began to show them how easy it was to guess which shell the little pea was under. the unlettered hinds gathered in a thick semicircle and began to nudge elbows and banter one another to bet. then was when rufe ought to have single-footed up and called the turn on the little joker for a few tens and fives to get them started. but, no rufe. i'd seen him two or three times walking about and looking at the side-show pictures with his mouth full of peanut candy; but he never came nigh. "the crowd piked a little; but trying to work the shells without a capper is like fishing without a bait. i closed the game with only forty-two dollars of the unearned increment, while i had been counting on yanking the yeomen for two hundred at least. i went home at eleven and went to bed. i supposed that the circus had proved too alluring for rufe, and that he had succumbed to it, concert and all; but i meant to give him a lecture on general business principles in the morning. "just after morpheus had got both my shoulders to the shuck mattress i hears a houseful of unbecoming and ribald noises like a youngster screeching with green-apple colic. i opens my door and calls out in the hall for the widow lady, and when she sticks her head out, i says: 'mrs. peevy, ma'am, would you mind choking off that kid of yours so that honest people can get their rest?' "'sir,' says she, 'it's no child of mine. it's the pig squealing that your friend mr. tatum brought home to his room a couple of hours ago. and if you are uncle or second cousin or brother to it, i'd appreciate your stopping its mouth, sir, yourself, if you please.' "i put on some of the polite outside habiliments of external society and went into rufe's room. he had gotten up and lit his lamp, and was pouring some milk into a tin pan on the floor for a dingy-white, half-grown, squealing pig. "'how is this, rufe?' says i. 'you flimflammed in your part of the work to-night and put the game on crutches. and how do you explain the pig? it looks like back-sliding to me.' "'now, don't be too hard on me, jeff,' says he. 'you know how long i've been used to stealing shoats. it's got to be a habit with me. and to-night, when i see such a fine chance, i couldn't help takin' it.' "'well,' says i, 'maybe you've really got kleptopigia. and maybe when we get out of the pig belt you'll turn your mind to higher and more remunerative misconduct. why you should want to stain your soul with such a distasteful, feeble-minded, perverted, roaring beast as that i can't understand.' "'why, jeff,' says he, 'you ain't in sympathy with shoats. you don't understand 'em like i do. this here seems to me to be an animal of more than common powers of ration and intelligence. he walked half across the room on his hind legs a while ago.' "'well, i'm going back to bed,' says i. 'see if you can impress it upon your friend's ideas of intelligence that he's not to make so much noise.' "'he was hungry,' says rufe. 'he'll go to sleep and keep quiet now.' "i always get up before breakfast and read the morning paper whenever i happen to be within the radius of a hoe cylinder or a washington hand-press. the next morning i got up early, and found a lexington daily on the front porch where the carrier had thrown it. the first thing i saw in it was a double-column ad. on the front page that read like this: five thousand dollars reward the above amount will be paid, and no questions asked, for the return, alive and uninjured, of beppo, the famous european educated pig, that strayed or was stolen from the side-show tents of binkley bros.' circus last night. geo. b. tapley, business manager. at the circus grounds. "i folded up the paper flat, put it into my inside pocket, and went to rufe's room. he was nearly dressed, and was feeding the pig the rest of the milk and some apple-peelings. "'well, well, well, good morning all,' i says, hearty and amiable. 'so we are up? and piggy is having his breakfast. what had you intended doing with that pig, rufe?' "'i'm going to crate him up,' says rufe, 'and express him to ma in mount nebo. he'll be company for her while i am away.' "'he's a mighty fine pig,' says i, scratching him on the back. "'you called him a lot of names last night,' says rufe. "'oh, well,' says i, 'he looks better to me this morning. i was raised on a farm, and i'm very fond of pigs. i used to go to bed at sundown, so i never saw one by lamplight before. tell you what i'll do, rufe,' i says. 'i'll give you ten dollars for that pig.' "'i reckon i wouldn't sell this shoat,' says he. 'if it was any other one i might.' "'why not this one?' i asked, fearful that he might know something. "'why, because,' says he, 'it was the grandest achievement of my life. there ain't airy other man that could have done it. if i ever have a fireside and children, i'll sit beside it and tell 'em how their daddy toted off a shoat from a whole circus full of people. and maybe my grandchildren, too. they'll certainly be proud a whole passel. why,' says he, 'there was two tents, one openin' into the other. this shoat was on a platform, tied with a little chain. i seen a giant and a lady with a fine chance of bushy white hair in the other tent. i got the shoat and crawled out from under the canvas again without him squeakin' as loud as a mouse. i put him under my coat, and i must have passed a hundred folks before i got out where the streets was dark. i reckon i wouldn't sell that shoat, jeff. i'd want ma to keep it, so there'd be a witness to what i done.' "'the pig won't live long enough,' i says, 'to use as an exhibit in your senile fireside mendacity. your grandchildren will have to take your word for it. i'll give you one hundred dollars for the animal.' "rufe looked at me astonished. "'the shoat can't be worth anything like that to you,' he says. 'what do you want him for?' "'viewing me casuistically,' says i, with a rare smile, 'you wouldn't think that i've got an artistic side to my temper. but i have. i'm a collector of pigs. i've scoured the world for unusual pigs. over in the wabash valley i've got a hog ranch with most every specimen on it, from a merino to a poland china. this looks like a blooded pig to me, rufe,' says i. 'i believe it's a genuine berkshire. that's why i'd like to have it.' "'i'd shore like to accommodate you,' says he, 'but i've got the artistic tenement, too. i don't see why it ain't art when you can steal a shoat better than anybody else can. shoats is a kind of inspiration and genius with me. specially this one. i wouldn't take two hundred and fifty for that animal.' "'now, listen,' says i, wiping off my forehead. 'it's not so much a matter of business with me as it is art; and not so much art as it is philanthropy. being a connoisseur and disseminator of pigs, i wouldn't feel like i'd done my duty to the world unless i added that berkshire to my collection. not intrinsically, but according to the ethics of pigs as friends and coadjutors of mankind, i offer you five hundred dollars for the animal.' "'jeff,' says this pork esthete, 'it ain't money; it's sentiment with me.' "'seven hundred,' says i. "'make it eight hundred,' says rufe, 'and i'll crush the sentiment out of my heart.' "i went under my clothes for my money-belt, and counted him out forty twenty-dollar gold certificates. "'i'll just take him into my own room,' says i, 'and lock him up till after breakfast.' "i took the pig by the hind leg. he turned on a squeal like the steam calliope at the circus. "'let me tote him in for you,' says rufe; and he picks up the beast under one arm, holding his snout with the other hand, and packs him into my room like a sleeping baby. "after breakfast rufe, who had a chronic case of haberdashery ever since i got his trousseau, says he believes he will amble down to misfitzky's and look over some royal-purple socks. and then i got as busy as a one-armed man with the nettle-rash pasting on wall-paper. i found an old negro man with an express wagon to hire; and we tied the pig in a sack and drove down to the circus grounds. "i found george b. tapley in a little tent with a window flap open. he was a fattish man with an immediate eye, in a black skull-cap, with a four-ounce diamond screwed into the bosom of his red sweater. "'are you george b. tapley?' i asks. "'i swear it,' says he. "'well, i've got it,' says i. "'designate,' says he. 'are you the guinea pigs for the asiatic python or the alfalfa for the sacred buffalo?' "'neither,' says i. 'i've got beppo, the educated hog, in a sack in that wagon. i found him rooting up the flowers in my front yard this morning. i'll take the five thousand dollars in large bills, if it's handy.' "george b. hustles out of his tent, and asks me to follow. we went into one of the side-shows. in there was a jet black pig with a pink ribbon around his neck lying on some hay and eating carrots that a man was feeding to him. "'hey, mac,' calls g. b. 'nothing wrong with the world-wide this morning, is there?' "'him? no,' says the man. 'he's got an appetite like a chorus girl at a.m.' "'how'd you get this pipe?' says tapley to me. 'eating too many pork chops last night?' "i pulls out the paper and shows him the ad. "'fake,' says he. 'don't know anything about it. you've beheld with your own eyes the marvelous, world-wide porcine wonder of the four-footed kingdom eating with preternatural sagacity his matutinal meal, unstrayed and unstole. good morning.' "i was beginning to see. i got in the wagon and told uncle ned to drive to the most adjacent orifice of the nearest alley. there i took out my pig, got the range carefully for the other opening, set his sights, and gave him such a kick that he went out the other end of the alley twenty feet ahead of his squeal. "then i paid uncle ned his fifty cents, and walked down to the newspaper office. i wanted to hear it in cold syllables. i got the advertising man to his window. "'to decide a bet,' says i, 'wasn't the man who had this ad. put in last night short and fat, with long black whiskers and a club-foot?' "'he was not,' says the man. 'he would measure about six feet by four and a half inches, with corn-silk hair, and dressed like the pansies of the conservatory.' "at dinner time i went back to mrs. peevy's. "'shall i keep some soup hot for mr. tatum till he comes back?' she asks. "'if you do, ma'am,' says i, 'you'll more than exhaust for firewood all the coal in the bosom of the earth and all the forests on the outside of it.' "so there, you see," said jefferson peters, in conclusion, "how hard it is ever to find a fair-minded and honest business-partner." "but," i began, with the freedom of long acquaintance, "the rule should work both ways. if you had offered to divide the reward you would not have lost--" jeff's look of dignified reproach stopped me. "that don't involve the same principles at all," said he. "mine was a legitimate and moral attempt at speculation. buy low and sell high-- don't wall street endorse it? bulls and bears and pigs--what's the difference? why not bristles as well as horns and fur?" none none transcribed from the chatto & windus edition by david price, email ccx @coventry.ac.uk the man that corrupted hadleyburg i. it was many years ago. hadleyburg was the most honest and upright town in all the region round about. it had kept that reputation unsmirched during three generations, and was prouder of it than of any other of its possessions. it was so proud of it, and so anxious to insure its perpetuation, that it began to teach the principles of honest dealing to its babies in the cradle, and made the like teachings the staple of their culture thenceforward through all the years devoted to their education. also, throughout the formative years temptations were kept out of the way of the young people, so that their honesty could have every chance to harden and solidify, and become a part of their very bone. the neighbouring towns were jealous of this honourable supremacy, and affected to sneer at hadleyburg's pride in it and call it vanity; but all the same they were obliged to acknowledge that hadleyburg was in reality an incorruptible town; and if pressed they would also acknowledge that the mere fact that a young man hailed from hadleyburg was all the recommendation he needed when he went forth from his natal town to seek for responsible employment. but at last, in the drift of time, hadleyburg had the ill luck to offend a passing stranger--possibly without knowing it, certainly without caring, for hadleyburg was sufficient unto itself, and cared not a rap for strangers or their opinions. still, it would have been well to make an exception in this one's case, for he was a bitter man, and revengeful. all through his wanderings during a whole year he kept his injury in mind, and gave all his leisure moments to trying to invent a compensating satisfaction for it. he contrived many plans, and all of them were good, but none of them was quite sweeping enough: the poorest of them would hurt a great many individuals, but what he wanted was a plan which would comprehend the entire town, and not let so much as one person escape unhurt. at last he had a fortunate idea, and when it fell into his brain it lit up his whole head with an evil joy. he began to form a plan at once, saying to himself "that is the thing to do--i will corrupt the town." six months later he went to hadleyburg, and arrived in a buggy at the house of the old cashier of the bank about ten at night. he got a sack out of the buggy, shouldered it, and staggered with it through the cottage yard, and knocked at the door. a woman's voice said "come in," and he entered, and set his sack behind the stove in the parlour, saying politely to the old lady who sat reading the "missionary herald" by the lamp: "pray keep your seat, madam, i will not disturb you. there--now it is pretty well concealed; one would hardly know it was there. can i see your husband a moment, madam?" no, he was gone to brixton, and might not return before morning. "very well, madam, it is no matter. i merely wanted to leave that sack in his care, to be delivered to the rightful owner when he shall be found. i am a stranger; he does not know me; i am merely passing through the town to-night to discharge a matter which has been long in my mind. my errand is now completed, and i go pleased and a little proud, and you will never see me again. there is a paper attached to the sack which will explain everything. good-night, madam." the old lady was afraid of the mysterious big stranger, and was glad to see him go. but her curiosity was roused, and she went straight to the sack and brought away the paper. it began as follows: "to be published, or, the right man sought out by private inquiry--either will answer. this sack contains gold coin weighing a hundred and sixty pounds four ounces--" "mercy on us, and the door not locked!" mrs. richards flew to it all in a tremble and locked it, then pulled down the window-shades and stood frightened, worried, and wondering if there was anything else she could do toward making herself and the money more safe. she listened awhile for burglars, then surrendered to curiosity, and went back to the lamp and finished reading the paper: "i am a foreigner, and am presently going back to my own country, to remain there permanently. i am grateful to america for what i have received at her hands during my long stay under her flag; and to one of her citizens--a citizen of hadleyburg--i am especially grateful for a great kindness done me a year or two ago. two great kindnesses in fact. i will explain. i was a gambler. i say i was. i was a ruined gambler. i arrived in this village at night, hungry and without a penny. i asked for help--in the dark; i was ashamed to beg in the light. i begged of the right man. he gave me twenty dollars--that is to say, he gave me life, as i considered it. he also gave me fortune; for out of that money i have made myself rich at the gaming-table. and finally, a remark which he made to me has remained with me to this day, and has at last conquered me; and in conquering has saved the remnant of my morals: i shall gamble no more. now i have no idea who that man was, but i want him found, and i want him to have this money, to give away, throw away, or keep, as he pleases. it is merely my way of testifying my gratitude to him. if i could stay, i would find him myself; but no matter, he will be found. this is an honest town, an incorruptible town, and i know i can trust it without fear. this man can be identified by the remark which he made to me; i feel persuaded that he will remember it. "and now my plan is this: if you prefer to conduct the inquiry privately, do so. tell the contents of this present writing to any one who is likely to be the right man. if he shall answer, 'i am the man; the remark i made was so-and-so,' apply the test--to wit: open the sack, and in it you will find a sealed envelope containing that remark. if the remark mentioned by the candidate tallies with it, give him the money, and ask no further questions, for he is certainly the right man. "but if you shall prefer a public inquiry, then publish this present writing in the local paper--with these instructions added, to wit: thirty days from now, let the candidate appear at the town-hall at eight in the evening (friday), and hand his remark, in a sealed envelope, to the rev. mr. burgess (if he will be kind enough to act); and let mr. burgess there and then destroy the seals of the sack, open it, and see if the remark is correct: if correct, let the money be delivered, with my sincere gratitude, to my benefactor thus identified." mrs. richards sat down, gently quivering with excitement, and was soon lost in thinkings--after this pattern: "what a strange thing it is! . . . and what a fortune for that kind man who set his bread afloat upon the waters! . . . if it had only been my husband that did it!--for we are so poor, so old and poor! . . ." then, with a sigh--"but it was not my edward; no, it was not he that gave a stranger twenty dollars. it is a pity too; i see it now. . . " then, with a shudder--"but it is _gamblers_' money! the wages of sin; we couldn't take it; we couldn't touch it. i don't like to be near it; it seems a defilement." she moved to a farther chair. . . "i wish edward would come, and take it to the bank; a burglar might come at any moment; it is dreadful to be here all alone with it." at eleven mr. richards arrived, and while his wife was saying "i am _so_ glad you've come!" he was saying, "i am so tired--tired clear out; it is dreadful to be poor, and have to make these dismal journeys at my time of life. always at the grind, grind, grind, on a salary--another man's slave, and he sitting at home in his slippers, rich and comfortable." "i am so sorry for you, edward, you know that; but be comforted; we have our livelihood; we have our good name--" "yes, mary, and that is everything. don't mind my talk--it's just a moment's irritation and doesn't mean anything. kiss me--there, it's all gone now, and i am not complaining any more. what have you been getting? what's in the sack?" then his wife told him the great secret. it dazed him for a moment; then he said: "it weighs a hundred and sixty pounds? why, mary, it's for-ty thou-sand dollars--think of it--a whole fortune! not ten men in this village are worth that much. give me the paper." he skimmed through it and said: "isn't it an adventure! why, it's a romance; it's like the impossible things one reads about in books, and never sees in life." he was well stirred up now; cheerful, even gleeful. he tapped his old wife on the cheek, and said humorously, "why, we're rich, mary, rich; all we've got to do is to bury the money and burn the papers. if the gambler ever comes to inquire, we'll merely look coldly upon him and say: 'what is this nonsense you are talking? we have never heard of you and your sack of gold before;' and then he would look foolish, and--" "and in the meantime, while you are running on with your jokes, the money is still here, and it is fast getting along toward burglar-time." "true. very well, what shall we do--make the inquiry private? no, not that; it would spoil the romance. the public method is better. think what a noise it will make! and it will make all the other towns jealous; for no stranger would trust such a thing to any town but hadleyburg, and they know it. it's a great card for us. i must get to the printing-office now, or i shall be too late." "but stop--stop--don't leave me here alone with it, edward!" but he was gone. for only a little while, however. not far from his own house he met the editor--proprietor of the paper, and gave him the document, and said "here is a good thing for you, cox--put it in." "it may be too late, mr. richards, but i'll see." at home again, he and his wife sat down to talk the charming mystery over; they were in no condition for sleep. the first question was, who could the citizen have been who gave the stranger the twenty dollars? it seemed a simple one; both answered it in the same breath-- "barclay goodson." "yes," said richards, "he could have done it, and it would have been like him, but there's not another in the town." "everybody will grant that, edward--grant it privately, anyway. for six months, now, the village has been its own proper self once more--honest, narrow, self-righteous, and stingy." "it is what he always called it, to the day of his death--said it right out publicly, too." "yes, and he was hated for it." "oh, of course; but he didn't care. i reckon he was the best-hated man among us, except the reverend burgess." "well, burgess deserves it--he will never get another congregation here. mean as the town is, it knows how to estimate _him_. edward, doesn't it seem odd that the stranger should appoint burgess to deliver the money?" "well, yes--it does. that is--that is--" "why so much that-_is_-ing? would _you_ select him?" "mary, maybe the stranger knows him better than this village does." "much _that_ would help burgess!" the husband seemed perplexed for an answer; the wife kept a steady eye upon him, and waited. finally richards said, with the hesitancy of one who is making a statement which is likely to encounter doubt, "mary, burgess is not a bad man." his wife was certainly surprised. "nonsense!" she exclaimed. "he is not a bad man. i know. the whole of his unpopularity had its foundation in that one thing--the thing that made so much noise." "that 'one thing,' indeed! as if that 'one thing' wasn't enough, all by itself." "plenty. plenty. only he wasn't guilty of it." "how you talk! not guilty of it! everybody knows he _was_ guilty." "mary, i give you my word--he was innocent." "i can't believe it and i don't. how do you know?" "it is a confession. i am ashamed, but i will make it. i was the only man who knew he was innocent. i could have saved him, and--and--well, you know how the town was wrought up--i hadn't the pluck to do it. it would have turned everybody against me. i felt mean, ever so mean; ut i didn't dare; i hadn't the manliness to face that." mary looked troubled, and for a while was silent. then she said stammeringly: "i--i don't think it would have done for you to--to--one mustn't--er--public opinion--one has to be so careful--so--" it was a difficult road, and she got mired; but after a little she got started again. "it was a great pity, but--why, we couldn't afford it, edward--we couldn't indeed. oh, i wouldn't have had you do it for anything!" "it would have lost us the good-will of so many people, mary; and then--and then--" "what troubles me now is, what _he_ thinks of us, edward." "he? _he_ doesn't suspect that i could have saved him." "oh," exclaimed the wife, in a tone of relief, "i am glad of that. as long as he doesn't know that you could have saved him, he--he--well that makes it a great deal better. why, i might have known he didn't know, because he is always trying to be friendly with us, as little encouragement as we give him. more than once people have twitted me with it. there's the wilsons, and the wilcoxes, and the harknesses, they take a mean pleasure in saying '_your friend_ burgess,' because they know it pesters me. i wish he wouldn't persist in liking us so; i can't think why he keeps it up." "i can explain it. it's another confession. when the thing was new and hot, and the town made a plan to ride him on a rail, my conscience hurt me so that i couldn't stand it, and i went privately and gave him notice, and he got out of the town and stayed out till it was safe to come back." "edward! if the town had found it out--" "_don't_! it scares me yet, to think of it. i repented of it the minute it was done; and i was even afraid to tell you lest your face might betray it to somebody. i didn't sleep any that night, for worrying. but after a few days i saw that no one was going to suspect me, and after that i got to feeling glad i did it. and i feel glad yet, mary--glad through and through." "so do i, now, for it would have been a dreadful way to treat him. yes, i'm glad; for really you did owe him that, you know. but, edward, suppose it should come out yet, some day!" "it won't." "why?" "because everybody thinks it was goodson." "of course they would!" "certainly. and of course _he_ didn't care. they persuaded poor old sawlsberry to go and charge it on him, and he went blustering over there and did it. goodson looked him over, like as if he was hunting for a place on him that he could despise the most; then he says, 'so you are the committee of inquiry, are you?' sawlsberry said that was about what he was. 'h'm. do they require particulars, or do you reckon a kind of a _general_ answer will do?' 'if they require particulars, i will come back, mr. goodson; i will take the general answer first.' 'very well, then, tell them to go to hell--i reckon that's general enough. and i'll give you some advice, sawlsberry; when you come back for the particulars, fetch a basket to carry what is left of yourself home in.'" "just like goodson; it's got all the marks. he had only one vanity; he thought he could give advice better than any other person." "it settled the business, and saved us, mary. the subject was dropped." "bless you, i'm not doubting _that_." then they took up the gold-sack mystery again, with strong interest. soon the conversation began to suffer breaks--interruptions caused by absorbed thinkings. the breaks grew more and more frequent. at last richards lost himself wholly in thought. he sat long, gazing vacantly at the floor, and by-and-by he began to punctuate his thoughts with little nervous movements of his hands that seemed to indicate vexation. meantime his wife too had relapsed into a thoughtful silence, and her movements were beginning to show a troubled discomfort. finally richards got up and strode aimlessly about the room, ploughing his hands through his hair, much as a somnambulist might do who was having a bad dream. then he seemed to arrive at a definite purpose; and without a word he put on his hat and passed quickly out of the house. his wife sat brooding, with a drawn face, and did not seem to be aware that she was alone. now and then she murmured, "lead us not into t . . . but--but--we are so poor, so poor! . . . lead us not into . . . ah, who would be hurt by it?--and no one would ever know . . . lead us . . . " the voice died out in mumblings. after a little she glanced up and muttered in a half-frightened, half-glad way-- "he is gone! but, oh dear, he may be too late--too late . . . maybe not--maybe there is still time." she rose and stood thinking, nervously clasping and unclasping her hands. a slight shudder shook her frame, and she said, out of a dry throat, "god forgive me--it's awful to think such things--but . . . lord, how we are made--how strangely we are made!" she turned the light low, and slipped stealthily over and knelt down by the sack and felt of its ridgy sides with her hands, and fondled them lovingly; and there was a gloating light in her poor old eyes. she fell into fits of absence; and came half out of them at times to mutter "if we had only waited!--oh, if we had only waited a little, and not been in such a hurry!" meantime cox had gone home from his office and told his wife all about the strange thing that had happened, and they had talked it over eagerly, and guessed that the late goodson was the only man in the town who could have helped a suffering stranger with so noble a sum as twenty dollars. then there was a pause, and the two became thoughtful and silent. and by- and-by nervous and fidgety. at last the wife said, as if to herself, "nobody knows this secret but the richardses . . . and us . . . nobody." the husband came out of his thinkings with a slight start, and gazed wistfully at his wife, whose face was become very pale; then he hesitatingly rose, and glanced furtively at his hat, then at his wife--a sort of mute inquiry. mrs. cox swallowed once or twice, with her hand at her throat, then in place of speech she nodded her head. in a moment she was alone, and mumbling to herself. and now richards and cox were hurrying through the deserted streets, from opposite directions. they met, panting, at the foot of the printing-office stairs; by the night-light there they read each other's face. cox whispered: "nobody knows about this but us?" the whispered answer was: "not a soul--on honour, not a soul!" "if it isn't too late to--" the men were starting up-stairs; at this moment they were overtaken by a boy, and cox asked, "is that you, johnny?" "yes, sir." "you needn't ship the early mail--nor _any_ mail; wait till i tell you." "it's already gone, sir." "_gone_?" it had the sound of an unspeakable disappointment in it. "yes, sir. time-table for brixton and all the towns beyond changed to- day, sir--had to get the papers in twenty minutes earlier than common. i had to rush; if i had been two minutes later--" the men turned and walked slowly away, not waiting to hear the rest. neither of them spoke during ten minutes; then cox said, in a vexed tone, "what possessed you to be in such a hurry, _i_ can't make out." the answer was humble enough: "i see it now, but somehow i never thought, you know, until it was too late. but the next time--" "next time be hanged! it won't come in a thousand years." then the friends separated without a good-night, and dragged themselves home with the gait of mortally stricken men. at their homes their wives sprang up with an eager "well?"--then saw the answer with their eyes and sank down sorrowing, without waiting for it to come in words. in both houses a discussion followed of a heated sort--a new thing; there had been discussions before, but not heated ones, not ungentle ones. the discussions to-night were a sort of seeming plagiarisms of each other. mrs. richards said: "if you had only waited, edward--if you had only stopped to think; but no, you must run straight to the printing-office and spread it all over the world." "it _said_ publish it." "that is nothing; it also said do it privately, if you liked. there, now--is that true, or not?" "why, yes--yes, it is true; but when i thought what a stir it would make, and what a compliment it was to hadleyburg that a stranger should trust it so--" "oh, certainly, i know all that; but if you had only stopped to think, you would have seen that you _couldn't_ find the right man, because he is in his grave, and hasn't left chick nor child nor relation behind him; and as long as the money went to somebody that awfully needed it, and nobody would be hurt by it, and--and--" she broke down, crying. her husband tried to think of some comforting thing to say, and presently came out with this: "but after all, mary, it must be for the best--it must be; we know that. and we must remember that it was so ordered--" "ordered! oh, everything's _ordered_, when a person has to find some way out when he has been stupid. just the same, it was _ordered_ that the money should come to us in this special way, and it was you that must take it on yourself to go meddling with the designs of providence--and who gave you the right? it was wicked, that is what it was--just blasphemous presumption, and no more becoming to a meek and humble professor of--" "but, mary, you know how we have been trained all our lives long, like the whole village, till it is absolutely second nature to us to stop not a single moment to think when there's an honest thing to be done--" "oh, i know it, i know it--it's been one everlasting training and training and training in honesty--honesty shielded, from the very cradle, against every possible temptation, and so it's _artificial_ honesty, and weak as water when temptation comes, as we have seen this night. god knows i never had shade nor shadow of a doubt of my petrified and indestructible honesty until now--and now, under the very first big and real temptation, i--edward, it is my belief that this town's honesty is as rotten as mine is; as rotten as yours. it is a mean town, a hard, stingy town, and hasn't a virtue in the world but this honesty it is so celebrated for and so conceited about; and so help me, i do believe that if ever the day comes that its honesty falls under great temptation, its grand reputation will go to ruin like a house of cards. there, now, i've made confession, and i feel better; i am a humbug, and i've been one all my life, without knowing it. let no man call me honest again--i will not have it." "i--well, mary, i feel a good deal as you do: i certainly do. it seems strange, too, so strange. i never could have believed it--never." a long silence followed; both were sunk in thought. at last the wife looked up and said: "i know what you are thinking, edward." richards had the embarrassed look of a person who is caught. "i am ashamed to confess it, mary, but--" "it's no matter, edward, i was thinking the same question myself." "i hope so. state it." "you were thinking, if a body could only guess out _what the remark was_ that goodson made to the stranger." "it's perfectly true. i feel guilty and ashamed. and you?" "i'm past it. let us make a pallet here; we've got to stand watch till the bank vault opens in the morning and admits the sack. . . oh dear, oh dear--if we hadn't made the mistake!" the pallet was made, and mary said: "the open sesame--what could it have been? i do wonder what that remark could have been. but come; we will get to bed now." "and sleep?" "no; think." "yes; think." by this time the coxes too had completed their spat and their reconciliation, and were turning in--to think, to think, and toss, and fret, and worry over what the remark could possibly have been which goodson made to the stranded derelict; that golden remark; that remark worth forty thousand dollars, cash. the reason that the village telegraph-office was open later than usual that night was this: the foreman of cox's paper was the local representative of the associated press. one might say its honorary representative, for it wasn't four times a year that he could furnish thirty words that would be accepted. but this time it was different. his despatch stating what he had caught got an instant answer: "send the whole thing--all the details--twelve hundred words." a colossal order! the foreman filled the bill; and he was the proudest man in the state. by breakfast-time the next morning the name of hadleyburg the incorruptible was on every lip in america, from montreal to the gulf, from the glaciers of alaska to the orange-groves of florida; and millions and millions of people were discussing the stranger and his money-sack, and wondering if the right man would be found, and hoping some more news about the matter would come soon--right away. ii. hadleyburg village woke up world-celebrated--astonished--happy--vain. vain beyond imagination. its nineteen principal citizens and their wives went about shaking hands with each other, and beaming, and smiling, and congratulating, and saying _this_ thing adds a new word to the dictionary--_hadleyburg_, synonym for _incorruptible_--destined to live in dictionaries for ever! and the minor and unimportant citizens and their wives went around acting in much the same way. everybody ran to the bank to see the gold-sack; and before noon grieved and envious crowds began to flock in from brixton and all neighbouring towns; and that afternoon and next day reporters began to arrive from everywhere to verify the sack and its history and write the whole thing up anew, and make dashing free-hand pictures of the sack, and of richards's house, and the bank, and the presbyterian church, and the baptist church, and the public square, and the town-hall where the test would be applied and the money delivered; and damnable portraits of the richardses, and pinkerton the banker, and cox, and the foreman, and reverend burgess, and the postmaster--and even of jack halliday, who was the loafing, good-natured, no-account, irreverent fisherman, hunter, boys' friend, stray-dogs' friend, typical "sam lawson" of the town. the little mean, smirking, oily pinkerton showed the sack to all comers, and rubbed his sleek palms together pleasantly, and enlarged upon the town's fine old reputation for honesty and upon this wonderful endorsement of it, and hoped and believed that the example would now spread far and wide over the american world, and be epoch-making in the matter of moral regeneration. and so on, and so on. by the end of a week things had quieted down again; the wild intoxication of pride and joy had sobered to a soft, sweet, silent delight--a sort of deep, nameless, unutterable content. all faces bore a look of peaceful, holy happiness. then a change came. it was a gradual change; so gradual that its beginnings were hardly noticed; maybe were not noticed at all, except by jack halliday, who always noticed everything; and always made fun of it, too, no matter what it was. he began to throw out chaffing remarks about people not looking quite so happy as they did a day or two ago; and next he claimed that the new aspect was deepening to positive sadness; next, that it was taking on a sick look; and finally he said that everybody was become so moody, thoughtful, and absent-minded that he could rob the meanest man in town of a cent out of the bottom of his breeches pocket and not disturb his reverie. at this stage--or at about this stage--a saying like this was dropped at bedtime--with a sigh, usually--by the head of each of the nineteen principal households: "ah, what _could_ have been the remark that goodson made?" and straightway--with a shudder--came this, from the man's wife: "oh, _don't_! what horrible thing are you mulling in your mind? put it away from you, for god's sake!" but that question was wrung from those men again the next night--and got the same retort. but weaker. and the third night the men uttered the question yet again--with anguish, and absently. this time--and the following night--the wives fidgeted feebly, and tried to say something. but didn't. and the night after that they found their tongues and responded--longingly: "oh, if we _could_ only guess!" halliday's comments grew daily more and more sparklingly disagreeable and disparaging. he went diligently about, laughing at the town, individually and in mass. but his laugh was the only one left in the village: it fell upon a hollow and mournful vacancy and emptiness. not even a smile was findable anywhere. halliday carried a cigar-box around on a tripod, playing that it was a camera, and halted all passers and aimed the thing and said "ready!--now look pleasant, please," but not even this capital joke could surprise the dreary faces into any softening. so three weeks passed--one week was left. it was saturday evening after supper. instead of the aforetime saturday-evening flutter and bustle and shopping and larking, the streets were empty and desolate. richards and his old wife sat apart in their little parlour--miserable and thinking. this was become their evening habit now: the life-long habit which had preceded it, of reading, knitting, and contented chat, or receiving or paying neighbourly calls, was dead and gone and forgotten, ages ago--two or three weeks ago; nobody talked now, nobody read, nobody visited--the whole village sat at home, sighing, worrying, silent. trying to guess out that remark. the postman left a letter. richards glanced listlessly at the superscription and the post-mark--unfamiliar, both--and tossed the letter on the table and resumed his might-have-beens and his hopeless dull miseries where he had left them off. two or three hours later his wife got wearily up and was going away to bed without a good-night--custom now--but she stopped near the letter and eyed it awhile with a dead interest, then broke it open, and began to skim it over. richards, sitting there with his chair tilted back against the wall and his chin between his knees, heard something fall. it was his wife. he sprang to her side, but she cried out: "leave me alone, i am too happy. read the letter--read it!" he did. he devoured it, his brain reeling. the letter was from a distant state, and it said: "i am a stranger to you, but no matter: i have something to tell. i have just arrived home from mexico, and learned about that episode. of course you do not know who made that remark, but i know, and i am the only person living who does know. it was goodson. i knew him well, many years ago. i passed through your village that very night, and was his guest till the midnight train came along. i overheard him make that remark to the stranger in the dark--it was in hale alley. he and i talked of it the rest of the way home, and while smoking in his house. he mentioned many of your villagers in the course of his talk--most of them in a very uncomplimentary way, but two or three favourably: among these latter yourself. i say 'favourably'--nothing stronger. i remember his saying he did not actually like any person in the town--not one; but that you--i think he said you--am almost sure--had done him a very great service once, possibly without knowing the full value of it, and he wished he had a fortune, he would leave it to you when he died, and a curse apiece for the rest of the citizens. now, then, if it was you that did him that service, you are his legitimate heir, and entitled to the sack of gold. i know that i can trust to your honour and honesty, for in a citizen of hadleyburg these virtues are an unfailing inheritance, and so i am going to reveal to you the remark, well satisfied that if you are not the right man you will seek and find the right one and see that poor goodson's debt of gratitude for the service referred to is paid. this is the remark 'you are far from being a bad man: go, and reform.' "howard l. stephenson." "oh, edward, the money is ours, and i am so grateful, _oh_, so grateful,--kiss me, dear, it's for ever since we kissed--and we needed it so--the money--and now you are free of pinkerton and his bank, and nobody's slave any more; it seems to me i could fly for joy." it was a happy half-hour that the couple spent there on the settee caressing each other; it was the old days come again--days that had begun with their courtship and lasted without a break till the stranger brought the deadly money. by-and-by the wife said: "oh, edward, how lucky it was you did him that grand service, poor goodson! i never liked him, but i love him now. and it was fine and beautiful of you never to mention it or brag about it." then, with a touch of reproach, "but you ought to have told _me_, edward, you ought to have told your wife, you know." "well, i--er--well, mary, you see--" "now stop hemming and hawing, and tell me about it, edward. i always loved you, and now i'm proud of you. everybody believes there was only one good generous soul in this village, and now it turns out that you--edward, why don't you tell me?" "well--er--er--why, mary, i can't!" "you _can't_? _why_ can't you?" "you see, he--well, he--he made me promise i wouldn't." the wife looked him over, and said, very slowly: "made--you--promise? edward, what do you tell me that for?" "mary, do you think i would lie?" she was troubled and silent for a moment, then she laid her hand within his and said: "no . . . no. we have wandered far enough from our bearings--god spare us that! in all your life you have never uttered a lie. but now--now that the foundations of things seem to be crumbling from under us, we--we--" she lost her voice for a moment, then said, brokenly, "lead us not into temptation. . . i think you made the promise, edward. let it rest so. let us keep away from that ground. now--that is all gone by; let us he happy again; it is no time for clouds." edward found it something of an effort to comply, for his mind kept wandering--trying to remember what the service was that he had done goodson. the couple lay awake the most of the night, mary happy and busy, edward busy, but not so happy. mary was planning what she would do with the money. edward was trying to recall that service. at first his conscience was sore on account of the lie he had told mary--if it was a lie. after much reflection--suppose it _was_ a lie? what then? was it such a great matter? aren't we always _acting_ lies? then why not tell them? look at mary--look what she had done. while he was hurrying off on his honest errand, what was she doing? lamenting because the papers hadn't been destroyed and the money kept. is theft better than lying? _that_ point lost its sting--the lie dropped into the background and left comfort behind it. the next point came to the front: _had_ he rendered that service? well, here was goodson's own evidence as reported in stephenson's letter; there could be no better evidence than that--it was even _proof_ that he had rendered it. of course. so that point was settled. . . no, not quite. he recalled with a wince that this unknown mr. stephenson was just a trifle unsure as to whether the performer of it was richards or some other--and, oh dear, he had put richards on his honour! he must himself decide whither that money must go--and mr. stephenson was not doubting that if he was the wrong man he would go honourably and find the right one. oh, it was odious to put a man in such a situation--ah, why couldn't stephenson have left out that doubt? what did he want to intrude that for? further reflection. how did it happen that _richards's_ name remained in stephenson's mind as indicating the right man, and not some other man's name? that looked good. yes, that looked very good. in fact it went on looking better and better, straight along--until by-and-by it grew into positive _proof_. and then richards put the matter at once out of his mind, for he had a private instinct that a proof once established is better left so. he was feeling reasonably comfortable now, but there was still one other detail that kept pushing itself on his notice: of course he had done that service--that was settled; but what _was_ that service? he must recall it--he would not go to sleep till he had recalled it; it would make his peace of mind perfect. and so he thought and thought. he thought of a dozen things--possible services, even probable services--but none of them seemed adequate, none of them seemed large enough, none of them seemed worth the money--worth the fortune goodson had wished he could leave in his will. and besides, he couldn't remember having done them, anyway. now, then--now, then--what _kind_ of a service would it be that would make a man so inordinately grateful? ah--the saving of his soul! that must be it. yes, he could remember, now, how he once set himself the task of converting goodson, and laboured at it as much as--he was going to say three months; but upon closer examination it shrunk to a month, then to a week, then to a day, then to nothing. yes, he remembered now, and with unwelcome vividness, that goodson had told him to go to thunder and mind his own business--_he_ wasn't hankering to follow hadleyburg to heaven! so that solution was a failure--he hadn't saved goodson's soul. richards was discouraged. then after a little came another idea: had he saved goodson's property? no, that wouldn't do--he hadn't any. his life? that is it! of course. why, he might have thought of it before. this time he was on the right track, sure. his imagination-mill was hard at work in a minute, now. thereafter, during a stretch of two exhausting hours, he was busy saving goodson's life. he saved it in all kinds of difficult and perilous ways. in every case he got it saved satisfactorily up to a certain point; then, just as he was beginning to get well persuaded that it had really happened, a troublesome detail would turn up which made the whole thing impossible. as in the matter of drowning, for instance. in that case he had swum out and tugged goodson ashore in an unconscious state with a great crowd looking on and applauding, but when he had got it all thought out and was just beginning to remember all about it, a whole swarm of disqualifying details arrived on the ground: the town would have known of the circumstance, mary would have known of it, it would glare like a limelight in his own memory instead of being an inconspicuous service which he had possibly rendered "without knowing its full value." and at this point he remembered that he couldn't swim anyway. ah--_there_ was a point which he had been overlooking from the start: it had to be a service which he had rendered "possibly without knowing the full value of it." why, really, that ought to be an easy hunt--much easier than those others. and sure enough, by-and-by he found it. goodson, years and years ago, came near marrying a very sweet and pretty girl, named nancy hewitt, but in some way or other the match had been broken off; the girl died, goodson remained a bachelor, and by-and-by became a soured one and a frank despiser of the human species. soon after the girl's death the village found out, or thought it had found out, that she carried a spoonful of negro blood in her veins. richards worked at these details a good while, and in the end he thought he remembered things concerning them which must have gotten mislaid in his memory through long neglect. he seemed to dimly remember that it was _he_ that found out about the negro blood; that it was he that told the village; that the village told goodson where they got it; that he thus saved goodson from marrying the tainted girl; that he had done him this great service "without knowing the full value of it," in fact without knowing that he _was_ doing it; but that goodson knew the value of it, and what a narrow escape he had had, and so went to his grave grateful to his benefactor and wishing he had a fortune to leave him. it was all clear and simple, now, and the more he went over it the more luminous and certain it grew; and at last, when he nestled to sleep, satisfied and happy, he remembered the whole thing just as if it had been yesterday. in fact, he dimly remembered goodson's _telling_ him his gratitude once. meantime mary had spent six thousand dollars on a new house for herself and a pair of slippers for her pastor, and then had fallen peacefully to rest. that same saturday evening the postman had delivered a letter to each of the other principal citizens--nineteen letters in all. no two of the envelopes were alike, and no two of the superscriptions were in the same hand, but the letters inside were just like each other in every detail but one. they were exact copies of the letter received by richards--handwriting and all--and were all signed by stephenson, but in place of richards's name each receiver's own name appeared. all night long eighteen principal citizens did what their caste-brother richards was doing at the same time--they put in their energies trying to remember what notable service it was that they had unconsciously done barclay goodson. in no case was it a holiday job; still they succeeded. and while they were at this work, which was difficult, their wives put in the night spending the money, which was easy. during that one night the nineteen wives spent an average of seven thousand dollars each out of the forty thousand in the sack--a hundred and thirty-three thousand altogether. next day there was a surprise for jack halliday. he noticed that the faces of the nineteen chief citizens and their wives bore that expression of peaceful and holy happiness again. he could not understand it, neither was he able to invent any remarks about it that could damage it or disturb it. and so it was his turn to be dissatisfied with life. his private guesses at the reasons for the happiness failed in all instances, upon examination. when he met mrs. wilcox and noticed the placid ecstasy in her face, he said to himself, "her cat has had kittens"--and went and asked the cook; it was not so, the cook had detected the happiness, but did not know the cause. when halliday found the duplicate ecstasy in the face of "shadbelly" billson (village nickname), he was sure some neighbour of billson's had broken his leg, but inquiry showed that this had not happened. the subdued ecstasy in gregory yates's face could mean but one thing--he was a mother-in-law short; it was another mistake. "and pinkerton--pinkerton--he has collected ten cents that he thought he was going to lose." and so on, and so on. in some cases the guesses had to remain in doubt, in the others they proved distinct errors. in the end halliday said to himself, "anyway it roots up that there's nineteen hadleyburg families temporarily in heaven: i don't know how it happened; i only know providence is off duty to-day." an architect and builder from the next state had lately ventured to set up a small business in this unpromising village, and his sign had now been hanging out a week. not a customer yet; he was a discouraged man, and sorry he had come. but his weather changed suddenly now. first one and then another chief citizen's wife said to him privately: "come to my house monday week--but say nothing about it for the present. we think of building." he got eleven invitations that day. that night he wrote his daughter and broke off her match with her student. he said she could marry a mile higher than that. pinkerton the banker and two or three other well-to-do men planned country-seats--but waited. that kind don't count their chickens until they are hatched. the wilsons devised a grand new thing--a fancy-dress ball. they made no actual promises, but told all their acquaintanceship in confidence that they were thinking the matter over and thought they should give it--"and if we do, you will be invited, of course." people were surprised, and said, one to another, "why, they are crazy, those poor wilsons, they can't afford it." several among the nineteen said privately to their husbands, "it is a good idea, we will keep still till their cheap thing is over, then _we_ will give one that will make it sick." the days drifted along, and the bill of future squanderings rose higher and higher, wilder and wilder, more and more foolish and reckless. it began to look as if every member of the nineteen would not only spend his whole forty thousand dollars before receiving-day, but be actually in debt by the time he got the money. in some cases light-headed people did not stop with planning to spend, they really spent--on credit. they bought land, mortgages, farms, speculative stocks, fine clothes, horses, and various other things, paid down the bonus, and made themselves liable for the rest--at ten days. presently the sober second thought came, and halliday noticed that a ghastly anxiety was beginning to show up in a good many faces. again he was puzzled, and didn't know what to make of it. "the wilcox kittens aren't dead, for they weren't born; nobody's broken a leg; there's no shrinkage in mother-in-laws; _nothing_ has happened--it is an insolvable mystery." there was another puzzled man, too--the rev. mr. burgess. for days, wherever he went, people seemed to follow him or to be watching out for him; and if he ever found himself in a retired spot, a member of the nineteen would be sure to appear, thrust an envelope privately into his hand, whisper "to be opened at the town-hall friday evening," then vanish away like a guilty thing. he was expecting that there might be one claimant for the sack--doubtful, however, goodson being dead--but it never occurred to him that all this crowd might be claimants. when the great friday came at last, he found that he had nineteen envelopes. iii. the town-hall had never looked finer. the platform at the end of it was backed by a showy draping of flags; at intervals along the walls were festoons of flags; the gallery fronts were clothed in flags; the supporting columns were swathed in flags; all this was to impress the stranger, for he would be there in considerable force, and in a large degree he would be connected with the press. the house was full. the fixed seats were occupied; also the extra chairs which had been packed into the aisles; the steps of the platform were occupied; some distinguished strangers were given seats on the platform; at the horseshoe of tables which fenced the front and sides of the platform sat a strong force of special correspondents who had come from everywhere. it was the best-dressed house the town had ever produced. there were some tolerably expensive toilets there, and in several cases the ladies who wore them had the look of being unfamiliar with that kind of clothes. at least the town thought they had that look, but the notion could have arisen from the town's knowledge of the fact that these ladies had never inhabited such clothes before. the gold-sack stood on a little table at the front of the platform where all the house could see it. the bulk of the house gazed at it with a burning interest, a mouth-watering interest, a wistful and pathetic interest; a minority of nineteen couples gazed at it tenderly, lovingly, proprietarily, and the male half of this minority kept saying over to themselves the moving little impromptu speeches of thankfulness for the audience's applause and congratulations which they were presently going to get up and deliver. every now and then one of these got a piece of paper out of his vest pocket and privately glanced at it to refresh his memory. of course there was a buzz of conversation going on--there always is; but at last, when the rev. mr. burgess rose and laid his hand on the sack, he could hear his microbes gnaw, the place was so still. he related the curious history of the sack, then went on to speak in warm terms of hadleyburg's old and well-earned reputation for spotless honesty, and of the town's just pride in this reputation. he said that this reputation was a treasure of priceless value; that under providence its value had now become inestimably enhanced, for the recent episode had spread this fame far and wide, and thus had focussed the eyes of the american world upon this village, and made its name for all time, as he hoped and believed, a synonym for commercial incorruptibility. [applause.] "and who is to be the guardian of this noble fame--the community as a whole? no! the responsibility is individual, not communal. from this day forth each and every one of you is in his own person its special guardian, and individually responsible that no harm shall come to it. do you--does each of you--accept this great trust? [tumultuous assent.] then all is well. transmit it to your children and to your children's children. to- day your purity is beyond reproach--see to it that it shall remain so. to- day there is not a person in your community who could be beguiled to touch a penny not his own--see to it that you abide in this grace. ["we will! we will!"] this is not the place to make comparisons between ourselves and other communities--some of them ungracious towards us; they have their ways, we have ours; let us be content. [applause.] i am done. under my hand, my friends, rests a stranger's eloquent recognition of what we are; through him the world will always henceforth know what we are. we do not know who he is, but in your name i utter your gratitude, and ask you to raise your voices in indorsement." the house rose in a body and made the walls quake with the thunders of its thankfulness for the space of a long minute. then it sat down, and mr. burgess took an envelope out of his pocket. the house held its breath while he slit the envelope open and took from it a slip of paper. he read its contents--slowly and impressively--the audience listening with tranced attention to this magic document, each of whose words stood for an ingot of gold: "'the remark which i made to the distressed stranger was this: "you are very far from being a bad man; go, and reform."'" then he continued:--"we shall know in a moment now whether the remark here quoted corresponds with the one concealed in the sack; and if that shall prove to be so--and it undoubtedly will--this sack of gold belongs to a fellow-citizen who will henceforth stand before the nation as the symbol of the special virtue which has made our town famous throughout the land--mr. billson!" the house had gotten itself all ready to burst into the proper tornado of applause; but instead of doing it, it seemed stricken with a paralysis; there was a deep hush for a moment or two, then a wave of whispered murmurs swept the place--of about this tenor: "_billson_! oh, come, this is _too_ thin! twenty dollars to a stranger--or _anybody_--_billson_! tell it to the marines!" and now at this point the house caught its breath all of a sudden in a new access of astonishment, for it discovered that whereas in one part of the hall deacon billson was standing up with his head weekly bowed, in another part of it lawyer wilson was doing the same. there was a wondering silence now for a while. everybody was puzzled, and nineteen couples were surprised and indignant. billson and wilson turned and stared at each other. billson asked, bitingly: "why do _you_ rise, mr. wilson?" "because i have a right to. perhaps you will be good enough to explain to the house why _you_ rise." "with great pleasure. because i wrote that paper." "it is an impudent falsity! i wrote it myself." it was burgess's turn to be paralysed. he stood looking vacantly at first one of the men and then the other, and did not seem to know what to do. the house was stupefied. lawyer wilson spoke up now, and said: "i ask the chair to read the name signed to that paper." that brought the chair to itself, and it read out the name: "john wharton _billson_." "there!" shouted billson, "what have you got to say for yourself now? and what kind of apology are you going to make to me and to this insulted house for the imposture which you have attempted to play here?" "no apologies are due, sir; and as for the rest of it, i publicly charge you with pilfering my note from mr. burgess and substituting a copy of it signed with your own name. there is no other way by which you could have gotten hold of the test-remark; i alone, of living men, possessed the secret of its wording." there was likely to be a scandalous state of things if this went on; everybody noticed with distress that the shorthand scribes were scribbling like mad; many people were crying "chair, chair! order! order!" burgess rapped with his gavel, and said: "let us not forget the proprieties due. there has evidently been a mistake somewhere, but surely that is all. if mr. wilson gave me an envelope--and i remember now that he did--i still have it." he took one out of his pocket, opened it, glanced at it, looked surprised and worried, and stood silent a few moments. then he waved his hand in a wandering and mechanical way, and made an effort or two to say something, then gave it up, despondently. several voices cried out: "read it! read it! what is it?" so he began, in a dazed and sleep-walker fashion: "'the remark which i made to the unhappy stranger was this: "you are far from being a bad man. [the house gazed at him marvelling.] go, and reform."' [murmurs: "amazing! what can this mean?"] this one," said the chair, "is signed thurlow g. wilson." "there!" cried wilson, "i reckon that settles it! i knew perfectly well my note was purloined." "purloined!" retorted billson. "i'll let you know that neither you nor any man of your kidney must venture to--" the chair: "order, gentlemen, order! take your seats, both of you, please." they obeyed, shaking their heads and grumbling angrily. the house was profoundly puzzled; it did not know what to do with this curious emergency. presently thompson got up. thompson was the hatter. he would have liked to be a nineteener; but such was not for him; his stock of hats was not considerable enough for the position. he said: "mr. chairman, if i may be permitted to make a suggestion, can both of these gentlemen be right? i put it to you, sir, can both have happened to say the very same words to the stranger? it seems to me--" the tanner got up and interrupted him. the tanner was a disgruntled man; he believed himself entitled to be a nineteener, but he couldn't get recognition. it made him a little unpleasant in his ways and speech. said he: "sho, _that's_ not the point! _that_ could happen--twice in a hundred years--but not the other thing. _neither_ of them gave the twenty dollars!" [a ripple of applause.] billson. "i did!" wilson. "i did!" then each accused the other of pilfering. the chair. "order! sit down, if you please--both of you. neither of the notes has been out of my possession at any moment." a voice. "good--that settles _that_!" the tanner. "mr. chairman, one thing is now plain: one of these men has been eavesdropping under the other one's bed, and filching family secrets. if it is not unparliamentary to suggest it, i will remark that both are equal to it. [the chair. "order! order!"] i withdraw the remark, sir, and will confine myself to suggesting that _if_ one of them has overheard the other reveal the test-remark to his wife, we shall catch him now." a voice. "how?" the tanner. "easily. the two have not quoted the remark in exactly the same words. you would have noticed that, if there hadn't been a considerable stretch of time and an exciting quarrel inserted between the two readings." a voice. "name the difference." the tanner. "the word _very_ is in billson's note, and not in the other." many voices. "that's so--he's right!" the tanner. "and so, if the chair will examine the test-remark in the sack, we shall know which of these two frauds--[the chair. "order!"]--which of these two adventurers--[the chair. "order! order!"]--which of these two gentlemen--[laughter and applause]--is entitled to wear the belt as being the first dishonest blatherskite ever bred in this town--which he has dishonoured, and which will be a sultry place for him from now out!" [vigorous applause.] many voices. "open it!--open the sack!" mr. burgess made a slit in the sack, slid his hand in, and brought out an envelope. in it were a couple of folded notes. he said: "one of these is marked, 'not to be examined until all written communications which have been addressed to the chair--if any--shall have been read.' the other is marked '_the test_.' allow me. it is worded--to wit: "'i do not require that the first half of the remark which was made to me by my benefactor shall be quoted with exactness, for it was not striking, and could be forgotten; but its closing fifteen words are quite striking, and i think easily rememberable; unless _these_ shall be accurately reproduced, let the applicant be regarded as an impostor. my benefactor began by saying he seldom gave advice to anyone, but that it always bore the hall-mark of high value when he did give it. then he said this--and it has never faded from my memory: '_you are far from being a bad man_--''" fifty voices. "that settles it--the money's wilson's! wilson! wilson! speech! speech!" people jumped up and crowded around wilson, wringing his hand and congratulating fervently--meantime the chair was hammering with the gavel and shouting: "order, gentlemen! order! order! let me finish reading, please." when quiet was restored, the reading was resumed--as follows: "'_go, and reform--or, mark my words--some day, for your sins you will die and go to hell or hadleyburg_--try and make it the former.'" a ghastly silence followed. first an angry cloud began to settle darkly upon the faces of the citizenship; after a pause the cloud began to rise, and a tickled expression tried to take its place; tried so hard that it was only kept under with great and painful difficulty; the reporters, the brixtonites, and other strangers bent their heads down and shielded their faces with their hands, and managed to hold in by main strength and heroic courtesy. at this most inopportune time burst upon the stillness the roar of a solitary voice--jack halliday's: "_that's_ got the hall-mark on it!" then the house let go, strangers and all. even mr. burgess's gravity broke down presently, then the audience considered itself officially absolved from all restraint, and it made the most of its privilege. it was a good long laugh, and a tempestuously wholehearted one, but it ceased at last--long enough for mr. burgess to try to resume, and for the people to get their eyes partially wiped; then it broke out again, and afterward yet again; then at last burgess was able to get out these serious words: "it is useless to try to disguise the fact--we find ourselves in the presence of a matter of grave import. it involves the honour of your town--it strikes at the town's good name. the difference of a single word between the test-remarks offered by mr. wilson and mr. billson was itself a serious thing, since it indicated that one or the other of these gentlemen had committed a theft--" the two men were sitting limp, nerveless, crushed; but at these words both were electrified into movement, and started to get up. "sit down!" said the chair, sharply, and they obeyed. "that, as i have said, was a serious thing. and it was--but for only one of them. but the matter has become graver; for the honour of _both_ is now in formidable peril. shall i go even further, and say in inextricable peril? _both_ left out the crucial fifteen words." he paused. during several moments he allowed the pervading stillness to gather and deepen its impressive effects, then added: "there would seem to be but one way whereby this could happen. i ask these gentlemen--was there _collusion_?--_agreement_?" a low murmur sifted through the house; its import was, "he's got them both." billson was not used to emergencies; he sat in a helpless collapse. but wilson was a lawyer. he struggled to his feet, pale and worried, and said: "i ask the indulgence of the house while i explain this most painful matter. i am sorry to say what i am about to say, since it must inflict irreparable injury upon mr. billson, whom i have always esteemed and respected until now, and in whose invulnerability to temptation i entirely believed--as did you all. but for the preservation of my own honour i must speak--and with frankness. i confess with shame--and i now beseech your pardon for it--that i said to the ruined stranger all of the words contained in the test-remark, including the disparaging fifteen. [sensation.] when the late publication was made i recalled them, and i resolved to claim the sack of coin, for by every right i was entitled to it. now i will ask you to consider this point, and weigh it well; that stranger's gratitude to me that night knew no bounds; he said himself that he could find no words for it that were adequate, and that if he should ever be able he would repay me a thousandfold. now, then, i ask you this; could i expect--could i believe--could i even remotely imagine--that, feeling as he did, he would do so ungrateful a thing as to add those quite unnecessary fifteen words to his test?--set a trap for me?--expose me as a slanderer of my own town before my own people assembled in a public hall? it was preposterous; it was impossible. his test would contain only the kindly opening clause of my remark. of that i had no shadow of doubt. you would have thought as i did. you would not have expected a base betrayal from one whom you had befriended and against whom you had committed no offence. and so with perfect confidence, perfect trust, i wrote on a piece of paper the opening words--ending with "go, and reform,"--and signed it. when i was about to put it in an envelope i was called into my back office, and without thinking i left the paper lying open on my desk." he stopped, turned his head slowly toward billson, waited a moment, then added: "i ask you to note this; when i returned, a little latter, mr. billson was retiring by my street door." [sensation.] in a moment billson was on his feet and shouting: "it's a lie! it's an infamous lie!" the chair. "be seated, sir! mr. wilson has the floor." billson's friends pulled him into his seat and quieted him, and wilson went on: "those are the simple facts. my note was now lying in a different place on the table from where i had left it. i noticed that, but attached no importance to it, thinking a draught had blown it there. that mr. billson would read a private paper was a thing which could not occur to me; he was an honourable man, and he would be above that. if you will allow me to say it, i think his extra word '_very_' stands explained: it is attributable to a defect of memory. i was the only man in the world who could furnish here any detail of the test-mark--by _honourable_ means. i have finished." there is nothing in the world like a persuasive speech to fuddle the mental apparatus and upset the convictions and debauch the emotions of an audience not practised in the tricks and delusions of oratory. wilson sat down victorious. the house submerged him in tides of approving applause; friends swarmed to him and shook him by the hand and congratulated him, and billson was shouted down and not allowed to say a word. the chair hammered and hammered with its gavel, and kept shouting: "but let us proceed, gentlemen, let us proceed!" at last there was a measurable degree of quiet, and the hatter said: "but what is there to proceed with, sir, but to deliver the money?" voices. "that's it! that's it! come forward, wilson!" the hatter. "i move three cheers for mr. wilson, symbol of the special virtue which--" the cheers burst forth before he could finish; and in the midst of them--and in the midst of the clamour of the gavel also--some enthusiasts mounted wilson on a big friend's shoulder and were going to fetch him in triumph to the platform. the chair's voice now rose above the noise: "order! to your places! you forget that there is still a document to be read." when quiet had been restored he took up the document, and was going to read it, but laid it down again saying "i forgot; this is not to be read until all written communications received by me have first been read." he took an envelope out of his pocket, removed its enclosure, glanced at it--seemed astonished--held it out and gazed at it--stared at it. twenty or thirty voices cried out "what is it? read it! read it!" and he did--slowly, and wondering: "'the remark which i made to the stranger--[voices. "hello! how's this?"]--was this: 'you are far from being a bad man. [voices. "great scott!"] go, and reform.'" [voice. "oh, saw my leg off!"] signed by mr. pinkerton the banker." the pandemonium of delight which turned itself loose now was of a sort to make the judicious weep. those whose withers were unwrung laughed till the tears ran down; the reporters, in throes of laughter, set down disordered pot-hooks which would never in the world be decipherable; and a sleeping dog jumped up scared out of its wits, and barked itself crazy at the turmoil. all manner of cries were scattered through the din: "we're getting rich--_two_ symbols of incorruptibility!--without counting billson!" "_three_!--count shadbelly in--we can't have too many!" "all right--billson's elected!" "alas, poor wilson! victim of _two_ thieves!" a powerful voice. "silence! the chair's fished up something more out of its pocket." voices. "hurrah! is it something fresh? read it! read! read!" the chair [reading]. "'the remark which i made,' etc. 'you are far from being a bad man. go,' etc. signed, 'gregory yates.'" tornado of voices. "four symbols!" "'rah for yates!" "fish again!" the house was in a roaring humour now, and ready to get all the fun out of the occasion that might be in it. several nineteeners, looking pale and distressed, got up and began to work their way towards the aisles, but a score of shouts went up: "the doors, the doors--close the doors; no incorruptible shall leave this place! sit down, everybody!" the mandate was obeyed. "fish again! read! read!" the chair fished again, and once more the familiar words began to fall from its lips--"'you are far from being a bad man--'" "name! name! what's his name?" "'l. ingoldsby sargent.'" "five elected! pile up the symbols! go on, go on!" "'you are far from being a bad--'" "name! name!" "'nicholas whitworth.'" "hooray! hooray! it's a symbolical day!" somebody wailed in, and began to sing this rhyme (leaving out "it's") to the lovely "mikado" tune of "when a man's afraid of a beautiful maid;" the audience joined in, with joy; then, just in time, somebody contributed another line-- "and don't you this forget--" the house roared it out. a third line was at once furnished-- "corruptibles far from hadleyburg are--" the house roared that one too. as the last note died, jack halliday's voice rose high and clear, freighted with a final line-- "but the symbols are here, you bet!" that was sung, with booming enthusiasm. then the happy house started in at the beginning and sang the four lines through twice, with immense swing and dash, and finished up with a crashing three-times-three and a tiger for "hadleyburg the incorruptible and all symbols of it which we shall find worthy to receive the hall-mark to-night." then the shoutings at the chair began again, all over the place: "go on! go on! read! read some more! read all you've got!" "that's it--go on! we are winning eternal celebrity!" a dozen men got up now and began to protest. they said that this farce was the work of some abandoned joker, and was an insult to the whole community. without a doubt these signatures were all forgeries-- "sit down! sit down! shut up! you are confessing. we'll find your names in the lot." "mr. chairman, how many of those envelopes have you got?" the chair counted. "together with those that have been already examined, there are nineteen." a storm of derisive applause broke out. "perhaps they all contain the secret. i move that you open them all and read every signature that is attached to a note of that sort--and read also the first eight words of the note." "second the motion!" it was put and carried--uproariously. then poor old richards got up, and his wife rose and stood at his side. her head was bent down, so that none might see that she was crying. her husband gave her his arm, and so supporting her, he began to speak in a quavering voice: "my friends, you have known us two--mary and me--all our lives, and i think you have liked us and respected us--" the chair interrupted him: "allow me. it is quite true--that which you are saying, mr. richards; this town _does_ know you two; it _does_ like you; it _does_ respect you; more--it honours you and _loves_ you--" halliday's voice rang out: "that's the hall-marked truth, too! if the chair is right, let the house speak up and say it. rise! now, then--hip! hip! hip!--all together!" the house rose in mass, faced toward the old couple eagerly, filled the air with a snow-storm of waving handkerchiefs, and delivered the cheers with all its affectionate heart. the chair then continued: "what i was going to say is this: we know your good heart, mr. richards, but this is not a time for the exercise of charity toward offenders. [shouts of "right! right!"] i see your generous purpose in your face, but i cannot allow you to plead for these men--" "but i was going to--" "please take your seat, mr. richards. we must examine the rest of these notes--simple fairness to the men who have already been exposed requires this. as soon as that has been done--i give you my word for this--you shall he heard." many voices. "right!--the chair is right--no interruption can be permitted at this stage! go on!--the names! the names!--according to the terms of the motion!" the old couple sat reluctantly down, and the husband whispered to the wife, "it is pitifully hard to have to wait; the shame will be greater than ever when they find we were only going to plead for _ourselves_." straightway the jollity broke loose again with the reading of the names. "'you are far from being a bad man--' signature, 'robert j. titmarsh.'" '"you are far from being a bad man--' signature, 'eliphalet weeks.'" "'you are far from being a bad man--' signature, 'oscar b. wilder.'" at this point the house lit upon the idea of taking the eight words out of the chairman's hands. he was not unthankful for that. thenceforward he held up each note in its turn and waited. the house droned out the eight words in a massed and measured and musical deep volume of sound (with a daringly close resemblance to a well-known church chant)--"you are f-a-r from being a b-a-a-a-d man." then the chair said, "signature, 'archibald wilcox.'" and so on, and so on, name after name, and everybody had an increasingly and gloriously good time except the wretched nineteen. now and then, when a particularly shining name was called, the house made the chair wait while it chanted the whole of the test-remark from the beginning to the closing words, "and go to hell or hadleyburg--try and make it the for-or-m-e-r!" and in these special cases they added a grand and agonised and imposing "a-a-a-a-_men_!" the list dwindled, dwindled, dwindled, poor old richards keeping tally of the count, wincing when a name resembling his own was pronounced, and waiting in miserable suspense for the time to come when it would be his humiliating privilege to rise with mary and finish his plea, which he was intending to word thus: ". . . for until now we have never done any wrong thing, but have gone our humble way unreproached. we are very poor, we are old, and, have no chick nor child to help us; we were sorely tempted, and we fell. it was my purpose when i got up before to make confession and beg that my name might not be read out in this public place, for it seemed to us that we could not bear it; but i was prevented. it was just; it was our place to suffer with the rest. it has been hard for us. it is the first time we have ever heard our name fall from any one's lips--sullied. be merciful--for the sake or the better days; make our shame as light to bear as in your charity you can." at this point in his reverie mary nudged him, perceiving that his mind was absent. the house was chanting, "you are f-a-r," etc. "be ready," mary whispered. "your name comes now; he has read eighteen." the chant ended. "next! next! next!" came volleying from all over the house. burgess put his hand into his pocket. the old couple, trembling, began to rise. burgess fumbled a moment, then said: "i find i have read them all." faint with joy and surprise, the couple sank into their seats, and mary whispered: "oh, bless god, we are saved!--he has lost ours--i wouldn't give this for a hundred of those sacks!" the house burst out with its "mikado" travesty, and sang it three times with ever-increasing enthusiasm, rising to its feet when it reached for the third time the closing line-- "but the symbols are here, you bet!" and finishing up with cheers and a tiger for "hadleyburg purity and our eighteen immortal representatives of it." then wingate, the saddler, got up and proposed cheers "for the cleanest man in town, the one solitary important citizen in it who didn't try to steal that money--edward richards." they were given with great and moving heartiness; then somebody proposed that "richards be elected sole guardian and symbol of the now sacred hadleyburg tradition, with power and right to stand up and look the whole sarcastic world in the face." passed, by acclamation; then they sang the "mikado" again, and ended it with-- "and there's _one_ symbol left, you bet!" there was a pause; then-- a voice. "now, then, who's to get the sack?" the tanner (with bitter sarcasm). "that's easy. the money has to be divided among the eighteen incorruptibles. they gave the suffering stranger twenty dollars apiece--and that remark--each in his turn--it took twenty-two minutes for the procession to move past. staked the stranger--total contribution, $ . all they want is just the loan back--and interest--forty thousand dollars altogether." many voices [derisively.] "that's it! divvy! divvy! be kind to the poor--don't keep them waiting!" the chair. "order! i now offer the stranger's remaining document. it says: 'if no claimant shall appear [grand chorus of groans], i desire that you open the sack and count out the money to the principal citizens of your town, they to take it in trust [cries of "oh! oh! oh!"], and use it in such ways as to them shall seem best for the propagation and preservation of your community's noble reputation for incorruptible honesty [more cries]--a reputation to which their names and their efforts will add a new and far-reaching lustre." [enthusiastic outburst of sarcastic applause.] that seems to be all. no--here is a postscript: "'p.s.--citizens of hadleyburg: there _is_ no test-remark--nobody made one. [great sensation.] there wasn't any pauper stranger, nor any twenty-dollar contribution, nor any accompanying benediction and compliment--these are all inventions. [general buzz and hum of astonishment and delight.] allow me to tell my story--it will take but a word or two. i passed through your town at a certain time, and received a deep offence which i had not earned. any other man would have been content to kill one or two of you and call it square, but to me that would have been a trivial revenge, and inadequate; for the dead do not _suffer_. besides i could not kill you all--and, anyway, made as i am, even that would not have satisfied me. i wanted to damage every man in the place, and every woman--and not in their bodies or in their estate, but in their vanity--the place where feeble and foolish people are most vulnerable. so i disguised myself and came back and studied you. you were easy game. you had an old and lofty reputation for honesty, and naturally you were proud of it--it was your treasure of treasures, the very apple of your eye. as soon as i found out that you carefully and vigilantly kept yourselves and your children _out of temptation_, i knew how to proceed. why, you simple creatures, the weakest of all weak things is a virtue which has not been tested in the fire. i laid a plan, and gathered a list of names. my project was to corrupt hadleyburg the incorruptible. my idea was to make liars and thieves of nearly half a hundred smirchless men and women who had never in their lives uttered a lie or stolen a penny. i was afraid of goodson. he was neither born nor reared in hadleyburg. i was afraid that if i started to operate my scheme by getting my letter laid before you, you would say to yourselves, 'goodson is the only man among us who would give away twenty dollars to a poor devil'--and then you might not bite at my bait. but heaven took goodson; then i knew i was safe, and i set my trap and baited it. it may be that i shall not catch all the men to whom i mailed the pretended test- secret, but i shall catch the most of them, if i know hadleyburg nature. [voices. "right--he got every last one of them."] i believe they will even steal ostensible _gamble_-money, rather than miss, poor, tempted, and mistrained fellows. i am hoping to eternally and everlastingly squelch your vanity and give hadleyburg a new renown--one that will _stick_--and spread far. if i have succeeded, open the sack and summon the committee on propagation and preservation of the hadleyburg reputation.'" a cyclone of voices. "open it! open it! the eighteen to the front! committee on propagation of the tradition! forward--the incorruptibles!" the chair ripped the sack wide, and gathered up a handful of bright, broad, yellow coins, shook them together, then examined them. "friends, they are only gilded disks of lead!" there was a crashing outbreak of delight over this news, and when the noise had subsided, the tanner called out: "by right of apparent seniority in this business, mr. wilson is chairman of the committee on propagation of the tradition. i suggest that he step forward on behalf of his pals, and receive in trust the money." a hundred voices. "wilson! wilson! wilson! speech! speech!" wilson [in a voice trembling with anger]. "you will allow me to say, and without apologies for my language, _damn_ the money!" a voice. "oh, and him a baptist!" a voice. "seventeen symbols left! step up, gentlemen, and assume your trust!" there was a pause--no response. the saddler. "mr. chairman, we've got _one_ clean man left, anyway, out of the late aristocracy; and he needs money, and deserves it. i move that you appoint jack halliday to get up there and auction off that sack of gilt twenty-dollar pieces, and give the result to the right man--the man whom hadleyburg delights to honour--edward richards." this was received with great enthusiasm, the dog taking a hand again; the saddler started the bids at a dollar, the brixton folk and barnum's representative fought hard for it, the people cheered every jump that the bids made, the excitement climbed moment by moment higher and higher, the bidders got on their mettle and grew steadily more and more daring, more and more determined, the jumps went from a dollar up to five, then to ten, then to twenty, then fifty, then to a hundred, then-- at the beginning of the auction richards whispered in distress to his wife: "oh, mary, can we allow it? it--it--you see, it is an honour--reward, a testimonial to purity of character, and--and--can we allow it? hadn't i better get up and--oh, mary, what ought we to do?--what do you think we--" [halliday's voice. "fifteen i'm bid!--fifteen for the sack!--twenty!--ah, thanks!--thirty--thanks again! thirty, thirty, thirty!--do i hear forty?--forty it is! keep the ball rolling, gentlemen, keep it rolling!--fifty!--thanks, noble roman!--going at fifty, fifty, fifty!--seventy!--ninety!--splendid!--a hundred!--pile it up, pile it up!--hundred and twenty--forty!--just in time!--hundred and fifty!--two hundred!--superb! do i hear two h--thanks!--two hundred and fifty!--"] "it is another temptation, edward--i'm all in a tremble--but, oh, we've escaped one temptation, and that ought to warn us, to--["six did i hear?--thanks!--six fifty, six f--seven hundred!"] and yet, edward, when you think--nobody susp--["eight hundred dollars!--hurrah!--make it nine!--mr. parsons, did i hear you say--thanks!--nine!--this noble sack of virgin lead going at only nine hundred dollars, gilding and all--come! do i hear--a thousand!--gratefully yours!--did some one say eleven?--a sack which is going to be the most celebrated in the whole uni--"] "oh, edward" (beginning to sob), "we are so poor!--but--but--do as you think best--do as you think best." edward fell--that is, he sat still; sat with a conscience which was not satisfied, but which was overpowered by circumstances. meantime a stranger, who looked like an amateur detective gotten up as an impossible english earl, had been watching the evening's proceedings with manifest interest, and with a contented expression in his face; and he had been privately commenting to himself. he was now soliloquising somewhat like this: "none of the eighteen are bidding; that is not satisfactory; i must change that--the dramatic unities require it; they must buy the sack they tried to steal; they must pay a heavy price, too--some of them are rich. and another thing, when i make a mistake in hadleyburg nature the man that puts that error upon me is entitled to a high honorarium, and some one must pay. this poor old richards has brought my judgment to shame; he is an honest man:--i don't understand it, but i acknowledge it. yes, he saw my deuces--_and_ with a straight flush, and by rights the pot is his. and it shall be a jack-pot, too, if i can manage it. he disappointed me, but let that pass." he was watching the bidding. at a thousand, the market broke: the prices tumbled swiftly. he waited--and still watched. one competitor dropped out; then another, and another. he put in a bid or two now. when the bids had sunk to ten dollars, he added a five; some one raised him a three; he waited a moment, then flung in a fifty-dollar jump, and the sack was his--at $ , . the house broke out in cheers--then stopped; for he was on his feet, and had lifted his hand. he began to speak. "i desire to say a word, and ask a favour. i am a speculator in rarities, and i have dealings with persons interested in numismatics all over the world. i can make a profit on this purchase, just as it stands; but there is a way, if i can get your approval, whereby i can make every one of these leaden twenty-dollar pieces worth its face in gold, and perhaps more. grant me that approval, and i will give part of my gains to your mr. richards, whose invulnerable probity you have so justly and so cordially recognised to-night; his share shall be ten thousand dollars, and i will hand him the money to-morrow. [great applause from the house. but the "invulnerable probity" made the richardses blush prettily; however, it went for modesty, and did no harm.] if you will pass my proposition by a good majority--i would like a two-thirds vote--i will regard that as the town's consent, and that is all i ask. rarities are always helped by any device which will rouse curiosity and compel remark. now if i may have your permission to stamp upon the faces of each of these ostensible coins the names of the eighteen gentlemen who--" nine-tenths of the audience were on their feet in a moment--dog and all--and the proposition was carried with a whirlwind of approving applause and laughter. they sat down, and all the symbols except "dr." clay harkness got up, violently protesting against the proposed outrage, and threatening to-- "i beg you not to threaten me," said the stranger calmly. "i know my legal rights, and am not accustomed to being frightened at bluster." [applause.] he sat down. "dr." harkness saw an opportunity here. he was one of the two very rich men of the place, and pinkerton was the other. harkness was proprietor of a mint; that is to say, a popular patent medicine. he was running for the legislature on one ticket, and pinkerton on the other. it was a close race and a hot one, and getting hotter every day. both had strong appetites for money; each had bought a great tract of land, with a purpose; there was going to be a new railway, and each wanted to be in the legislature and help locate the route to his own advantage; a single vote might make the decision, and with it two or three fortunes. the stake was large, and harkness was a daring speculator. he was sitting close to the stranger. he leaned over while one or another of the other symbols was entertaining the house with protests and appeals, and asked, in a whisper, "what is your price for the sack?" "forty thousand dollars." "i'll give you twenty." "no." "twenty-five." "no." "say thirty." "the price is forty thousand dollars; not a penny less." "all right, i'll give it. i will come to the hotel at ten in the morning. i don't want it known; will see you privately." "very good." then the stranger got up and said to the house: "i find it late. the speeches of these gentlemen are not without merit, not without interest, not without grace; yet if i may he excused i will take my leave. i thank you for the great favour which you have shown me in granting my petition. i ask the chair to keep the sack for me until to-morrow, and to hand these three five-hundred-dollar notes to mr. richards." they were passed up to the chair. "at nine i will call for the sack, and at eleven will deliver the rest of the ten thousand to mr. richards in person at his home. good-night." then he slipped out, and left the audience making a vast noise, which was composed of a mixture of cheers, the "mikado" song, dog-disapproval, and the chant, "you are f-a-r from being a b-a-a-d man--a-a-a a-men!" iv. at home the richardses had to endure congratulations and compliments until midnight. then they were left to themselves. they looked a little sad, and they sat silent and thinking. finally mary sighed and said: "do you think we are to blame, edward--_much_ to blame?" and her eyes wandered to the accusing triplet of big bank-notes lying on the table, where the congratulators had been gloating over them and reverently fingering them. edward did not answer at once; then he brought out a sigh and said, hesitatingly: "we--we couldn't help it, mary. it--well it was ordered. _all_ things are." mary glanced up and looked at him steadily, but he didn't return the look. presently she said: "i thought congratulations and praises always tasted good. but--it seems to me, now--edward?" "well?" "are you going to stay in the bank?" "n--no." "resign?" "in the morning--by note." "it does seem best." richards bowed his head in his hands and muttered: "before i was not afraid to let oceans of people's money pour through my hands, but--mary, i am so tired, so tired--" "we will go to bed." at nine in the morning the stranger called for the sack and took it to the hotel in a cab. at ten harkness had a talk with him privately. the stranger asked for and got five cheques on a metropolitan bank--drawn to "bearer,"--four for $ , each, and one for $ , . he put one of the former in his pocket-book, and the remainder, representing $ , , he put in an envelope, and with these he added a note which he wrote after harkness was gone. at eleven he called at the richards' house and knocked. mrs. richards peeped through the shutters, then went and received the envelope, and the stranger disappeared without a word. she came back flushed and a little unsteady on her legs, and gasped out: "i am sure i recognised him! last night it seemed to me that maybe i had seen him somewhere before." "he is the man that brought the sack here?" "i am almost sure of it." "then he is the ostensible stephenson too, and sold every important citizen in this town with his bogus secret. now if he has sent cheques instead of money, we are sold too, after we thought we had escaped. i was beginning to feel fairly comfortable once more, after my night's rest, but the look of that envelope makes me sick. it isn't fat enough; $ , in even the largest bank-notes makes more bulk than that." "edward, why do you object to cheques?" "cheques signed by stephenson! i am resigned to take the $ , if it could come in bank-notes--for it does seem that it was so ordered, mary--but i have never had much courage, and i have not the pluck to try to market a cheque signed with that disastrous name. it would be a trap. that man tried to catch me; we escaped somehow or other; and now he is trying a new way. if it is cheques--" "oh, edward, it is _too_ bad!" and she held up the cheques and began to cry. "put them in the fire! quick! we mustn't be tempted. it is a trick to make the world laugh at _us_, along with the rest, and--give them to _me_, since you can't do it!" he snatched them and tried to hold his grip till he could get to the stove; but he was human, he was a cashier, and he stopped a moment to make sure of the signature. then he came near to fainting. "fan me, mary, fan me! they are the same as gold!" "oh, how lovely, edward! why?" "signed by harkness. what can the mystery of that be, mary?" "edward, do you think--" "look here--look at this! fifteen--fifteen--fifteen--thirty-four. thirty- eight thousand five hundred! mary, the sack isn't worth twelve dollars, and harkness--apparently--has paid about par for it." "and does it all come to us, do you think--instead of the ten thousand?" "why, it looks like it. and the cheques are made to 'bearer,' too." "is that good, edward? what is it for?" "a hint to collect them at some distant bank, i reckon. perhaps harkness doesn't want the matter known. what is that--a note?" "yes. it was with the cheques." it was in the "stephenson" handwriting, but there was no signature. it said: "i am a disappointed man. your honesty is beyond the reach of temptation. i had a different idea about it, but i wronged you in that, and i beg pardon, and do it sincerely. i honour you--and that is sincere too. this town is not worthy to kiss the hem of your garment. dear sir, i made a square bet with myself that there were nineteen debauchable men in your self-righteous community. i have lost. take the whole pot, you are entitled to it." richards drew a deep sigh, and said: "it seems written with fire--it burns so. mary--i am miserable again." "i, too. ah, dear, i wish--" "to think, mary--he _believes_ in me." "oh, don't, edward--i can't bear it." "if those beautiful words were deserved, mary--and god knows i believed i deserved them once--i think i could give the forty thousand dollars for them. and i would put that paper away, as representing more than gold and jewels, and keep it always. but now--we could not live in the shadow of its accusing presence, mary." he put it in the fire. a messenger arrived and delivered an envelope. richards took from it a note and read it; it was from burgess: "you saved me, in a difficult time. i saved you last night. it was at cost of a lie, but i made the sacrifice freely, and out of a grateful heart. none in this village knows so well as i know how brave and good and noble you are. at bottom you cannot respect me, knowing as you do of that matter of which i am accused, and by the general voice condemned; but i beg that you will at least believe that i am a grateful man; it will help me to bear my burden. [signed] 'burgess.'" "saved, once more. and on such terms!" he put the note in the lire. "i--i wish i were dead, mary, i wish i were out of it all!" "oh, these are bitter, bitter days, edward. the stabs, through their very generosity, are so deep--and they come so fast!" three days before the election each of two thousand voters suddenly found himself in possession of a prized memento--one of the renowned bogus double-eagles. around one of its faces was stamped these words: "the remark i made to the poor stranger was--" around the other face was stamped these: "go, and reform. [signed] pinkerton." thus the entire remaining refuse of the renowned joke was emptied upon a single head, and with calamitous effect. it revived the recent vast laugh and concentrated it upon pinkerton; and harkness's election was a walk-over. within twenty-four hours after the richardses had received their cheques their consciences were quieting down, discouraged; the old couple were learning to reconcile themselves to the sin which they had committed. but they were to learn, now, that a sin takes on new and real terrors when there seems a chance that it is going to be found out. this gives it a fresh and most substantial and important aspect. at church the morning sermon was of the usual pattern; it was the same old things said in the same old way; they had heard them a thousand times and found them innocuous, next to meaningless, and easy to sleep under; but now it was different: the sermon seemed to bristle with accusations; it seemed aimed straight and specially at people who were concealing deadly sins. after church they got away from the mob of congratulators as soon as they could, and hurried homeward, chilled to the bone at they did not know what--vague, shadowy, indefinite fears. and by chance they caught a glimpse of mr. burgess as he turned a corner. he paid no attention to their nod of recognition! he hadn't seen it; but they did not know that. what could his conduct mean? it might mean--it might--mean--oh, a dozen dreadful things. was it possible that he knew that richards could have cleared him of guilt in that bygone time, and had been silently waiting for a chance to even up accounts? at home, in their distress they got to imagining that their servant might have been in the next room listening when richards revealed the secret to his wife that he knew of burgess's innocence; next richards began to imagine that he had heard the swish of a gown in there at that time; next, he was sure he _had_ heard it. they would call sarah in, on a pretext, and watch her face; if she had been betraying them to mr. burgess, it would show in her manner. they asked her some questions--questions which were so random and incoherent and seemingly purposeless that the girl felt sure that the old people's minds had been affected by their sudden good fortune; the sharp and watchful gaze which they bent upon her frightened her, and that completed the business. she blushed, she became nervous and confused, and to the old people these were plain signs of guilt--guilt of some fearful sort or other--without doubt she was a spy and a traitor. when they were alone again they began to piece many unrelated things together and get horrible results out of the combination. when things had got about to the worst richards was delivered of a sudden gasp and his wife asked: "oh, what is it?--what is it?" "the note--burgess's note! its language was sarcastic, i see it now." he quoted: "'at bottom you cannot respect me, _knowing_, as you do, of _that matter of_ which i am accused'--oh, it is perfectly plain, now, god help me! he knows that i know! you see the ingenuity of the phrasing. it was a trap--and like a fool, i walked into it. and mary--!" "oh, it is dreadful--i know what you are going to say--he didn't return your transcript of the pretended test-remark." "no--kept it to destroy us with. mary, he has exposed us to some already. i know it--i know it well. i saw it in a dozen faces after church. ah, he wouldn't answer our nod of recognition--he knew what he had been doing!" in the night the doctor was called. the news went around in the morning that the old couple were rather seriously ill--prostrated by the exhausting excitement growing out of their great windfall, the congratulations, and the late hours, the doctor said. the town was sincerely distressed; for these old people were about all it had left to be proud of, now. two days later the news was worse. the old couple were delirious, and were doing strange things. by witness of the nurses, richards had exhibited cheques--for $ , ? no--for an amazing sum--$ , ! what could be the explanation of this gigantic piece of luck? the following day the nurses had more news--and wonderful. they had concluded to hide the cheques, lest harm come to them; but when they searched they were gone from under the patient's pillow--vanished away. the patient said: "let the pillow alone; what do you want?" "we thought it best that the cheques--" "you will never see them again--they are destroyed. they came from satan. i saw the hell-brand on them, and i knew they were sent to betray me to sin." then he fell to gabbling strange and dreadful things which were not clearly understandable, and which the doctor admonished them to keep to themselves. richards was right; the cheques were never seen again. a nurse must have talked in her sleep, for within two days the forbidden gabblings were the property of the town; and they were of a surprising sort. they seemed to indicate that richards had been a claimant for the sack himself, and that burgess had concealed that fact and then maliciously betrayed it. burgess was taxed with this and stoutly denied it. and he said it was not fair to attach weight to the chatter of a sick old man who was out of his mind. still, suspicion was in the air, and there was much talk. after a day or two it was reported that mrs. richards's delirious deliveries were getting to be duplicates of her husband's. suspicion flamed up into conviction, now, and the town's pride in the purity of its one undiscredited important citizen began to dim down and flicker toward extinction. six days passed, then came more news. the old couple were dying. richards's mind cleared in his latest hour, and he sent for burgess. burgess said: "let the room be cleared. i think he wishes to say something in privacy." "no!" said richards; "i want witnesses. i want you all to hear my confession, so that i may die a man, and not a dog. i was clean--artificially--like the rest; and like the rest i fell when temptation came. i signed a lie, and claimed the miserable sack. mr. burgess remembered that i had done him a service, and in gratitude (and ignorance) he suppressed my claim and saved me. you know the thing that was charged against burgess years ago. my testimony, and mine alone, could have cleared him, and i was a coward and left him to suffer disgrace--" "no--no--mr. richards, you--" "my servant betrayed my secret to him--" "no one has betrayed anything to me--" --"and then he did a natural and justifiable thing; he repented of the saving kindness which he had done me, and he _exposed_ me--as i deserved--" "never!--i make oath--" "out of my heart i forgive him." burgess's impassioned protestations fell upon deaf ears; the dying man passed away without knowing that once more he had done poor burgess a wrong. the old wife died that night. the last of the sacred nineteen had fallen a prey to the fiendish sack; the town was stripped of the last rag of its ancient glory. its mourning was not showy, but it was deep. by act of the legislature--upon prayer and petition--hadleyburg was allowed to change its name to (never mind what--i will not give it away), and leave one word out of the motto that for many generations had graced the town's official seal. it is an honest town once more, and the man will have to rise early that catches it napping again. sketches new and old by mark twain part . contents (entire ebook) preface my watch political economy the jumping frog journalism in tennessee the story of the bad little boy the story of the good little boy a couple of poems by twain and moore niagara answers to correspondents to raise poultry experience of the mcwilliamses with membranous croup my first literary venture how the author was sold in newark the office bore johnny greer the facts in the case of the great beef contract the case of george fisher disgraceful persecution of a boy the judges "spirited woman" information wanted some learned fables, for good old boys and girls my late senatorial secretaryship a fashion item riley-newspaper correspondent a fine old man science vs. luck the late benjamin franklin mr. bloke's item a medieval romance petition concerning copyright after-dinner speech lionizing murderers a new crime a curious dream a true story the siamese twins speech at the scottish banquet in london a ghost story the capitoline venus speech on accident insurance john chinaman in new york how i edited an agricultural paper the petrified man my bloody massacre the undertaker's chat concerning chambermaids aurelia's unfortunate young man "after" jenkins about barbers "party cries" in ireland the facts concerning the recent resignation history repeats itself honored as a curiosity first interview with artemus ward cannibalism in the cars the killing of julius caesar "localized" the widow's protest the scriptural panoramist curing a cold a curious pleasure excursion running for governor a mysterious visit preface i have scattered through this volume a mass of matter which has never been in print before (such as "learned fables for good old boys and girls," the "jumping frog restored to the english tongue after martyrdom in the french," the "membranous croup" sketch, and many others which i need not specify): not doing this in order to make an advertisement of it, but because these things seemed instructive. hartford, . mark twain. sketches new and old my watch--[written about .] an instructive little tale my beautiful new watch had run eighteen months without losing or gaining, and without breaking any part of its machinery or stopping. i had come to believe it infallible in its judgments about the time of day, and to consider its constitution and its anatomy imperishable. but at last, one night, i let it run down. i grieved about it as if it were a recognized messenger and forerunner of calamity. but by and by i cheered up, set the watch by guess, and commanded my bodings and superstitions to depart. next day i stepped into the chief jeweler's to set it by the exact time, and the head of the establishment took it out of my hand and proceeded to set it for me. then he said, "she is four minutes slow-regulator wants pushing up." i tried to stop him--tried to make him understand that the watch kept perfect time. but no; all this human cabbage could see was that the watch was four minutes slow, and the regulator must be pushed up a little; and so, while i danced around him in anguish, and implored him to let the watch alone, he calmly and cruelly did the shameful deed. my watch began to gain. it gained faster and faster day by day. within the week it sickened to a raging fever, and its pulse went up to a hundred and fifty in the shade. at the end of two months it had left all the timepieces of the town far in the rear, and was a fraction over thirteen days ahead of the almanac. it was away into november enjoying the snow, while the october leaves were still turning. it hurried up house rent, bills payable, and such things, in such a ruinous way that i could not abide it. i took it to the watchmaker to be regulated. he asked me if i had ever had it repaired. i said no, it had never needed any repairing. he looked a look of vicious happiness and eagerly pried the watch open, and then put a small dice-box into his eye and peered into its machinery. he said it wanted cleaning and oiling, besides regulating--come in a week. after being cleaned and oiled, and regulated, my watch slowed down to that degree that it ticked like a tolling bell. i began to be left by trains, i failed all appointments, i got to missing my dinner; my watch strung out three days' grace to four and let me go to protest; i gradually drifted back into yesterday, then day before, then into last week, and by and by the comprehension came upon me that all solitary and alone i was lingering along in week before last, and the world was out of sight. i seemed to detect in myself a sort of sneaking fellow-feeling for the mummy in the museum, and a desire to swap news with him. i went to a watchmaker again. he took the watch all to pieces while i waited, and then said the barrel was "swelled." he said he could reduce it in three days. after this the watch averaged well, but nothing more. for half a day it would go like the very mischief, and keep up such a barking and wheezing and whooping and sneezing and snorting, that i could not hear myself think for the disturbance; and as long as it held out there was not a watch in the land that stood any chance against it. but the rest of the day it would keep on slowing down and fooling along until all the clocks it had left behind caught up again. so at last, at the end of twenty-four hours, it would trot up to the judges' stand all right and just in time. it would show a fair and square average, and no man could say it had done more or less than its duty. but a correct average is only a mild virtue in a watch, and i took this instrument to another watchmaker. he said the king-bolt was broken. i said i was glad it was nothing more serious. to tell the plain truth, i had no idea what the king-bolt was, but i did not choose to appear ignorant to a stranger. he repaired the king-bolt, but what the watch gained in one way it lost in another. it would run awhile and then stop awhile, and then run awhile again, and so on, using its own discretion about the intervals. and every time it went off it kicked back like a musket. i padded my breast for a few days, but finally took the watch to another watchmaker. he picked it all to pieces, and turned the ruin over and over under his glass; and then he said there appeared to be something the matter with the hair-trigger. he fixed it, and gave it a fresh start. it did well now, except that always at ten minutes to ten the hands would shut together like a pair of scissors, and from that time forth they would travel together. the oldest man in the world could not make head or tail of the time of day by such a watch, and so i went again to have the thing repaired. this person said that the crystal had got bent, and that the mainspring was not straight. he also remarked that part of the works needed half-soling. he made these things all right, and then my timepiece performed unexceptionably, save that now and then, after working along quietly for nearly eight hours, everything inside would let go all of a sudden and begin to buzz like a bee, and the hands would straightway begin to spin round and round so fast that their individuality was lost completely, and they simply seemed a delicate spider's web over the face of the watch. she would reel off the next twenty-four hours in six or seven minutes, and then stop with a bang. i went with a heavy heart to one more watchmaker, and looked on while he took her to pieces. then i prepared to cross-question him rigidly, for this thing was getting serious. the watch had cost two hundred dollars originally, and i seemed to have paid out two or three thousand for repairs. while i waited and looked on i presently recognized in this watchmaker an old acquaintance--a steamboat engineer of other days, and not a good engineer, either. he examined all the parts carefully, just as the other watchmakers had done, and then delivered his verdict with the same confidence of manner. he said: "she makes too much steam-you want to hang the monkey-wrench on the safety-valve!" i brained him on the spot, and had him buried at my own expense. my uncle william (now deceased, alas!) used to say that a good horse was, a good horse until it had run away once, and that a good watch was a good watch until the repairers got a chance at it. and he used to wonder what became of all the unsuccessful tinkers, and gunsmiths, and shoemakers, and engineers, and blacksmiths; but nobody could ever tell him. political economy political economy is the basis of all good government. the wisest men of all ages have brought to bear upon this subject the-- [here i was interrupted and informed that a stranger wished to see me down at the door. i went and confronted him, and asked to know his business, struggling all the time to keep a tight rein on my seething political-economy ideas, and not let them break away from me or get tangled in their harness. and privately i wished the stranger was in the bottom of the canal with a cargo of wheat on top of him. i was all in a fever, but he was cool. he said he was sorry to disturb me, but as he was passing he noticed that i needed some lightning-rods. i said, "yes, yes--go on--what about it?" he said there was nothing about it, in particular--nothing except that he would like to put them up for me. i am new to housekeeping; have been used to hotels and boarding-houses all my life. like anybody else of similar experience, i try to appear (to strangers) to be an old housekeeper; consequently i said in an offhand way that i had been intending for some time to have six or eight lightning-rods put up, but--the stranger started, and looked inquiringly at me, but i was serene. i thought that if i chanced to make any mistakes, he would not catch me by my countenance. he said he would rather have my custom than any man's in town. i said, "all right," and started off to wrestle with my great subject again, when he called me back and said it would be necessary to know exactly how many "points" i wanted put up, what parts of the house i wanted them on, and what quality of rod i preferred. it was close quarters for a man not used to the exigencies of housekeeping; but i went through creditably, and he probably never suspected that i was a novice. i told him to put up eight "points," and put them all on the roof, and use the best quality of rod. he said he could furnish the "plain" article at cents a foot; "coppered," cents; "zinc-plated spiral-twist," at cents, that would stop a streak of lightning any time, no matter where it was bound, and "render its errand harmless and its further progress apocryphal." i said apocryphal was no slouch of a word, emanating from the source it did, but, philology aside, i liked the spiral-twist and would take that brand. then he said he could make two hundred and fifty feet answer; but to do it right, and make the best job in town of it, and attract the admiration of the just and the unjust alike, and compel all parties to say they never saw a more symmetrical and hypothetical display of lightning-rods since they were born, he supposed he really couldn't get along without four hundred, though he was not vindictive, and trusted he was willing to try. i said, go ahead and use four hundred, and make any kind of a job he pleased out of it, but let me get back to my work. so i got rid of him at last; and now, after half an hour spent in getting my train of political-economy thoughts coupled together again, i am ready to go on once more.] richest treasures of their genius, their experience of life, and their learning. the great lights of commercial jurisprudence, international confraternity, and biological deviation, of all ages, all civilizations, and all nationalities, from zoroaster down to horace greeley, have-- [here i was interrupted again, and required to go down and confer further with that lightning-rod man. i hurried off, boiling and surging with prodigious thoughts wombed in words of such majesty that each one of them was in itself a straggling procession of syllables that might be fifteen minutes passing a given point, and once more i confronted him--he so calm and sweet, i so hot and frenzied. he was standing in the contemplative attitude of the colossus of rhodes, with one foot on my infant tuberose, and the other among my pansies, his hands on his hips, his hat-brim tilted forward, one eye shut and the other gazing critically and admiringly in the direction of my principal chimney. he said now there was a state of things to make a man glad to be alive; and added, "i leave it to you if you ever saw anything more deliriously picturesque than eight lightning-rods on one chimney?" i said i had no present recollection of anything that transcended it. he said that in his opinion nothing on earth but niagara falls was superior to it in the way of natural scenery. all that was needed now, he verily believed, to make my house a perfect balm to the eye, was to kind of touch up the other chimneys a little, and thus "add to the generous 'coup d'oeil' a soothing uniformity of achievement which would allay the excitement naturally consequent upon the 'coup d'etat.'" i asked him if he learned to talk out of a book, and if i could borrow it anywhere? he smiled pleasantly, and said that his manner of speaking was not taught in books, and that nothing but familiarity with lightning could enable a man to handle his conversational style with impunity. he then figured up an estimate, and said that about eight more rods scattered about my roof would about fix me right, and he guessed five hundred feet of stuff would do it; and added that the first eight had got a little the start of him, so to speak, and used up a mere trifle of material more than he had calculated on--a hundred feet or along there. i said i was in a dreadful hurry, and i wished we could get this business permanently mapped out, so that i could go on with my work. he said, "i could have put up those eight rods, and marched off about my business--some men would have done it. but no; i said to myself, this man is a stranger to me, and i will die before i'll wrong him; there ain't lightning-rods enough on that house, and for one i'll never stir out of my tracks till i've done as i would be done by, and told him so. stranger, my duty is accomplished; if the recalcitrant and dephlogistic messenger of heaven strikes your--" "there, now, there," i said, "put on the other eight--add five hundred feet of spiral-twist--do anything and everything you want to do; but calm your sufferings, and try to keep your feelings where you can reach them with the dictionary. meanwhile, if we understand each other now, i will go to work again." i think i have been sitting here a full hour this time, trying to get back to where i was when my train of thought was broken up by the last interruption; but i believe i have accomplished it at last, and may venture to proceed again.] wrestled with this great subject, and the greatest among them have found it a worthy adversary, and one that always comes up fresh and smiling after every throw. the great confucius said that he would rather be a profound political economist than chief of police. cicero frequently said that political economy was the grandest consummation that the human mind was capable of consuming; and even our own greeley had said vaguely but forcibly that "political-- [here the lightning-rod man sent up another call for me. i went down in a state of mind bordering on impatience. he said he would rather have died than interrupt me, but when he was employed to do a job, and that job was expected to be done in a clean, workmanlike manner, and when it was finished and fatigue urged him to seek the rest and recreation he stood so much in need of, and he was about to do it, but looked up and saw at a glance that all the calculations had been a little out, and if a thunder-storm were to come up, and that house, which he felt a personal interest in, stood there with nothing on earth to protect it but sixteen lightning-rods--"let us have peace!" i shrieked. "put up a hundred and fifty! put some on the kitchen! put a dozen on the barn! put a couple on the cow! put one on the cook!--scatter them all over the persecuted place till it looks like a zinc-plated, spiral-twisted, silver-mounted canebrake! move! use up all the material you can get your hands on, and when you run out of lightning-rods put up ramrods, cam-rods, stair-rods, piston-rods--anything that will pander to your dismal appetite for artificial scenery, and bring respite to my raging brain and healing to my lacerated soul!" wholly unmoved--further than to smile sweetly--this iron being simply turned back his wrist-bands daintily, and said he would now proceed to hump himself. well, all that was nearly three hours ago. it is questionable whether i am calm enough yet to write on the noble theme of political economy, but i cannot resist the desire to try, for it is the one subject that is nearest to my heart and dearest to my brain of all this world's philosophy.] economy is heaven's best boon to man." when the loose but gifted byron lay in his venetian exile he observed that, if it could be granted him to go back and live his misspent life over again, he would give his lucid and unintoxicated intervals to the composition, not of frivolous rhymes, but of essays upon political economy. washington loved this exquisite science; such names as baker, beckwith, judson, smith, are imperishably linked with it; and even imperial homer, in the ninth book of the iliad, has said: fiat justitia, ruat coelum, post mortem unum, ante bellum, hic facet hoc, ex-parte res, politicum e-conomico est. the grandeur of these conceptions of the old poet, together with the felicity of the wording which clothes them, and the sublimity of the imagery whereby they are illustrated, have singled out that stanza, and made it more celebrated than any that ever-- ["now, not a word out of you--not a single word. just state your bill and relapse into impenetrable silence for ever and ever on these premises. nine hundred, dollars? is that all? this check for the amount will be honored at any respectable bank in america. what is that multitude of people gathered in the street for? how?--'looking at the lightning-rods!' bless my life, did they never see any lightning-rods before? never saw 'such a stack of them on one establishment,' did i understand you to say? i will step down and critically observe this popular ebullition of ignorance."] three days later.--we are all about worn out. for four-and-twenty hours our bristling premises were the talk and wonder of the town. the theaters languished, for their happiest scenic inventions were tame and commonplace compared with my lightning-rods. our street was blocked night and day with spectators, and among them were many who came from the country to see. it was a blessed relief on the second day when a thunderstorm came up and the lightning began to "go for" my house, as the historian josephus quaintly phrases it. it cleared the galleries, so to speak. in five minutes there was not a spectator within half a mile of my place; but all the high houses about that distance away were full, windows, roof, and all. and well they might be, for all the falling stars and fourth-of-july fireworks of a generation, put together and rained down simultaneously out of heaven in one brilliant shower upon one helpless roof, would not have any advantage of the pyrotechnic display that was making my house so magnificently conspicuous in the general gloom of the storm. by actual count, the lightning struck at my establishment seven hundred and sixty-four times in forty minutes, but tripped on one of those faithful rods every time, and slid down the spiral-twist and shot into the earth before it probably had time to be surprised at the way the thing was done. and through all that bombardment only one patch of slates was ripped up, and that was because, for a single instant, the rods in the vicinity were transporting all the lightning they could possibly accommodate. well, nothing was ever seen like it since the world began. for one whole day and night not a member of my family stuck his head out of the window but he got the hair snatched off it as smooth as a billiard-ball; and; if the reader will believe me, not one of us ever dreamt of stirring abroad. but at last the awful siege came to an end-because there was absolutely no more electricity left in the clouds above us within grappling distance of my insatiable rods. then i sallied forth, and gathered daring workmen together, and not a bite or a nap did we take till the premises were utterly stripped of all their terrific armament except just three rods on the house, one on the kitchen, and one on the barn--and, behold, these remain there even unto this day. and then, and not till then, the people ventured to use our street again. i will remark here, in passing, that during that fearful time i did not continue my essay upon political economy. i am not even yet settled enough in nerve and brain to resume it. to whom it may concern.--parties having need of three thousand two hundred and eleven feet of best quality zinc-plated spiral-twist lightning-rod stuff, and sixteen hundred and thirty-one silver-tipped points, all in tolerable repair (and, although much worn by use, still equal to any ordinary emergency), can hear of a bargains by addressing the publisher. the jumping frog [written about ] in english. then in french. then clawed back into a civilized language once more by patient, unremunerated toil. even a criminal is entitled to fair play; and certainly when a man who has done no harm has been unjustly treated, he is privileged to do his best to right himself. my attention has just beep called to an article some three years old in a french magazine entitled, 'revue des deux mondes' (review of some two worlds), wherein the writer treats of "les humoristes americaines" (these humorist americans). i am one of these humorists american dissected by him, and hence the complaint i am making. this gentleman's article is an able one (as articles go, in the french, where they always tangle up everything to that degree that when you start into a sentence you never know whether you are going to come out alive or not). it is a very good article and the writer says all manner of kind and complimentary things about me--for which i am sure thank him with all my heart; but then why should he go and spoil all his praise by one unlucky experiment? what i refer to is this: he says my jumping frog is a funny story, but still he can't see why it should ever really convulse any one with laughter--and straightway proceeds to translate it into french in order to prove to his nation that there is nothing so very extravagantly funny about it. just there is where my complaint originates. he has not translated it at all; he has simply mixed it all up; it is no more like the jumping frog when he gets through with it than i am like a meridian of longitude. but my mere assertion is not proof; wherefore i print the french version, that all may see that i do not speak falsely; furthermore, in order that even the unlettered may know my injury and give me their compassion, i have been at infinite pains and trouble to retranslate this french version back into english; and to tell the truth i have well-nigh worn myself out at it, having scarcely rested from my work during five days and nights. i cannot speak the french language, but i can translate very well, though not fast, i being self-educated. i ask the reader to run his eye over the original english version of the jumping frog, and then read the french or my retranslation, and kindly take notice how the frenchman has riddled the grammar. i think it is the worst i ever saw; and yet the french are called a polished nation. if i had a boy that put sentences together as they do, i would polish him to some purpose. without further introduction, the jumping frog, as i originally wrote it, was as follows [after it will be found the french version--(french version is deleted from this edition)--, and after the latter my retranslation from the french] the notorious jumping frog of calaveras county [pronounced cal-e-va-ras] in compliance with the request of a friend of mine, who wrote me from the east, i called on good-natured, garrulous old simon wheeler, and inquired after my friend's friend, leonidas w. smiley, as requested to do, and i hereunto append the result. i have a lurking suspicion that leonidas w. smiley is a myth that my friend never knew such a personage; and that he on conjectured that if i asked old wheeler about him, it would remind him of his infamous jim smiley, and he would go to work and bore me to death with some exasperating reminiscence him as long and as tedious as it should be useless to me. if that was the design, it succeeded. i found simon wheeler dozing comfortably by the bar-room stove of the dilapidated tavern in the decayed mining camp angel's, and i noticed that he was fat and bald-headed, and had an expression of winning gentleness and simplicity upon his tranquil countenance. he roused up, and gave me good day. i told him that a friend of mine had commissioned me to make some inquiries about a cherished companion of his boyhood named leonidas w. smiley--rev. leonidas w. smiley, a young minister of the gospel, who he had heard was at one time resident of angel's camp. i added that if mr. wheeler could tell me anything about this rev. leonidas w. smiley, i would feel under many obligations to him. simon wheeler backed me into a corner and blockaded me there with his chair, and then sat down and reeled off the monotonous narrative which follows this paragraph. he never smiled he never frowned, he never changed his voice from the gentle flowing key to which he tuned his initial sentence, he never betrayed the slightest suspicion of enthusiasm; but all through the interminable narrative there ran a vein of impressive earnestness and sincerity, which showed me plainly that, so far from his imagining that there was anything ridiculous or funny about his story, he regarded it as a really important matter, and admired its two heroes as men of transcendent genius in 'finesse.' i let him go on in his own way, and never interrupted him once. "rev. leonidas w. h'm, reverend le--well, there was a feller here, once by the name of jim smiley, in the winter of ' --or maybe it was the spring of ' --i don't recollect exactly, somehow, though what makes me think it was one or the other is because i remember the big flume warn't finished when he first come to the camp; but anyway, he was the curiousest man about always betting on anything that turned up you ever see, if he could get anybody to bet on the other side; and if he couldn't he'd change sides. any way that suited the other man would suit him any way just so's he got a bet, he was satisfied. but still he was lucky, uncommon lucky; he most always come out winner. he was always ready and laying for a chance; there couldn't be no solit'ry thing mentioned but that feller'd offer to bet on it, and take any side you please, as i was just telling you. if there was a horse-race, you'd find him flush or you'd find him busted at the end of it; if there was a dog-fight, he'd bet on it; if there was a cat-fight, he'd bet on it; if there was a chicken-fight, he'd bet on it; why, if there was two birds setting on a fence, he would bet you which one would fly first; or if there was a camp-meeting, he would be there reg'lar to bet on parson walker, which he judged to be the best exhorter about here, and so he was too, and a good man. if he even see a straddle-bug start to go anywheres, he would bet you how long it would take him to get to--to wherever he was going to, and if you took him up, he would foller that straddle-bug to mexico but what he would find out where he was bound for and how long he was on the road. lots of the boys here has seen that smiley, and can tell you about him. why, it never made no difference to him--he'd bet on any thing--the dangdest feller. parson walker's wife laid very sick once, for a good while, and it seemed as if they warn't going to save her; but one morning he come in, and smiley up and asked him how she was, and he said she was considerable better--thank the lord for his inf'nite mercy--and coming on so smart that with the blessing of prov'dence she'd get well yet; and smiley, before he thought, says, 'well, i'll resk two-and-a-half she don't anyway.' "thish-yer smiley had a mare--the boys called her the fifteen-minute nag, but that was only in fun, you know, because of course she was faster than that--and he used to win money on that horse, for all she was so slow and always had the asthma, or the distemper, or the consumption, or something of that kind. they used to give her two or three hundred yards' start, and then pass her under way; but always at the fag end of the race she get excited and desperate like, and come cavorting and straddling up, and scattering her legs around limber, sometimes in the air, and sometimes out to one side among the fences, and kicking up m-o-r-e dust and raising m-o-r-e racket with her coughing and sneezing and blowing her nose--and always fetch up at the stand just about a neck ahead, as near as you could cipher it down. "and he had a little small bull-pup, that to look at him you'd think he warn't worth a cent but to set around and look ornery and lay for a chance to steal something. but as soon as money was up on him he was a different dog; his under-jaw'd begin to stick out like the fo'castle of a steamboat, and his teeth would uncover and shine like the furnaces. and a dog might tackle him and bully-rag him, and bite him, and throw him over his shoulder two or three times, and andrew jackson--which was the name of the pup--andrew jackson would never let on but what he was satisfied, and hadn't expected nothing else--and the bets being doubled and doubled on the other side all the time, till the money was all up; and then all of a sudden he would grab that other dog jest by the j'int of his hind leg and freeze to it--not chaw, you understand, but only just grip and hang on till they throwed up the sponge, if it was a year. smiley always come out winner on that pup, till he harnessed a dog once that didn't have no hind legs, because they'd been sawed off in a circular saw, and when the thing had gone along far enough, and the money was all up, and he come to make a snatch for his pet holt, he see in a minute how he'd been imposed on, and how the other dog had him in the door, so to speak, and he 'peared surprised, and then he looked sorter discouraged-like and didn't try no more to win the fight, and so he got shucked out bad. he give smiley a look, as much as to say his heart was broke, and it was his fault, for putting up a dog that hadn't no hind legs for him to take holt of, which was his main dependence in a fight, and then he limped off a piece and laid down and died. it was a good pup, was that andrew jackson, and would have made a name for hisself if he'd lived, for the stuff was in him and he had genius--i know it, because he hadn't no opportunities to speak of, and it don't stand to reason that a dog could make such a fight as he could under them circumstances if he hadn't no talent. it always makes me feel sorry when i think of that last fight of his'n, and the way it turned out. "well, thish-yer smiley had rat-tarriers, and chicken cocks, and tomcats and all them kind of things, till you couldn't rest, and you couldn't fetch nothing for him to bet on but he'd match you. he ketched a frog one day, and took him home, and said he cal'lated to educate him; and so he never done nothing for three months but set in his back yard and learn that frog to jump. and you bet you he did learn him, too. he'd give him a little punch behind, and the next minute you'd see that frog whirling in the air like a doughnut--see him turn one summerset, or maybe a couple, if he got a good start, and come down flat-footed and all right, like a cat. he got him up so in the matter of ketching flies, and kep' him in practice so constant, that he'd nail a fly every time as fur as he could see him. smiley said all a frog wanted was education, and he could do 'most anything--and i believe him. why, i've seen him set dan'l webster down here on this floor--dan'l webster was the name of the frog--and sing out, 'flies, dan'l, flies!' and quicker'n you could wink he'd spring straight up and snake a fly off'n the counter there, and flop down on the floor ag'in as solid as a gob of mud, and fall to scratching the side of his head with his hind foot as indifferent as if he hadn't no idea he'd been doin' any more'n any frog might do. you never see a frog so modest and straightfor'ard as he was, for all he was so gifted. and when it come to fair and square jumping on a dead level, he could get over more ground at one straddle than any animal of his breed you ever see. jumping on a dead level was his strong suit, you understand; and when it come to that, smiley would ante up money on him as long as he had a red. smiley was monstrous proud of his frog, and well he might be, for fellers that had traveled and been everywheres all said he laid over any frog that ever they see. "well, smiley kep' the beast in a little lattice box, and he used to fetch him down-town sometimes and lay for a bet. one day a feller --a stranger in the camp, he was--come acrost him with his box, and says: "'what might it be that you've got in the box?' "and smiley says, sorter indifferent-like, 'it might be a parrot, or it might be a canary, maybe, but it ain't--it's only just a frog.' "and the feller took it, and looked at it careful, and turned it round this way and that, and says, 'h'm--so 'tis. well, what's he good for. "'well,' smiley says, easy and careless, 'he's good enough for one thing, i should judge--he can outjump any frog in calaveras county. "the feller took the box again, and took another long, particular look, and give it back to smiley, and says, very deliberate, 'well,' he says, 'i don't see no pints about that frog that's any better'n any other frog.' "'maybe you don't,' smiley says. 'maybe you understand frogs and maybe you don't understand 'em; maybe you've had experience, and maybe you ain't only a amature, as it were. anyways, i've got my opinion, and i'll resk forty dollars the he can outjump any frog in calaveras county.' "and the feller studied a minute, and then says, kinder sad-like, 'well, i'm only a, stranger here, and i ain't got no frog; but if i had a frog, i'd bet you. "and then smiley says, 'that's all right--that's all right if you'll hold my box a minute, i'll go and get you a frog.' any so the feller took the box, and put up his forty dollars along with smiley's, and set down to wait. "so he set there a good while thinking and thinking to himself and then he got the frog out and prized his mouth open and took a teaspoon and filled him full of quail-shot-filled him pretty near up to his chin--and set him on the floor. smiley he went to the swamp and slopped around in the mud for a long time, and finally he ketched a frog, and fetched him in, and give him to this feller and says: "'now, if you're ready, set him alongside of dan'l, with his fore paws just even with dan'l's, and i'll give the word.' then he says, 'one-two-three--git' and him and the feller touches up the frogs from behind, and the new frog hopped off lively but dan'l give a heave, and hysted up his shoulders---so-like a frenchman, but it warn't no use--he couldn't budge; he was planted as solid as a church, and he couldn't no more stir than if he was anchored out. smiley was a good deal surprised, and he was disgusted too, but he didn't have no idea what the matter was of course. "the teller took the money and started away; and when he was going out at the door, he sorter jerked his thumb over his shoulder--so--at dan'l, and says again, very deliberate, 'well,' he says, 'i don't see no pints about that frog that's any better'n any other frog.' "smiley he stood scratching his head and looking down at dan'l a long time, and at last he says, 'i do wonder what in the nation that frog throw'd off for--i wonder if there ain't something the matter with him --he 'pears to look mighty baggy, somehow.' and he ketched dan'l by the nap of the neck, and hefted him, and says, 'why blame my cats if he don't weigh five pound!' and turned him upside down and he belched out a double handful of shot. and then he see how it was, and he was the maddest man --he set the frog down and took out after that feller, but he never ketched him. and--" [here simon wheeler heard his name called from the front yard, and got up to see what was wanted.] and turning to me as he moved away, he said: "just set where you are, stranger, and rest easy--i ain't going to be gone a second." but, by your leave, i did not think that a continuation of the history of the enterprising vagabond jim smiley would be likely to afford me much information concerning the rev. leonidas w. smiley, and so i started away. at the door i met the sociable wheeler returning, and he buttonholed me and recommenced: "well, thish-yer smiley had a yaller one-eyed cow that didn't have no tail, only just a short stump like a bannanner, and--" however, lacking both time and inclination, i did not wait to hear about the afflicted cow, but took my leave. now let the learned look upon this picture and say if iconoclasm can further go: [from the revue des deux mondes, of july th, .] ....................... the jumping frog "--il y avait, une fois ici un individu connu sous le nom de jim smiley: c'etait dans l'hiver de , peut-etre bien au printemps de , je ne me reappelle pas exactement. ce qui me fait croire que c'etait l'un ou l'autre, c'est que je me souviens que le grand bief n'etait pas acheve lorsqu'il arriva au camp pour la premiere fois, mais de toutes facons il etait l'homme le plus friand de paris qui se put voir, pariant sur tout ce qui se presentaat, quand il pouvait trouver un adversaire, et, quand n'en trouvait pas il passait du cote oppose. tout ce qui convenaiat l'autre lui convenait; pourvu qu'il eut un pari, smiley etait satisfait. et il avait une chance! une chance inouie: presque toujours il gagnait. it faut dire qu'il etait toujours pret a'exposer, qu'on ne pouvait mentionner la moindre chose sans que ce gaillard offrit de parier la-dessus n'importe quoi et de prendre le cote que l'on voudrait, comme je vous le disais tout a l'heure. s'il y avait des courses, vous le trouviez riche ou ruine a la fin; s'il y avait un combat de chiens, il apportait son enjeu; il l'apportait pour un combat de chats, pour un combat de coqs;--parbleu! si vous aviez vu deux oiseaux sur une haie il vous aurait offert de parier lequel s'envolerait le premier, et s'il y aviat 'meeting' au camp, il venait parier regulierement pour le cure walker, qu'il jugeait etre le meilleur predicateur des environs, et qui l'etait en effet, et un brave homme. il aurai rencontre une punaise de bois en chemin, qu'il aurait parie sur le temps qu'il lui faudrait pour aller ou elle voudrait aller, et si vous l'aviez pris au mot, it aurait suivi la punaise jusqu'au mexique, sans se soucier d'aller si loin, ni du temps qu'il y perdrait. une fois la femme du cure walker fut tres malade pendant longtemps, il semblait qu'on ne la sauverait pas; mai un matin le cure arrive, et smiley lui demande comment ella va et il dit qu'elle est bien mieux, grace a l'infinie misericorde tellement mieux qu'avec la benediction de la providence elle s'en tirerait, et voila que, sans y penser, smiley repond:--eh bien! ye gage deux et demi qu'elle mourra tout de meme. "ce smiley avait une jument que les gars appelaient le bidet du quart d'heure, mais seulement pour plaisanter, vous comprenez, parse que, bien entendu, elle etait plus vite que ca! et il avait coutume de gagner de l'argent avec cette bete, quoi-qu'elle fut poussive, cornarde, toujours prise d'asthme, de colique ou de consomption, ou de quelque chose d'approchant. on lui donnait ou 'yards' au depart, puffs on la depassait sans peine; mais jamais a la fin elle ne manquait de s'echauffer, de s'exasperer et elle arrivait, s'ecartant, se defendant, ses jambes greles en l'ai devant les obstacles, quelquefois les evitant et faisant avec cela plus de poussiare qu'aucun cheval, plus de bruit surtout avec ses eternumens et reniflemens.---crac! elle arrivaat donc toujour premiere d'une tete, aussi juste qu'on peut le mesurer. et il avait un petit bouledogue qui, a le voir, ne valait pas un sou; on aurait cru que parier contre lui c'etait voler, tant il etait ordinaire; mais aussitot les enjeux faits, il devenait un autre chien. sa machoire inferieure commencait a ressortir comme un gaillard d'avant, ses dents se decouvcraient brillantes commes des fournaises, et un chien pouvait le taquiner, l'exciter, le mordre, le jeter deux ou trois fois par-dessus son epaule, andre jackson, c'etait le nom du chien, andre jackson prenait cela tranquillement, comme s'il ne se fut jamais attendu a autre chose, et quand les paris etaient doubles et redoubles contre lui, il vous saisissait l'autre chien juste a l'articulation de la jambe de derriere, et il ne la lachait plus, non pas qu'il la machat, vous concevez, mais il s'y serait tenu pendu jusqu'a ce qu'on jetat l'eponge en l'air, fallut-il attendre un an. smiley gagnait toujours avec cette bete-la; malheureusement ils ont fini par dresser un chien qui n'avait pas de pattes de derriere, parce qu'on les avait sciees, et quand les choses furent au point qu'il voulait, et qu'il en vint a se jeter sur son morceau favori, le pauvre chien comprit en un instant qu'on s'etait moque de lui, et que l'autre le tenait. vous n'avez jamais vu personne avoir l'air plus penaud et plus decourage; il ne fit aucun effort pour gagner le combat et fut rudement secoue, de sorte que, regardant smiley comme pour lui dire:--mon coeur est brise, c'est to faute; pourquoi m'avoir livre a un chien qui n'a pas de pattes de derriere, puisque c'est par la que je les bats?--il s'en alla en clopinant, et se coucha pour mourir. ah! c'etait un bon chien, cet andre jackson, et il se serait fait un nom, s'il avait vecu, car il y avait de l'etoffe en lui, il avait du genie, je la sais, bien que de grandes occasions lui aient manque; mais il est impossible de supposer qu'un chien capable de se battre comme lui, certaines circonstances etant donnees, ait manque de talent. je me sens triste toutes les fois que je pense a son dernier combat et au denoument qu'il a eu. eh bien! ce smiley nourrissait des terriers a rats, et des coqs combat, et des chats, et toute sorte de choses, au point qu'il etait toujours en mesure de vous tenir tete, et qu'avec sa rage de paris on n'avait plus de repos. il attrapa un jour une grenouille et l'emporta chez lui, disant qu'il pretendait faire son education; vous me croirez si vous voulez, mais pendant trois mois il n'a rien fait que lui apprendre a sauter dans une cour retire de sa maison. et je vous reponds qu'il avait reussi. il lui donnait un petit coup par derriere, et l'instant d'apres vous voyiez la grenouille tourner en l'air comme un beignet au-dessus de la poele, faire une culbute, quelquefois deux, lorsqu'elle etait bien partie, et retomber sur ses pattes comme un chat. il l'avait dressee dans l'art de gober des mouches, er l'y exercait continuellement, si bien qu'une mouche, du plus loin qu'elle apparaissait, etait une mouche perdue. smiley avait coutume de dire que tout ce qui manquait a une grenouille, c'etait l'education, qu'avec l'education elle pouvait faire presque tout, et je le crois. tenez, je l'ai vu poser daniel webster la sur se plancher,--daniel webster etait le nom de la grenouille,--et lui chanter: des mouches! daniel, des mouches!--en un clin d'oeil, daniel avait bondi et saisi une mouche ici sur le comptoir, puis saute de nouveau par terre, ou il restait vraiment a se gratter la tete avec sa patte de derriere, comme s'il n'avait pas eu la moindre idee de sa superiorite. jamais vous n'avez grenouille vu de aussi modeste, aussi naturelle, douee comme elle l'etait! et quand il s'agissait de sauter purement et simplement sur terrain plat, elle faisait plus de chemin en un saut qu'aucune bete de son espece que vous puissiez connaitre. sauter a plat, c'etait son fort! quand il s'agissait de cela, smiley en tassait les enjeux sur elle tant qu'il lui, restait un rouge liard. il faut le reconnaitre, smiley etait monstrueusement fier de sa grenouille, et il en avait le droit, car des gens qui avaient voyage, qui avaient tout vu, disaient qu'on lui ferait injure de la comparer a une autre; de facon que smiley gardait daniel dans une petite boite a claire-voie qu'il emportait parfois a la ville pour quelque pari. "un jour, un individu etranger au camp l'arrete aver sa boite et lui dit:--qu'est-ce que vous avez donc serre la dedans? "smiley dit d'un air indifferent:--cela pourrait etre un perroquet ou un serin, mais ce n'est rien de pareil, ce n'est qu'une grenouille. "l'individu la prend, la regarde avec soin, la tourne d'un cote et de l'autre puis il dit.--tiens! en effet! a quoi estelle bonne? "--mon dieu! repond smiley, toujours d'un air degage, elle est bonne pour une chose a mon avis, elle peut battre en sautant toute grenouille du comte de calaveras. "l'individu reprend la boite, l'examine de nouveau longuement, et la rend a smiley en disant d'un air delibere:--eh bien! je ne vois pas que cette grenouille ait rien de mieux qu'aucune grenouille. "--possible qua vous ne le voyiez pat, dit smiley, possible que vous vous entendiez en grenouilles, possible que vous ne vous y entendez point, possible qua vous avez de l'experience, et possible que vous ne soyez qu'un amateur. de toute maniere, je parie quarante dollars qu'elle battra en sautant n'importe quelle grenouille du comte de calaveras. "l'individu reflechit one seconde et dit comma attriste:--je ne suis qu'un etranger ici, je n'ai pas de grenouille; mais, si j'en avais une, je tiendrais le pari. "--fort bien! repond smiley. rien de plus facile. si vous voulez tenir ma boite one minute, j'irai vous chercher une grenouille.--voile donc l'individu qui garde la boite, qui met ses quarante dollars sur ceux de smiley et qui attend. il attend assez longtemps, reflechissant tout seul, et figurez-vous qu'il prend daniel, lui ouvre la bouche de force at avec une cuiller a the l'emplit de menu plomb de chasse, mail l'emplit jusqu'au menton, puis il le pose par terre. smiley pendant ce temps etait a barboter dans une mare. finalement il attrape une grenouille, l'apporte cet individu et dit:--maintenant, si vous etes pret, mettez-la tout contra daniel, avec leurs pattes de devant sur la meme ligne, et je donnerai le signal; puis il ajoute:--un, deux, trois, sautez! "lui et l'individu touchent leurs grenouilles par derriere, et la grenouille neuve se met h sautiller, mais daniel se souleve lourdement, hausse les epaules ainsi, comma un francais; a quoi bon? il ne pouvait bouger, il etait plante solide comma une enclume, il n'avancait pas plus que si on l'eut mis a l'ancre. smiley fut surpris et degoute, mais il ne se doutait pas du tour, bien entendu. l'individu empoche l'argent, s'en va, et en s'en allant est-ce qu'il ne donna pas un coup de pouce pardessus l'epaule, comma ca, au pauvre daniel, en disant de son air delibere:--eh bien! je ne vois pas qua cette grenouille ait rien de muiex qu'une autre. "smiley se gratta longtemps la tete, les yeux fixes sur daniel; jusqu'a ce qu'enfin il dit:--je me demande comment diable il se fait qua cette bite ait refuse, . . . est-ce qu'elle aurait quelque chose? . . . on croirait qu'elle est enflee. "il empoigne daniel par la peau du coo, le souleve et dit:--le loup me croque, s'il ne pese pas cinq livres. "il le retourne, et le malheureux crache deux poignees de plomb. quand smiley reconnut ce qui en etait, il fut comme fou. vous le voyez d'ici poser sa grenouille par terra et courir apres cet individu, mais il ne le rattrapa jamais, et ...." [translation of the above back from the french:] the frog jumping of the county of calaveras it there was one time here an individual known under the name of jim smiley; it was in the winter of ' , possibly well at the spring of ' , i no me recollect not exactly. this which me makes to believe that it was the one or the other, it is that i shall remember that the grand flume is not achieved when he arrives at the camp for the first time, but of all sides he was the man the most fond of to bet which one have seen, betting upon all that which is presented, when he could find an adversary; and when he not of it could not, he passed to the side opposed. all that which convenienced to the other to him convenienced also; seeing that he had a bet smiley was satisfied. and he had a chance! a chance even worthless; nearly always he gained. it must to say that he was always near to himself expose, but one no could mention the least thing without that this gaillard offered to bet the bottom, no matter what, and to take the side that one him would, as i you it said all at the hour (tout a l'heure). if it there was of races, you him find rich or ruined at the end; if it, here is a combat of dogs, he bring his bet; he himself laid always for a combat of cats, for a combat of cocks --by-blue! if you have see two birds upon a fence, he you should have offered of to bet which of those birds shall fly the first; and if there is meeting at the camp (meeting au camp) he comes to bet regularly for the cure walker, which he judged to be the best predicator of the neighborhood (predicateur des environs) and which he was in effect, and a brave man. he would encounter a bug of wood in the road, whom he will bet upon the time which he shall take to go where she would go--and if you him have take at the word, he will follow the bug as far as mexique, without himself caring to go so far; neither of the time which he there lost. one time the woman of the cure walker is very sick during long time, it seemed that one not her saved not; but one morning the cure arrives, and smiley him demanded how she goes, and he said that she is well better, grace to the infinite misery (lui demande comment elle va, et il dit qu'elle est bien mieux, grace a l'infinie misericorde) so much better that with the benediction of the providence she herself of it would pull out (elle s'en tirerait); and behold that without there thinking smiley responds: "well, i gage two-and-half that she will die all of same." this smiley had an animal which the boys called the nag of the quarter of hour, but solely for pleasantry, you comprehend, because, well understand, she was more fast as that! [now why that exclamation?--m. t.] and it was custom of to gain of the silver with this beast, notwithstanding she was poussive, cornarde, always taken of asthma, of colics or of consumption, or something of approaching. one him would give two or three hundred yards at the departure, then one him passed without pain; but never at the last she not fail of herself echauffer, of herself exasperate, and she arrives herself ecartant, se defendant, her legs greles in the air before the obstacles, sometimes them elevating and making with this more of dust than any horse, more of noise above with his eternumens and reniflemens--crac! she arrives then always first by one head, as just as one can it measure. and he had a small bulldog (bouledogue!) who, to him see, no value, not a cent; one would believe that to bet against him it was to steal, so much he was ordinary; but as soon as the game made, she becomes another dog. her jaw inferior commence to project like a deck of before, his teeth themselves discover brilliant like some furnaces, and a dog could him tackle (le taquiner), him excite, him murder (le mordre), him throw two or three times over his shoulder, andre jackson--this was the name of the dog--andre jackson takes that tranquilly, as if he not himself was never expecting other thing, and when the bets were doubled and redoubled against him, he you seize the other dog just at the articulation of the leg of behind, and he not it leave more, not that he it masticate, you conceive, but he himself there shall be holding during until that one throws the sponge in the air, must he wait a year. smiley gained always with this beast-la; unhappily they have finished by elevating a dog who no had not of feet of behind, because one them had sawed; and when things were at the point that he would, and that he came to himself throw upon his morsel favorite, the poor dog comprehended in an instant that he himself was deceived in him, and that the other dog him had. you no have never seen person having the air more penaud and more discouraged; he not made no effort to gain the combat, and was rudely shucked. eh bien! this smiley nourished some terriers a rats, and some cocks of combat, and some pats, and all sorts of things; and with his rage of betting one no had more of repose. he trapped one day a frog and him imported with him (et l'emporta chez lui) saying that he pretended to make his education. you me believe if you will, but during three months he not has nothing done but to him apprehend to jump (apprendre a sauter) in a court retired of her mansion (de sa maison). and i you respond that he have succeeded. he him gives a small blow by behind, and the instant after you shall see the frog turn in the air like a grease-biscuit, make one summersault, sometimes two, when she was well started, and refall upon his feet like a cat. he him had accomplished in the art of to gobble the flies (gober des mouches), and him there exercised continually --so well that a fly at the most far that she appeared was a fly lost. smiley had custom to say that all which lacked to a frog it was the education, but with the education she could do nearly all--and i him believe. tenez, i him have seen pose daniel webster there upon this plank--daniel webster was the name of the frog--and to him sing, "some flies, daniel, some fifes!"--in a flash of the eye daniel had bounded and seized a fly here upon the counter, then jumped anew at the earth, where he rested truly to himself scratch the head with his behind foot, as if he no had not the least idea of his superiority. never you not have seen frog as modest, as natural, sweet as she was. and when he himself agitated to jump purely and simply upon plain earth, she does more ground in one jump than any beast of his species than you can know. to jump plain-this was his strong. when he himself agitated for that, smiley multiplied the bets upon her as long as there to him remained a red. it must to know, smiley was monstrously proud of his frog, and he of it was right, for some men who were traveled, who had all seen, said that they to him would be injurious to him compare, to another frog. smiley guarded daniel in a little box latticed which he carried bytimes to the village for some bet. one day an individual stranger at the camp him arrested with his box and him said: "what is this that you have them shut up there within?" smiley said, with an air indifferent: "that could be a paroquet, or a syringe (ou un serin), but this no is nothing of such, it not is but a frog." the individual it took, it regarded with care, it turned from one side and from the other, then he said: "tiens! in effect!--at what is she good?" "my god!" respond smiley, always with an air disengaged, "she is good for one thing, to my notice (a mon avis), she can better in jumping (elle pent battre en sautant) all frogs of the county of calaveras." the individual retook the box, it examined of new longly, and it rendered to smiley in saying with an air deliberate: "eh bien! i no saw not that that frog had nothing of better than each frog." (je ne vois pas que cette grenouille ait rien de mieux qu'aucune grenouille.) [if that isn't grammar gone to seed, then i count myself no judge.--m. t.] "possible that you not it saw not," said smiley, "possible that you--you comprehend frogs; possible that you not you there comprehend nothing; possible that you had of the experience, and possible that you not be but an amateur. of all manner (de toute maniere) i bet forty dollars that she better in jumping no matter which frog of the county of calaveras." the individual reflected a second, and said like sad: "i not am but a stranger here, i no have not a frog; but if i of it had one, i would embrace the bet." "strong well!" respond smiley; "nothing of more facility. if you will hold my box a minute, i go you to search a frog (j'irai vous chercher)." behold, then, the individual, who guards the box, who puts his forty dollars upon those of smiley, and who attends (et qui attend). he attended enough long times, reflecting all solely. and figure you that he takes daniel, him opens the mouth by force and with a teaspoon him fills with shot of the hunt, even him fills just to the chin, then he him puts by the earth. smiley during these times was at slopping in a swamp. finally he trapped (attrape) a frog, him carried to that individual, and said: "now if you be ready, put him all against daniel with their before feet upon the same line, and i give the signal"--then he added: "one, two, three--advance!" him and the individual touched their frogs by behind, and the frog new put to jump smartly, but daniel himself lifted ponderously, exalted the shoulders thus, like a frenchman--to what good? he not could budge, he is planted solid like a church he not advance no more than if one him had put at the anchor. smiley was surprised and disgusted, but he no himself doubted not of the turn being intended (mais il ne se doutait pas du tour, bien entendu). the individual empocketed the silver, himself with it went, and of it himself in going is it that he no gives not a jerk of thumb over the shoulder--like that--at the poor daniel, in saying with his air deliberate--(l'individu empoche l'argent, s'en va et en s'en allant est-ce qu'il ne donne pas un coup d pouce par-dessus l'epaule, comme ga, au pauvre daniel, en disant de son air delibere): "eh bien! i no see not that that frog has nothin of better than another." smiley himself scratched longtimes the head, the eyes fixed upon daniel, until that which at last he said: "i me demand how the devil it makes itself that this beast has refused. is it that she had something? one would believe that she is stuffed." he grasped daniel by the skin of the neck, him lifted and said: "the wolf me bite if he no weigh not five pounds:" he him reversed and the unhappy belched two handfuls of shot (et le malheureux, etc.). when smiley recognized how it was, he was like mad. he deposited his frog by the earth and ran after that individual, but he not him caught never. such is the jumping frog, to the distorted french eye. i claim that i never put together such an odious mixture of bad grammar and delirium tremens in my life. and what has a poor foreigner like me done, to be abused and misrepresented like this? when i say, "well, i don't see no pints about that frog that's any better'n any other frog," is it kind, is it just, for this frenchman to try to make it appear that i said, "eh bien! i no saw not that that frog had nothing of better than each frog"? i have no heart to write more. i never felt so about anything before. hartford, march, . journalism in tennessee--[written about .] the editor of the memphis avalanche swoops thus mildly down upon a correspondent who posted him as a radical:--"while he was writing the first word, the middle, dotting his i's, crossing his t's, and punching his period, he knew he was concocting a sentence that was saturated with infamy and reeking with falsehood."--exchange. i was told by the physician that a southern climate would improve my health, and so i went down to tennessee, and got a berth on the morning glory and johnson county war-whoop as associate editor. when i went on duty i found the chief editor sitting tilted back in a three-legged chair with his feet on a pine table. there was another pine table in the room and another afflicted chair, and both were half buried under newspapers and scraps and sheets of manuscript. there was a wooden box of sand, sprinkled with cigar stubs and "old soldiers," and a stove with a door hanging by its upper hinge. the chief editor had a long-tailed black cloth frock-coat on, and white linen pants. his boots were small and neatly blacked. he wore a ruffled shirt, a large seal-ring, a standing collar of obsolete pattern, and a checkered neckerchief with the ends hanging down. date of costume about . he was smoking a cigar, and trying to think of a word, and in pawing his hair he had rumpled his locks a good deal. he was scowling fearfully, and i judged that he was concocting a particularly knotty editorial. he told me to take the exchanges and skim through them and write up the "spirit of the tennessee press," condensing into the article all of their contents that seemed of interest. i wrote as follows: spirit of the tennessee press the editors of the semi-weekly earthquake evidently labor under a misapprehension with regard to the dallyhack railroad. it is not the object of the company to leave buzzardville off to one side. on the contrary, they consider it one of the most important points along the line, and consequently can have no desire to slight it. the gentlemen of the earthquake will, of course, take pleasure in making the correction. john w. blossom, esq., the able editor of the higginsville thunderbolt and battle cry of freedom, arrived in the city yesterday. he is stopping at the van buren house. we observe that our contemporary of the mud springs morning howl has fallen into the error of supposing that the election of van werter is not an established fact, but he will have discovered his mistake before this reminder reaches him, no doubt. he was doubtless misled by incomplete election returns. it is pleasant to note that the city of blathersville is endeavoring to contract with some new york gentlemen to pave its well-nigh impassable streets with the nicholson pavement. the daily hurrah urges the measure with ability, and seems confident of ultimate success. i passed my manuscript over to the chief editor for acceptance, alteration, or destruction. he glanced at it and his face clouded. he ran his eye down the pages, and his countenance grew portentous. it was easy to see that something was wrong. presently he sprang up and said: "thunder and lightning! do you suppose i am going to speak of those cattle that way? do you suppose my subscribers are going to stand such gruel as that? give me the pen!" i never saw a pen scrape and scratch its way so viciously, or plow through another man's verbs and adjectives so relentlessly. while he was in the midst of his work, somebody shot at him through the open window, and marred the symmetry of my ear. "ah," said he, "that is that scoundrel smith, of the moral volcano--he was due yesterday." and he snatched a navy revolver from his belt and fired--smith dropped, shot in the thigh. the shot spoiled smith's aim, who was just taking a second chance and he crippled a stranger. it was me. merely a finger shot off. then the chief editor went on with his erasure; and interlineations. just as he finished them a hand grenade came down the stove-pipe, and the explosion shivered the stove into a thousand fragments. however, it did no further damage, except that a vagrant piece knocked a couple of my teeth out. "that stove is utterly ruined," said the chief editor. i said i believed it was. "well, no matter--don't want it this kind of weather. i know the man that did it. i'll get him. now, here is the way this stuff ought to be written." i took the manuscript. it was scarred with erasures and interlineations till its mother wouldn't have known it if it had had one. it now read as follows: spirit of the tennessee press the inveterate liars of the semi-weekly earthquake are evidently endeavoring to palm off upon a noble and chivalrous people another of their vile and brutal falsehoods with regard to that most glorious conception of the nineteenth century, the ballyhack railroad. the idea that buzzardville was to be left off at one side originated in their own fulsome brains--or rather in the settlings which they regard as brains. they had better, swallow this lie if they want to save their abandoned reptile carcasses the cowhiding they so richly deserve. that ass, blossom, of the higginsville thunderbolt and battle cry of freedom, is down here again sponging at the van buren. we observe that the besotted blackguard of the mud springs morning howl is giving out, with his usual propensity for lying, that van werter is not elected. the heaven-born mission of journalism is to disseminate truth; to eradicate error; to educate, refine, and elevate the tone of public morals and manners, and make all men more gentle, more virtuous, more charitable, and in all ways better, and holier, and happier; and yet this blackhearted scoundrel degrades his great office persistently to the dissemination of falsehood, calumny, vituperation, and vulgarity. blathersville wants a nicholson pavement--it wants a jail and a poorhouse more. the idea of a pavement in a one-horse town composed of two gin-mills, a blacksmith shop, and that mustard-plaster of a newspaper, the daily hurrah! the crawling insect, buckner, who edits the hurrah, is braying about his business with his customary imbecility, and imagining that he is talking sense. "now that is the way to write--peppery and to the point. mush-and-milk journalism gives me the fan-tods." about this time a brick came through the window with a splintering crash, and gave me a considerable of a jolt in the back. i moved out of range --i began to feel in the way. the chief said, "that was the colonel, likely. i've been expecting him for two days. he will be up now right away." he was correct. the colonel appeared in the door a moment afterward with a dragoon revolver in his hand. he said, "sir, have i the honor of addressing the poltroon who edits this mangy sheet?" "you have. be seated, sir. be careful of the chair, one of its legs is gone. i believe i have the honor of addressing the putrid liar, colonel blatherskite tecumseh?" "right, sir. i have a little account to settle with you. if you are at leisure we will begin." "i have an article on the 'encouraging progress of moral and intellectual development in america' to finish, but there is no hurry. begin." both pistols rang out their fierce clamor at the same instant. the chief lost a lock of his hair, and the colonel's bullet ended its career in the fleshy part of my thigh. the colonel's left shoulder was clipped a little. they fired again. both missed their men this time, but i got my share, a shot in the arm. at the third fire both gentlemen were wounded slightly, and i had a knuckle chipped. i then said, i believed i would go out and take a walk, as this was a private matter, and i had a delicacy about participating in it further. but both gentlemen begged me to keep my seat, and assured me that i was not in the way. they then talked about the elections and the crops while they reloaded, and i fell to tying up my wounds. but presently they opened fire again with animation, and every shot took effect--but it is proper to remark that five out of the six fell to my share. the sixth one mortally wounded the colonel, who remarked, with fine humor, that he would have to say good morning now, as he had business uptown. he then inquired the way to the undertaker's and left. the chief turned to me and said, "i am expecting company to dinner, and shall have to get ready. it will be a favor to me if you will read proof and attend to the customers." i winced a little at the idea of attending to the customers, but i was too bewildered by the fusillade that was still ringing in my ears to think of anything to say. he continued, "jones will be here at three--cowhide him. gillespie will call earlier, perhaps--throw him out of the window. ferguson will be along about four--kill him. that is all for today, i believe. if you have any odd time, you may write a blistering article on the police--give the chief inspector rats. the cowhides are under the table; weapons in the drawer--ammunition there in the corner--lint and bandages up there in the pigeonholes. in case of accident, go to lancet, the surgeon, downstairs. he advertises--we take it out in trade." he was gone. i shuddered. at the end of the next three hours i had been through perils so awful that all peace of mind and all cheerfulness were gone from me. gillespie had called and thrown me out of the window. jones arrived promptly, and when i got ready to do the cowhiding he took the job off my hands. in an encounter with a stranger, not in the bill of fare, i had lost my scalp. another stranger, by the name of thompson, left me a mere wreck and ruin of chaotic rags. and at last, at bay in the corner, and beset by an infuriated mob of editors, blacklegs, politicians, and desperadoes, who raved and swore and flourished their weapons about my head till the air shimmered with glancing flashes of steel, i was in the act of resigning my berth on the paper when the chief arrived, and with him a rabble of charmed and enthusiastic friends. then ensued a scene of riot and carnage such as no human pen, or steel one either, could describe. people were shot, probed, dismembered, blown up, thrown out of the window. there was a brief tornado of murky blasphemy, with a confused and frantic war-dance glimmering through it, and then all was over. in five minutes there was silence, and the gory chief and i sat alone and surveyed the sanguinary ruin that strewed the floor around us. he said, "you'll like this place when you get used to it." i said, "i'll have to get you to excuse me; i think maybe i might write to suit you after a while; as soon as i had had some practice and learned the language i am confident i could. but, to speak the plain truth, that sort of energy of expression has its inconveniences, and a, man is liable to interruption. "you see that yourself. vigorous writing is calculated to elevate the public, no doubt, but then i do not like to attract so much attention as it calls forth. i can't write with comfort when i am interrupted so much as i have been to-day. i like this berth well enough, but i don't like to be left here to wait on the customers. the experiences are novel, i grant you, and entertaining, too, after a fashion, but they are not judiciously distributed. a gentleman shoots at you through the window and cripples me; a bombshell comes down the stovepipe for your gratification and sends the stove door down my throat; a friend drops in to swap compliments with you, and freckles me with bullet-holes till my skin won't hold my principles; you go to dinner, and jones comes with his cowhide, gillespie throws me out of the window, thompson tears all my clothes off, and an entire stranger takes my scalp with the easy freedom of an old acquaintance; and in less than five minutes all the blackguards in the country arrive in their war-paint, and proceed to scare the rest of me to death with their tomahawks. take it altogether, i never had such a spirited time in all my life as i have had to-day. no; i like you, and i like your calm unruffled way of explaining things to the customers, but you see i am not used to it. the southern heart is too impulsive; southern hospitality is too lavish with the stranger. the paragraphs which i have written to-day, and into whose cold sentences your masterly hand has infused the fervent spirit of tennesseean journalism, will wake up another nest of hornets. all that mob of editors will come--and they will come hungry, too, and want somebody for breakfast. i shall have to bid you adieu. i decline to be present at these festivities. i came south for my health, i will go back on the same errand, and suddenly. tennesseean journalism is too stirring for me." after which we parted with mutual regret, and i took apartments at the hospital. the story of the bad little boy--[written about ] once there was a bad little boy whose name was jim--though, if you will notice, you will find that bad little boys are nearly always called james in your sunday-school books. it was strange, but still it was true, that this one was called jim. he didn't have any sick mother, either--a sick mother who was pious and had the consumption, and would be glad to lie down in the grave and be at rest but for the strong love she bore her boy, and the anxiety she felt that the world might be harsh and cold toward him when she was gone. most bad boys in the sunday books are named james, and have sick mothers, who teach them to say, "now, i lay me down," etc., and sing them to sleep with sweet, plaintive voices, and then kiss them good night, and kneel down by the bedside and weep. but it was different with this fellow. he was named jim, and there wasn't anything the matter with his mother --no consumption, nor anything of that kind. she was rather stout than otherwise, and she was not pious; moreover, she was not anxious on jim's account. she said if he were to break his neck it wouldn't be much loss. she always spanked jim to sleep, and she never kissed him good night; on the contrary, she boxed his ears when she was ready to leave him. once this little bad boy stole the key of the pantry, and slipped in there and helped himself to some jam, and filled up the vessel with tar, so that his mother would never know the difference; but all at once a terrible feeling didn't come over him, and something didn't seem to whisper to him, "is it right to disobey my mother? isn't it sinful to do this? where do bad little boys go who gobble up their good kind mother's jam?" and then he didn't kneel down all alone and promise never to be wicked any more, and rise up with a light, happy heart, and go and tell his mother all about it, and beg her forgiveness, and be blessed by her with tears of pride and thankfulness in her eyes. no; that is the way with all other bad boys in the books; but it happened otherwise with this jim, strangely enough. he ate that jam, and said it was bully, in his sinful, vulgar way; and he put in the tar, and said that was bully also, and laughed, and observed "that the old woman would get up and snort" when she found it out; and when she did find it out, he denied knowing anything about it, and she whipped him severely, and he did the crying himself. everything about this boy was curious--everything turned out differently with him from the way it does to the bad jameses in the books. once he climbed up in farmer acorn's apple tree to steal apples, and the limb didn't break, and he didn't fall and break his arm, and get torn by the farmer's great dog, and then languish on a sickbed for weeks, and repent and become good. oh, no; he stole as many apples as he wanted and came down all right; and he was all ready for the dog, too, and knocked him endways with a brick when he came to tear him. it was very strange --nothing like it ever happened in those mild little books with marbled backs, and with pictures in them of men with swallow-tailed coats and bell-crowned hats, and pantaloons that are short in the legs, and women with the waists of their dresses under their arms, and no hoops on. nothing like it in any of the sunday-school books. once he stole the teacher's penknife, and, when he was afraid it would be found out and he would get whipped, he slipped it into george wilson's cap poor widow wilson's son, the moral boy, the good little boy of the village, who always obeyed his mother, and never told an untruth, and was fond of his lessons, and infatuated with sunday-school. and when the knife dropped from the cap, and poor george hung his head and blushed, as if in conscious guilt, and the grieved teacher charged the theft upon him, and was just in the very act of bringing the switch down upon his trembling shoulders, a white-haired, improbable justice of the peace did not suddenly appear in their midst, and strike an attitude and say, "spare this noble boy--there stands the cowering culprit! i was passing the school door at recess, and, unseen myself, i saw the theft committed!" and then jim didn't get whaled, and the venerable justice didn't read the tearful school a homily, and take george by the hand and say such boy deserved to be exalted, and then tell him come and make his home with him, and sweep out the office, and make fires, and run errands, and chop wood, and study law, and help his wife do household labors, and have all the balance of the time to play and get forty cents a month, and be happy. no it would have happened that way in the books, but didn't happen that way to jim. no meddling old clam of a justice dropped in to make trouble, and so the model boy george got thrashed, and jim was glad of it because, you know, jim hated moral boys. jim said he was "down on them milksops." such was the coarse language of this bad, neglected boy. but the strangest thing that ever happened to jim was the time he went boating on sunday, and didn't get drowned, and that other time that he got caught out in the storm when he was fishing on sunday and didn't get struck by lightning. why, you might look, and look, all through the sunday-school books from now till next christmas, and you would never come across anything like this. oh, no; you would find that all the bad boys who go boating on sunday invariably get drowned; and all the bad boys who get caught out in storms when they are fishing on sunday infallibly get struck by lightning. boats with bad boys in them always upset on sunday, and it always storms when bad boys go fishing on the sabbath. how this jim ever escaped is a mystery to me. this jim bore a charmed life--that must have been the way of it. nothing could hurt him. he even gave the elephant in the menagerie a plug of tobacco, and the elephant didn't knock the top of his head off with his trunk. he browsed around the cupboard after essence-of peppermint, and didn't make a mistake and drink aqua fortis. he stole his father's gun and went hunting on the sabbath, and didn't shoot three or four of his fingers off. he struck his little sister on the temple with his fist when he was angry, and she didn't linger in pain through long summer days, and die with sweet words of forgiveness upon her lips that redoubled the anguish of his breaking heart. no; she got over it. he ran off and went to sea at last, and didn't come back and find himself sad and alone in the world, his loved ones sleeping in the quiet churchyard, and the vine-embowered home of his boyhood tumbled down and gone to decay. ah, no; he came home as drunk as a piper, and got into the station-house the first thing. and he grew up and married, and raised a large family, and brained them all with an ax one night, and got wealthy by all manner of cheating and rascality; and now he is the infernalest wickedest scoundrel in his native village, and is universally respected, and belongs to the legislature. so you see there never was a bad james in the sunday-school books that had such a streak of luck as this sinful jim with the charmed life. the story of the good little boy--[written about ] once there was a good little boy by the name of jacob blivens. he always obeyed his parents, no matter how absurd and unreasonable their demands were; and he always learned his book, and never was late at sabbath-school. he would not play hookey, even when his sober judgment told him it was the most profitable thing he could do. none of the other boys could ever make that boy out, he acted so strangely. he wouldn't lie, no matter how convenient it was. he just said it was wrong to lie, and that was sufficient for him. and he was so honest that he was simply ridiculous. the curious ways that that jacob had, surpassed everything. he wouldn't play marbles on sunday, he wouldn't rob birds' nests, he wouldn't give hot pennies to organ-grinders' monkeys; he didn't seem to take any interest in any kind of rational amusement. so the other boys used to try to reason it out and come to an understanding of him, but they couldn't arrive at any satisfactory conclusion. as i said before, they could only figure out a sort of vague idea that he was "afflicted," and so they took him under their protection, and never allowed any harm to come to him. this good little boy read all the sunday-school books; they were his greatest delight. this was the whole secret of it. he believed in the good little boys they put in the sunday-school book; he had every confidence in them. he longed to come across one of them alive once; but he never did. they all died before his time, maybe. whenever he read about a particularly good one he turned over quickly to the end to see what became of him, because he wanted to travel thousands of miles and gaze on him; but it wasn't any use; that good little boy always died in the last chapter, and there was a picture of the funeral, with all his relations and the sunday-school children standing around the grave in pantaloons that were too short, and bonnets that were too large, and everybody crying into handkerchiefs that had as much as a yard and a half of stuff in them. he was always headed off in this way. he never could see one of those good little boys on account of his always dying in the last chapter. jacob had a noble ambition to be put in a sunday school book. he wanted to be put in, with pictures representing him gloriously declining to lie to his mother, and her weeping for joy about it; and pictures representing him standing on the doorstep giving a penny to a poor beggar-woman with six children, and telling her to spend it freely, but not to be extravagant, because extravagance is a sin; and pictures of him magnanimously refusing to tell on the bad boy who always lay in wait for him around the corner as he came from school, and welted him so over the head with a lath, and then chased him home, saying, "hi! hi!" as he proceeded. that was the ambition of young jacob blivens. he wished to be put in a sunday-school book. it made him feel a lithe uncomfortable sometimes when he reflected that the good little boys always died. he loved to live, you know, and this was the most unpleasant feature about being a sunday-school-boo boy. he knew it was not healthy to be good. he knew it was more fatal than consumption to be so supernaturally good as the boys in the books were he knew that none of them had ever been able to stand it long, and it pained him to think that if they put him in a book he wouldn't ever see it, or even if they did get the book out before he died it wouldn't be popular without any picture of his funeral in the back part of it. it couldn't be much of a sunday-school book that couldn't tell about the advice he gave to the community when he was dying. so at last, of course, he had to make up his mind to do the best he could under the circumstances--to live right, and hang on as long as he could and have his dying speech all ready when his time came. but somehow nothing ever went right with the good little boy; nothing ever turned out with him the way it turned out with the good little boys in the books. they always had a good time, and the bad boys had the broken legs; but in his case there was a screw loose somewhere, and it all happened just the other way. when he found jim blake stealing apples, and went under the tree to read to him about the bad little boy who fell out of a neighbor's apple tree and broke his arm, jim fell out of the tree, too, but he fell on him and broke his arm, and jim wasn't hurt at all. jacob couldn't understand that. there wasn't anything in the books like it. and once, when some bad boys pushed a blind man over in the mud, and jacob ran to help him up and receive his blessing, the blind man did not give him any blessing at all, but whacked him over the head with his stick and said he would like to catch him shoving him again, and then pretending to help him up. this was not in accordance with any of the books. jacob looked them all over to see. one thing that jacob wanted to do was to find a lame dog that hadn't any place to stay, and was hungry and persecuted, and bring him home and pet him and have that dog's imperishable gratitude. and at last he found one and was happy; and he brought him home and fed him, but when he was going to pet him the dog flew at him and tore all the clothes off him except those that were in front, and made a spectacle of him that was astonishing. he examined authorities, but he could not understand the matter. it was of the same breed of dogs that was in the books, but it acted very differently. whatever this boy did he got into trouble. the very things the boys in the books got rewarded for turned out to be about the most unprofitable things he could invest in. once, when he was on his way to sunday-school, he saw some bad boys starting off pleasuring in a sailboat. he was filled with consternation, because he knew from his reading that boys who went sailing on sunday invariably got drowned. so he ran out on a raft to warn them, but a log turned with him and slid him into the river. a man got him out pretty soon, and the doctor pumped the water out of him, and gave him a fresh start with his bellows, but he caught cold and lay sick abed nine weeks. but the most unaccountable thing about it was that the bad boys in the boat had a good time all day, and then reached home alive and well in the most surprising manner. jacob blivens said there was nothing like these things in the books. he was perfectly dumfounded. when he got well he was a little discouraged, but he resolved to keep on trying anyhow. he knew that so far his experiences wouldn't do to go in a book, but he hadn't yet reached the allotted term of life for good little boys, and he hoped to be able to make a record yet if he could hold on till his time was fully up. if everything else failed he had his dying speech to fall back on. he examined his authorities, and found that it was now time for him to go to sea as a cabin-boy. he called on a ship-captain and made his application, and when the captain asked for his recommendations he proudly drew out a tract and pointed to the word, "to jacob blivens, from his affectionate teacher." but the captain was a coarse, vulgar man, and he said, "oh, that be blowed! that wasn't any proof that he knew how to wash dishes or handle a slush-bucket, and he guessed he didn't want him." this was altogether the most extraordinary thing that ever happened to jacob in all his life. a compliment from a teacher, on a tract, had never failed to move the tenderest emotions of ship-captains, and open the way to all offices of honor and profit in their gift it never had in any book that ever he had read. he could hardly believe his senses. this boy always had a hard time of it. nothing ever came out according to the authorities with him. at last, one day, when he was around hunting up bad little boys to admonish, he found a lot of them in the old iron-foundry fixing up a little joke on fourteen or fifteen dogs, which they had tied together in long procession, and were going to ornament with empty nitroglycerin cans made fast to their tails. jacob's heart was touched. he sat down on one of those cans (for he never minded grease when duty was before him), and he took hold of the foremost dog by the collar, and turned his reproving eye upon wicked tom jones. but just at that moment alderman mcwelter, full of wrath, stepped in. all the bad boys ran away, but jacob blivens rose in conscious innocence and began one of those stately little sunday-school-book speeches which always commence with "oh, sir!" in dead opposition to the fact that no boy, good or bad, ever starts a remark with "oh, sir." but the alderman never waited to hear the rest. he took jacob blivens by the ear and turned him around, and hit him a whack in the rear with the flat of his hand; and in an instant that good little boy shot out through the roof and soared away toward the sun with the fragments of those fifteen dogs stringing after him like the tail of a kite. and there wasn't a sign of that alderman or that old iron-foundry left on the face of the earth; and, as for young jacob blivens, he never got a chance to make his last dying speech after all his trouble fixing it up, unless he made it to the birds; because, although the bulk of him came down all right in a tree-top in an adjoining county, the rest of him was apportioned around among four townships, and so they had to hold five inquests on him to find out whether he was dead or not, and how it occurred. you never saw a boy scattered so.--[this glycerin catastrophe is borrowed from a floating newspaper item, whose author's name i would give if i knew it.--m. t.] thus perished the good little boy who did the best he could, but didn't come out according to the books. every boy who ever did as he did prospered except him. his case is truly remarkable. it will probably never be accounted for. a couple of poems by twain and moore--[written about ] those evening bells by thomas moore those evening bells! those evening bells! how many a tale their music tells of youth, and home, and that sweet time when last i heard their soothing chime. those joyous hours are passed away; and many a heart that then was gay, within the tomb now darkly dwells, and hears no more those evening bells. and so 'twill be when i am gone that tuneful peal will still ring on; while other bards shall walk these dells, and sing your praise, sweet evening bells. those annual bills by mark twain these annual bills! these annual bills! how many a song their discord trills of "truck" consumed, enjoyed, forgot, since i was skinned by last year's lot! those joyous beans are passed away; those onions blithe, o where are they? once loved, lost, mourned--now vexing ills your shades troop back in annual bills! and so 'twill be when i'm aground these yearly duns will still go round, while other bards, with frantic quills, shall damn and damn these annual bills! niagara [ written about .] niagara falls is a most enjoyable place of resort. the hotels are excellent, and the prices not at all exorbitant. the opportunities for fishing are not surpassed in the country; in fact, they are not even equaled elsewhere. because, in other localities, certain places in the streams are much better than others; but at niagara one place is just as good as another, for the reason that the fish do not bite anywhere, and so there is no use in your walking five miles to fish, when you can depend on being just as unsuccessful nearer home. the advantages of this state of things have never heretofore been properly placed before the public. the weather is cool in summer, and the walks and drives are all pleasant and none of them fatiguing. when you start out to "do" the falls you first drive down about a mile, and pay a small sum for the privilege of looking down from a precipice into the narrowest part of the niagara river. a railway "cut" through a hill would be as comely if it had the angry river tumbling and foaming through its bottom. you can descend a staircase here a hundred and fifty feet down, and stand at the edge of the water. after you have done it, you will wonder why you did it; but you will then be too late. the guide will explain to you, in his blood-curdling way, how he saw the little steamer, maid of the mist, descend the fearful rapids--how first one paddle-box was out of sight behind the raging billows and then the other, and at what point it was that her smokestack toppled overboard, and where her planking began to break and part asunder--and how she did finally live through the trip, after accomplishing the incredible feat of traveling seventeen miles in six minutes, or six miles in seventeen minutes, i have really forgotten which. but it was very extraordinary, anyhow. it is worth the price of admission to hear the guide tell the story nine times in succession to different parties, and never miss a word or alter a sentence or a gesture. then you drive over to suspension bridge, and divide your misery between the chances of smashing down two hundred feet into the river below, and the chances of having the railway-train overhead smashing down onto you. either possibility is discomforting taken by itself, but, mixed together, they amount in the aggregate to positive unhappiness. on the canada side you drive along the chasm between long ranks of photographers standing guard behind their cameras, ready to make an ostentatious frontispiece of you and your decaying ambulance, and your solemn crate with a hide on it, which you are expected to regard in the light of a horse, and a diminished and unimportant background of sublime niagara; and a great many people have the incredible effrontery or the native depravity to aid and abet this sort of crime. any day, in the hands of these photographers, you may see stately pictures of papa and mamma, johnny and bub and sis or a couple of country cousins, all smiling vacantly, and all disposed in studied and uncomfortable attitudes in their carriage, and all looming up in their awe-inspiring imbecility before the snubbed and diminished presentment of that majestic presence whose ministering spirits are the rainbows, whose voice is the thunder, whose awful front is veiled in clouds, who was monarch here dead and forgotten ages before this sackful of small reptiles was deemed temporarily necessary to fill a crack in the world's unnoted myriads, and will still be monarch here ages and decades of ages after they shall have gathered themselves to their blood-relations, the other worms, and been mingled with the unremembering dust. there is no actual harm in making niagara a background whereon to display one's marvelous insignificance in a good strong light, but it requires a sort of superhuman self-complacency to enable one to do it. when you have examined the stupendous horseshoe fall till you are satisfied you cannot improve on it, you return to america by the new suspension bridge, and follow up the bank to where they exhibit the cave of the winds. here i followed instructions, and divested myself of all my clothing, and put on a waterproof jacket and overalls. this costume is picturesque, but not beautiful. a guide, similarly dressed, led the way down a flight of winding stairs, which wound and wound, and still kept on winding long after the thing ceased to be a novelty, and then terminated long before it had begun to be a pleasure. we were then well down under the precipice, but still considerably above the level of the river. we now began to creep along flimsy bridges of a single plank, our persons shielded from destruction by a crazy wooden railing, to which i clung with both hands--not because i was afraid, but because i wanted to. presently the descent became steeper and the bridge flimsier, and sprays from the american fall began to rain down on us in fast increasing sheets that soon became blinding, and after that our progress was mostly in the nature of groping. nova a furious wind began to rush out from behind the waterfall, which seemed determined to sweep us from the bridge, and scatter us on the rocks and among the torrents below. i remarked that i wanted to go home; but it was too late. we were almost under the monstrous wall of water thundering down from above, and speech was in vain in the midst of such a pitiless crash of sound. in another moment the guide disappeared behind the deluge, and bewildered by the thunder, driven helplessly by the wind, and smitten by the arrowy tempest of rain, i followed. all was darkness. such a mad storming, roaring, and bellowing of warring wind and water never crazed my ears before. i bent my head, and seemed to receive the atlantic on my back. the world seemed going to destruction. i could not see anything, the flood poured down savagely. i raised my head, with open mouth, and the most of the american cataract went down my throat. if i had sprung a leak now i had been lost. and at this moment i discovered that the bridge had ceased, and we must trust for a foothold to the slippery and precipitous rocks. i never was so scared before and survived it. but we got through at last, and emerged into the open day, where we could stand in front of the laced and frothy and seething world of descending water, and look at it. when i saw how much of it there was, and how fearfully in earnest it was, i was sorry i had gone behind it. the noble red man has always been a friend and darling of mine. i love to read about him in tales and legends and romances. i love to read of his inspired sagacity, and his love of the wild free life of mountain and forest, and his general nobility of character, and his stately metaphorical manner of speech, and his chivalrous love for the dusky maiden, and the picturesque pomp of his dress and accoutrements. especially the picturesque pomp of his dress and accoutrements. when i found the shops at niagara falls full of dainty indian beadwork, and stunning moccasins, and equally stunning toy figures representing human beings who carried their weapons in holes bored through their arms and bodies, and had feet shaped like a pie, i was filled with emotion. i knew that now, at last, i was going to come face to face with the noble red man. a lady clerk in a shop told me, indeed, that all her grand array of curiosities were made by the indians, and that they were plenty about the falls, and that they were friendly, and it would not be dangerous to speak to them. and sure enough, as i approached the bridge leading over to luna island, i came upon a noble son of the forest sitting under a tree, diligently at work on a bead reticule. he wore a slouch hat and brogans, and had a short black pipe in his mouth. thus does the baneful contact with our effeminate civilization dilute the picturesque pomp which is so natural to the indian when far removed from us in his native haunts. i addressed the relic as follows: "is the wawhoo-wang-wang of the whack-a-whack happy? does the great speckled thunder sigh for the war-path, or is his heart contented with dreaming of the dusky maiden, the pride of the forest? does the mighty sachem yearn to drink the blood of his enemies, or is he satisfied to make bead reticules for the pappooses of the paleface? speak, sublime relic of bygone grandeur--venerable ruin, speak!" the relic said: "an' is it mesilf, dennis hooligan, that ye'd be takon' for a dirty injin, ye drawlin', lantern-jawed, spider-legged divil! by the piper that played before moses, i'll ate ye!" i went away from there. by and by, in the neighborhood of the terrapin tower, i came upon a gentle daughter of the aborigines in fringed and beaded buckskin moccasins and leggins, seated on a bench with her pretty wares about her. she had just carved out a wooden chief that had a strong family resemblance to a clothes-pin, and was now boring a hole through his abdomen to put his bow through. i hesitated a moment, and then addressed her: "is the heart of the forest maiden heavy? is the laughing tadpole lonely? does she mourn over the extinguished council-fires of her race, and the vanished glory of her ancestors? or does her sad spirit wander afar toward the hunting-grounds whither her brave gobbler-of-the- lightnings is gone? why is my daughter silent? has she ought against the paleface stranger?" the maiden said: "faix, an' is it biddy malone ye dare to be callin' names? lave this, or i'll shy your lean carcass over the cataract, ye sniveling blaggard!" i adjourned from there also. "confound these indians!" i said. "they told me they were tame; but, if appearances go for anything, i should say they were all on the warpath." i made one more attempt to fraternize with them, and only one. i came upon a camp of them gathered in the shade of a great tree, making wampum and moccasins, and addressed them in the language of friendship: "noble red men, braves, grand sachems, war chiefs, squaws, and high muck-a-mucks, the paleface from the land of the setting sun greets you! you, beneficent polecat--you, devourer of mountains--you, roaring thundergust --you, bully boy with a glass eye--the paleface from beyond the great waters greets you all! war and pestilence have thinned your ranks and destroyed your once proud nation. poker and seven-up, and a vain modern expense for soap, unknown to your glorious ancestors, have depleted your purses. appropriating, in your simplicity, the property of others has gotten you into trouble. misrepresenting facts, in your simple innocence, has damaged your reputation with the soulless usurper. trading for forty-rod whisky, to enable you to get drunk and happy and tomahawk your families, has played the everlasting mischief with the picturesque pomp of your dress, and here you are, in the broad light of the nineteenth century, gotten up like the ragtag and bobtail of the purlieus of new york. for shame! remember your ancestors! recall their mighty deeds! remember uncas!--and red jacket! and hole in the day!--and whoopdedoodledo! emulate their achievements! unfurl yourselves under my banner, noble savages, illustrious guttersnipes--" "down wid him!" "scoop the blaggard!" "burn him!" "bang him!" "dhround him!" it was the quickest operation that ever was. i simply saw a sudden flash in the air of clubs, brickbats, fists, bead-baskets, and moccasins--a single flash, and they all appeared to hit me at once, and no two of them in the same place. in the next instant the entire tribe was upon me. they tore half the clothes off me; they broke my arms and legs; they gave me a thump that dented the top of my head till it would hold coffee like a saucer; and, to crown their disgraceful proceedings and add insult to injury, they threw me over the niagara falls, and i got wet. about ninety or a hundred feet from the top, the remains of my vest caught on a projecting rock, and i was almost drowned before i could get loose. i finally fell, and brought up in a world of white foam at the foot of the fall, whose celled and bubbly masses towered up several inches above my head. of course i got into the eddy. i sailed round and round in it forty-four times--chasing a chip and gaining on it--each round trip a half-mile--reaching for the same bush on the bank forty-four times, and just exactly missing it by a hair's-breadth every time. at last a man walked down and sat down close to that bush, and put a pipe in his mouth, and lit a match, and followed me with one eye and kept the other on the match, while he sheltered it in his hands from the wind. presently a puff of wind blew it out. the next time i swept around he said: "got a match?" "yes; in my other vest. help me out, please." "not for joe." when i came round again, i said: "excuse the seemingly impertinent curiosity of a drowning man, but will you explain this singular conduct of yours?" "with pleasure. i am the coroner. don't hurry on my account. i can wait for you. but i wish i had a match." i said: "take my place, and i'll go and get you one." he declined. this lack of confidence on his part created a coldness between us, and from that time forward i avoided him. it was my idea, in case anything happened to me, to so time the occurrence as to throw my custom into the hands of the opposition coroner on the american side. at last a policeman came along, and arrested me for disturbing the peace by yelling at people on shore for help. the judge fined me, but had the advantage of him. my money was with my pantaloons, and my pantaloons were with the indians. thus i escaped. i am now lying in a very critical condition. at least i am lying anyway---critical or not critical. i am hurt all over, but i cannot tell the full extent yet, because the doctor is not done taking inventory. he will make out my manifest this evening. however, thus far he thinks only sixteen of my wounds are fatal. i don't mind the others. upon regaining my right mind, i said: "it is an awful savage tribe of indians that do the beadwork and moccasins for niagara falls, doctor. where are they from?" "limerick, my son." sketches new and old by mark twain part . disgraceful persecution of a boy in san francisco, the other day, "a well-dressed boy, on his way to sunday-school, was arrested and thrown into the city prison for stoning chinamen." what a commentary is this upon human justice! what sad prominence it gives to our human disposition to tyrannize over the weak! san francisco has little right to take credit to herself for her treatment of this poor boy. what had the child's education been? how should he suppose it was wrong to stone a chinaman? before we side against him, along with outraged san francisco, let us give him a chance--let us hear the testimony for the defense. he was a "well-dressed" boy, and a sunday-school scholar, and therefore the chances are that his parents were intelligent, well-to-do people, with just enough natural villainy in their composition to make them yearn after the daily papers, and enjoy them; and so this boy had opportunities to learn all through the week how to do right, as well as on sunday. it was in this way that he found out that the great commonwealth of california imposes an unlawful mining-tax upon john the foreigner, and allows patrick the foreigner to dig gold for nothing--probably because the degraded mongol is at no expense for whisky, and the refined celt cannot exist without it. it was in this way that he found out that a respectable number of the tax-gatherers--it would be unkind to say all of them--collect the tax twice, instead of once; and that, inasmuch as they do it solely to discourage chinese immigration into the mines, it is a thing that is much applauded, and likewise regarded as being singularly facetious. it was in this way that he found out that when a white man robs a sluice-box (by the term white man is meant spaniards, mexicans, portuguese, irish, hondurans, peruvians, chileans, etc., etc.), they make him leave the camp; and when a chinaman does that thing, they hang him. it was in this way that he found out that in many districts of the vast pacific coast, so strong is the wild, free love of justice in the hearts of the people, that whenever any secret and mysterious crime is committed, they say, "let justice be done, though the heavens fall," and go straightway and swing a chinaman. it was in this way that he found out that by studying one half of each day's "local items," it would appear that the police of san francisco were either asleep or dead, and by studying the other half it would seem that the reporters were gone mad with admiration of the energy, the virtue, the high effectiveness, and the dare-devil intrepidity of that very police-making exultant mention of how "the argus-eyed officer so-and-so" captured a wretched knave of a chinaman who was stealing chickens, and brought him gloriously to the city prison; and how "the gallant officer such-and-such-a-one" quietly kept an eye on the movements of an "unsuspecting, almond-eyed son of confucius" (your reporter is nothing if not facetious), following him around with that far-off look. of vacancy and unconsciousness always so finely affected by that inscrutable being, the forty-dollar policeman, during a waking interval, and captured him at last in the very act of placing his hands in a suspicious manner upon a paper of tacks, left by the owner in an exposed situation; and how one officer performed this prodigious thing, and another officer that, and another the other--and pretty much every one of these performances having for a dazzling central incident a chinaman guilty of a shilling's worth of crime, an unfortunate, whose misdemeanor must be hurrahed into something enormous in order to keep the public from noticing how many really important rascals went uncaptured in the mean time, and how overrated those glorified policemen actually are. it was in this way that the boy found out that the legislature, being aware that the constitution has made america, an asylum for the poor and the oppressed of all nations, and that, therefore, the poor and oppressed who fly to our shelter must not be charged a disabling admission fee, made a law that every chinaman, upon landing, must be vaccinated upon the wharf, and pay to the state's appointed officer ten dollars for the service, when there are plenty of doctors in san francisco who would be glad enough to do it for him for fifty cents. it was in this way that the boy found out that a chinaman had no rights that any man was bound to respect; that he had no sorrows that any man was bound to pity; that neither his life nor his liberty was worth the purchase of a penny when a white man needed a scapegoat; that nobody loved chinamen, nobody befriended them, nobody spared them suffering when it was convenient to inflict it; everybody, individuals, communities, the majesty of the state itself, joined in hating, abusing, and persecuting these humble strangers. and, therefore, what could have been more natural than for this sunny-hearted-boy, tripping along to sunday-school, with his mind teeming with freshly learned incentives to high and virtuous action, to say to himself: "ah, there goes a chinaman! god will not love me if i do not stone him." and for this he was arrested and put in the city jail. everything conspired to teach him that it was a high and holy thing to stone a chinaman, and yet he no sooner attempts to do his duty than he is punished for it--he, poor chap, who has been aware all his life that one of the principal recreations of the police, out toward the gold refinery, is to look on with tranquil enjoyment while the butchers of brannan street set their dogs on unoffending chinamen, and make them flee for their lives. --[i have many such memories in my mind, but am thinking just at present of one particular one, where the brannan street butchers set their dogs on a chinaman who was quietly passing with a basket of clothes on his head; and while the dogs mutilated his flesh, a butcher increased the hilarity of the occasion by knocking some of the chinaman's teeth down his throat with half a brick. this incident sticks in my memory with a more malevolent tenacity, perhaps, on account of the fact that i was in the employ of a san francisco journal at the time, and was not allowed to publish it because it might offend some of the peculiar element that subscribed for the paper.] keeping in mind the tuition in the humanities which the entire "pacific coast" gives its youth, there is a very sublimity of incongruity in the virtuous flourish with which the good city fathers of san francisco proclaim (as they have lately done) that "the police are positively ordered to arrest all boys, of every description and wherever found, who engage in assaulting chinamen." still, let us be truly glad they have made the order, notwithstanding its inconsistency; and let us rest perfectly confident the police are glad, too. because there is no personal peril in arresting boys, provided they be of the small kind, and the reporters will have to laud their performances just as loyally as ever, or go without items. the new form for local items in san francisco will now be: "the ever-vigilant and efficient officer so-and-so succeeded, yesterday afternoon, in arresting master tommy jones, after a determined resistance," etc., etc., followed by the customary statistics and final hurrah, with its unconscious sarcasm: "we are happy in being able to state that this is the forty-seventh boy arrested by this gallant officer since the new ordinance went into effect. the most extraordinary activity prevails in the police department. nothing like it has been seen since we can remember." the judge's "spirited woman" "i was sitting here," said the judge, "in this old pulpit, holding court, and we were trying a big, wicked-looking spanish desperado for killing the husband of a bright, pretty mexican woman. it was a lazy summer day, and an awfully long one, and the witnesses were tedious. none of us took any interest in the trial except that nervous, uneasy devil of a mexican woman because you know how they love and how they hate, and this one had loved her husband with all her might, and now she had boiled it all down into hate, and stood here spitting it at that spaniard with her eyes; and i tell you she would stir me up, too, with a little of her summer lightning, occasionally. well, i had my coat off and my heels up, lolling and sweating, and smoking one of those cabbage cigars the san francisco people used to think were good enough for us in those times; and the lawyers they all had their coats off, and were smoking and whittling, and the witnesses the same, and so was the prisoner. well, the fact is, there warn't any interest in a murder trial then, because the fellow was always brought in 'not guilty,' the jury expecting him to do as much for them some time; and, although the evidence was straight and square against this spaniard, we knew we could not convict him without seeming to be rather high-handed and sort of reflecting on every gentleman in the community; for there warn't any carriages and liveries then, and so the only 'style' there was, was to keep your private graveyard. but that woman seemed to have her heart set on hanging that spaniard; and you'd ought to have seen how she would glare on him a minute, and then look up at me in her pleading way, and then turn and for the next five minutes search the jury's faces, and by and by drop her face in her hands for just a little while as if she was most ready to give up; but out she'd come again directly, and be as live and anxious as ever. but when the jury announced the verdict--not guilty--and i told the prisoner he was acquitted and free to go, that woman rose up till she appeared to be as tall and grand as a seventy-four-gun ship, and says she: "'judge, do i understand you to say that this man is not guilty that murdered my husband without any cause before my own eyes and my little children's, and that all has been done to him that ever justice and the law can do?' "'the same,' says i. "and then what do you reckon she did? why, she turned on that smirking spanish fool like a wildcat, and out with a 'navy' and shot him dead in open court!" "that was spirited, i am willing to admit." "wasn't it, though?" said the judge admiringly. "i wouldn't have missed it for anything. i adjourned court right on the spot, and we put on our coats and went out and took up a collection for her and her cubs, and sent them over the mountains to their friends. ah, she was a spirited wench!" information wanted "washington, december , . "could you give me any information respecting such islands, if any, as the government is going to purchase?" it is an uncle of mine that wants to know. he is an industrious man and well disposed, and wants to make a living in an honest, humble way, but more especially he wants to be quiet. he wishes to settle down, and be quiet and unostentatious. he has been to the new island st. thomas, but he says he thinks things are unsettled there. he went there early with an attache of the state department, who was sent down with money to pay for the island. my uncle had his money in the same box, and so when they went ashore, getting a receipt, the sailors broke open the box and took all the money, not making any distinction between government money, which was legitimate money to be stolen, and my uncle's, which was his own private property, and should have been respected. but he came home and got some more and went back. and then he took the fever. there are seven kinds of fever down there, you know; and, as his blood was out of order by reason of loss of sleep and general wear and tear of mind, he failed to cure the first fever, and then somehow he got the other six. he is not a kind of man that enjoys fevers, though he is well meaning and always does what he thinks is right, and so he was a good deal annoyed when it appeared he was going to die. but he worried through, and got well and started a farm. he fenced it in, and the next day that great storm came on and washed the most of it over to gibraltar, or around there somewhere. he only said, in his patient way, that it was gone, and he wouldn't bother about trying to find out where it went to, though it was his opinion it went to gibraltar. then he invested in a mountain, and started a farm up there, so as to be out of the way when the sea came ashore again. it was a good mountain, and a good farm, but it wasn't any use; an earthquake came the next night and shook it all down. it was all fragments, you know, and so mixed up with another man's property that he could not tell which were his fragments without going to law; and he would not do that, because his main object in going to st. thomas was to be quiet. all that he wanted was to settle down and be quiet. he thought it all over, and finally he concluded to try the low ground again, especially as he wanted to start a brickyard this time. he bought a flat, and put out a hundred thousand bricks to dry preparatory to baking them. but luck appeared to be against him. a volcano shoved itself through there that night, and elevated his brickyard about two thousand feet in the air. it irritated him a good deal. he has been up there, and he says the bricks are all baked right enough, but he can't get them down. at first, he thought maybe the government would get the bricks down for him, because since government bought the island, it ought to protect the property where a man has invested in good faith; but all he wants is quiet, and so he is not going to apply for the subsidy he was thinking about. he went back there last week in a couple of ships of war, to prospect around the coast for a safe place for a farm where he could be quiet; but a great "tidal wave" came, and hoisted both of the ships out into one of the interior counties, and he came near losing his life. so he has given up prospecting in a ship, and is discouraged. well, now he don't know what to do. he has tried alaska; but the bears kept after him so much, and kept him so much on the jump, as it were, that he had to leave the country. he could not be quiet there with those bears prancing after him all the time. that is how he came to go to the new island we have bought--st. thomas. but he is getting to think st. thomas is not quiet enough for a man of his turn of mind, and that is why he wishes me to find out if government is likely to buy some more islands shortly. he has heard that government is thinking about buying porto rico. if that is true, he wishes to try porto rico, if it is a quiet place. how is porto rico for his style of man? do you think the government will buy it? some learned fables, for good old boys and girls in three parts part first how the animals of the wood sent out a scientific expedition once the creatures of the forest held a great convention and appointed a commission consisting of the most illustrious scientists among them to go forth, clear beyond the forest and out into the unknown and unexplored world, to verify the truth of the matters already taught in their schools and colleges and also to make discoveries. it was the most imposing enterprise of the kind the nation had ever embarked in. true, the government had once sent dr. bull frog, with a picked crew, to hunt for a northwesterly passage through the swamp to the right-hand corner of the wood, and had since sent out many expeditions to hunt for dr. bull frog; but they never could find him, and so government finally gave him up and ennobled his mother to show its gratitude for the services her son had rendered to science. and once government sent sir grass hopper to hunt for the sources of the rill that emptied into the swamp; and afterward sent out many expeditions to hunt for sir grass, and at last they were successful--they found his body, but if he had discovered the sources meantime, he did not let on. so government acted handsomely by deceased, and many envied his funeral. but these expeditions were trifles compared with the present one; for this one comprised among its servants the very greatest among the learned; and besides it was to go to the utterly unvisited regions believed to lie beyond the mighty forest--as we have remarked before. how the members were banqueted, and glorified, and talked about! everywhere that one of them showed himself, straightway there was a crowd to gape and stare at him. finally they set off, and it was a sight to see the long procession of dry-land tortoises heavily laden with savants, scientific instruments, glow-worms and fire-flies for signal service, provisions, ants and tumble-bugs to fetch and carry and delve, spiders to carry the surveying chain and do other engineering duty, and so forth and so on; and after the tortoises came another long train of ironclads--stately and spacious mud turtles for marine transportation service; and from every tortoise and every turtle flaunted a flaming gladiolus or other splendid banner; at the head of the column a great band of bumble-bees, mosquitoes, katy-dids, and crickets discoursed martial music; and the entire train was under the escort and protection of twelve picked regiments of the army worm. at the end of three weeks the expedition emerged from the forest and looked upon the great unknown world. their eyes were greeted with an impressive spectacle. a vast level plain stretched before them, watered by a sinuous stream; and beyond there towered up against the sky along and lofty barrier of some kind, they did not know what. the tumble-bug said he believed it was simply land tilted up on its edge, because he knew he could see trees on it. but professor snail and the others said: "you are hired to dig, sir--that is all. we need your muscle, not your brains. when we want your opinion on scientific matters, we will hasten to let you know. your coolness is intolerable, too--loafing about here meddling with august matters of learning, when the other laborers are pitching camp. go along and help handle the baggage." the tumble-bug turned on his heel uncrushed, unabashed, observing to himself, "if it isn't land tilted up, let me die the death of the unrighteous." professor bull frog (nephew of the late explorer) said he believed the ridge was the wall that inclosed the earth. he continued: "our fathers have left us much learning, but they had not traveled far, and so we may count this a noble new discovery. we are safe for renown now, even though our labors began and ended with this single achievement. i wonder what this wall is built of? can it be fungus? fungus is an honorable good thing to build a wall of." professor snail adjusted his field-glass and examined the rampart critically. finally he said: "'the fact that it is not diaphanous convinces me that it is a dense vapor formed by the calorification of ascending moisture dephlogisticated by refraction. a few endiometrical experiments would confirm this, but it is not necessary. the thing is obvious." so he shut up his glass and went into his shell to make a note of the discovery of the world's end, and the nature of it. "profound mind!" said professor angle-worm to professor field-mouse; "profound mind! nothing can long remain a mystery to that august brain." night drew on apace, the sentinel crickets were posted, the glow-worm and fire-fly lamps were lighted, and the camp sank to silence and sleep. after breakfast in the morning, the expedition moved on. about noon a great avenue was reached, which had in it two endless parallel bars of some kind of hard black substance, raised the height of the tallest bull frog, above the general level. the scientists climbed up on these and examined and tested them in various ways. they walked along them for a great distance, but found no end and no break in them. they could arrive at no decision. there was nothing in the records of science that mentioned anything of this kind. but at last the bald and venerable geographer, professor mud turtle, a person who, born poor, and of a drudging low family, had, by his own native force raised himself to the headship of the geographers of his generation, said: "'my friends, we have indeed made a discovery here. we have found in a palpable, compact, and imperishable state what the wisest of our fathers always regarded as a mere thing of the imagination. humble yourselves, my friends, for we stand in a majestic presence. these are parallels of latitude!" every heart and every head was bowed, so awful, so sublime was the magnitude of the discovery. many shed tears. the camp was pitched and the rest of the day given up to writing voluminous accounts of the marvel, and correcting astronomical tables to fit it. toward midnight a demoniacal shriek was heard, then a clattering and rumbling noise, and the next instant a vast terrific eye shot by, with a long tail attached, and disappeared in the gloom, still uttering triumphant shrieks. the poor damp laborers were stricken to the heart with fright, and stampeded for the high grass in a body. but not the scientists. they had no superstitions. they calmly proceeded to exchange theories. the ancient geographer's opinion was asked. he went into his shell and deliberated long and profoundly. when he came out at last, they all knew by his worshiping countenance that he brought light. said he: "give thanks for this stupendous thing which we have been permitted to witness. it is the vernal equinox!" there were shoutings and great rejoicings. "but," said the angle-worm, uncoiling after reflection, "this is dead summer-time." "very well," said the turtle, "we are far from our region; the season differs with the difference of time between the two points." "ah, true: true enough. but it is night. how should the sun pass in the night?" "in these distant regions he doubtless passes always in the night at this hour." "yes, doubtless that is true. but it being night, how is it that we could see him?" "it is a great mystery. i grant that. but i am persuaded that the humidity of the atmosphere in these remote regions is such that particles of daylight adhere to the disk and it was by aid of these that we were enabled to see the sun in the dark." this was deemed satisfactory, and due entry was made of the decision. but about this moment those dreadful shriekings were heard again; again the rumbling and thundering came speeding up out of the night; and once more a flaming great eye flashed by and lost itself in gloom and distance. the camp laborers gave themselves up for lost. the savants were sorely perplexed. here was a marvel hard to account for. they thought and they talked, they talked and they thought. finally the learned and aged lord grand-daddy-longlegs, who had been sitting in deep study, with his slender limbs crossed and his stemmy arms folded, said: "deliver your opinions, brethren, and then i will tell my thought--for i think i have solved this problem." "so be it, good your lordship," piped the weak treble of the wrinkled and withered professor woodlouse, "for we shall hear from your lordship's lips naught but wisdom." [here the speaker threw in a mess of trite, threadbare, exasperating quotations from the ancient poets and philosophers, delivering them with unction in the sounding grandeurs of the original tongues, they being from the mastodon, the dodo, and other dead languages.] "perhaps i ought not to presume to meddle with matters pertaining to astronomy at all, in such a presence as this, i who have made it the business of my life to delve only among the riches of the extinct languages and unearth the opulence of their ancient lore; but still, as unacquainted as i am with the noble science of astronomy, i beg with deference and humility to suggest that inasmuch as the last of these wonderful apparitions proceeded in exactly the opposite direction from that pursued by the first, which you decide to be the vernal equinox, and greatly resembled it in all particulars, is it not possible, nay certain, that this last is the autumnal equi--" "o-o-o!" "o-o-o! go to bed! go to bed!" with annoyed derision from everybody. so the poor old woodlouse retreated out of sight, consumed with shame. further discussion followed, and then the united voice of the commission begged lord longlegs to speak. he said: "fellow-scientists, it is my belief that we have witnessed a thing which has occurred in perfection but once before in the knowledge of created beings. it is a phenomenon of inconceivable importance and interest, view it as one may, but its interest to us is vastly heightened by an added knowledge of its nature which no scholar has heretofore possessed or even suspected. this great marvel which we have just witnessed, fellow-savants (it almost takes my breath away), is nothing less than the transit of venus!" every scholar sprang to his feet pale with astonishment. then ensued tears, handshakings, frenzied embraces, and the most extravagant jubilations of every sort. but by and by, as emotion began to retire within bounds, and reflection to return to the front, the accomplished chief inspector lizard observed: "but how is this? venus should traverse the sun's surface, not the earth's." the arrow went home. it earned sorrow to the breast of every apostle of learning there, for none could deny that this was a formidable criticism. but tranquilly the venerable duke crossed his limbs behind his ears and said: "my friend has touched the marrow of our mighty discovery. yes--all that have lived before us thought a transit of venus consisted of a flight across the sun's face; they thought it, they maintained it, they honestly believed it, simple hearts, and were justified in it by the limitations of their knowledge; but to us has been granted the inestimable boon of proving that the transit occurs across the earth's face, for we have seen it!" the assembled wisdom sat in speechless adoration of this imperial intellect. all doubts had instantly departed, like night before the lightning. the tumble-bug had just intruded, unnoticed. he now came reeling forward among the scholars, familiarly slapping first one and then another on the shoulder, saying "nice ('ic) nice old boy!" and smiling a smile of elaborate content. arrived at a good position for speaking, he put his left arm akimbo with his knuckles planted in his hip just under the edge of his cut-away coat, bent his right leg, placing his toe on the ground and resting his heel with easy grace against his left shin, puffed out his aldermanic stomach, opened his lips, leaned his right elbow on inspector lizard's shoulder, and-- but the shoulder was indignantly withdrawn and the hard-handed son of toil went to earth. he floundered a bit, but came up smiling, arranged his attitude with the same careful detail as before, only choosing professor dogtick's shoulder for a support, opened his lips and-- went to earth again. he presently scrambled up once more, still smiling, made a loose effort to brush the dust off his coat and legs, but a smart pass of his hand missed entirely, and the force of the unchecked impulse stewed him suddenly around, twisted his legs together, and projected him, limber and sprawling, into the lap of the lord longlegs. two or three scholars sprang forward, flung the low creature head over heels into a corner, and reinstated the patrician, smoothing his ruffled dignity with many soothing and regretful speeches. professor bull frog roared out: "no more of this, sirrah tumble-bug! say your say and then get you about your business with speed! quick--what is your errand? come move off a trifle; you smell like a stable; what have you been at?" "please ('ic!) please your worship i chanced to light upon a find. but no m(e-uck!) matter 'bout that. there's b('ic !) been another find which--beg pardon, your honors, what was that th('ic!) thing that ripped by here first?" "it was the vernal equinox." "inf('ic!)fernal equinox. 'at's all right. d('ic !) dunno him. what's other one?" "the transit of venus. "g('ic !) got me again. no matter. las' one dropped something." "ah, indeed! good luck! good news! quick what is it?" "m('ic!) mosey out 'n' see. it'll pay." no more votes were taken for four-and-twenty hours. then the following entry was made: "the commission went in a body to view the find. it was found to consist of a hard, smooth, huge object with a rounded summit surmounted by a short upright projection resembling a section of a cabbage stalk divided transversely. this projection was not solid, but was a hollow cylinder plugged with a soft woody substance unknown to our region--that is, it had been so plugged, but unfortunately this obstruction had been heedlessly removed by norway rat, chief of the sappers and miners, before our arrival. the vast object before us, so mysteriously conveyed from the glittering domains of space, was found to be hollow and nearly filled with a pungent liquid of a brownish hue, like rainwater that has stood for some time. and such a spectacle as met our view! norway rat was perched upon the summit engaged in thrusting his tail into the cylindrical projection, drawing it out dripping, permitting the struggling multitude of laborers to suck the end of it, then straightway reinserting it and delivering the fluid to the mob as before. evidently this liquor had strangely potent qualities; for all that partook of it were immediately exalted with great and pleasurable emotions, and went staggering about singing ribald songs, embracing, fighting, dancing, discharging irruptions of profanity, and defying all authority. around us struggled a massed and uncontrolled mob--uncontrolled and likewise uncontrollable, for the whole army, down to the very sentinels, were mad like the rest, by reason of the drink. we were seized upon by these reckless creatures, and within the hour we, even we, were undistinguishable from the rest--the demoralization was complete and universal. in time the camp wore itself out with its orgies and sank into a stolid and pitiable stupor, in whose mysterious bonds rank was forgotten and strange bedfellows made, our eyes, at the resurrection, being blasted and our souls petrified with the incredible spectacle of that intolerable stinking scavenger, the tumble-bug, and the illustrious patrician my lord grand daddy, duke of longlegs, lying soundly steeped in sleep, and clasped lovingly in each other's arms, the like whereof hath not been seen in all the ages that tradition compasseth, and doubtless none shall ever in this world find faith to master the belief of it save only we that have beheld the damnable and unholy vision. thus inscrutable be the ways of god, whose will be done! "this day, by order, did the engineer-in-chief, herr spider, rig the necessary tackle for the overturning of the vast reservoir, and so its calamitous contents were discharged in a torrent upon the thirsty earth, which drank it up, and now there is no more danger, we reserving but a few drops for experiment and scrutiny, and to exhibit to the king and subsequently preserve among the wonders of the museum. what this liquid is has been determined. it is without question that fierce and most destructive fluid called lightning. it was wrested, in its container, from its storehouse in the clouds, by the resistless might of the flying planet, and hurled at our feet as she sped by. an interesting discovery here results. which is, that lightning, kept to itself, is quiescent; it is the assaulting contact of the thunderbolt that releases it from captivity, ignites its awful fires, and so produces an instantaneous combustion and explosion which spread disaster and desolation far and wide in the earth." after another day devoted to rest and recovery, the expedition proceeded upon its way. some days later it went into camp in a pleasant part of the plain, and the savants sallied forth to see what they might find. their reward was at hand. professor bull frog discovered a strange tree, and called his comrades. they inspected it with profound interest. it was very tall and straight, and wholly devoid of bark, limbs, or foliage. by triangulation lord longlegs determined its altitude; herr spider measured its circumference at the base and computed the circumference at its top by a mathematical demonstration based upon the warrant furnished by the uniform degree of its taper upward. it was considered a very extraordinary find; and since it was a tree of a hitherto unknown species, professor woodlouse gave it a name of a learned sound, being none other than that of professor bull frog translated into the ancient mastodon language, for it had always been the custom with discoverers to perpetuate their names and honor themselves by this sort of connection with their discoveries. now professor field-mouse having placed his sensitive ear to the tree, detected a rich, harmonious sound issuing from it. this surprising thing was tested and enjoyed by each scholar in turn, and great was the gladness and astonishment of all. professor woodlouse was requested to add to and extend the tree's name so as to make it suggest the musical quality it possessed--which he did, furnishing the addition anthem singer, done into the mastodon tongue. by this time professor snail was making some telescopic inspections. he discovered a great number of these trees, extending in a single rank, with wide intervals between, as far as his instrument would carry, both southward and northward. he also presently discovered that all these trees were bound together, near their tops, by fourteen great ropes, one above another, which ropes were continuous, from tree to tree, as far as his vision could reach. this was surprising. chief engineer spider ran aloft and soon reported that these ropes were simply a web hung thereby some colossal member of his own species, for he could see its prey dangling here and there from the strands, in the shape of mighty shreds and rags that had a woven look about their texture and were no doubt the discarded skins of prodigious insects which had been caught and eaten. and then he ran along one of the ropes to make a closer inspection, but felt a smart sudden burn on the soles of his feet, accompanied by a paralyzing shock, wherefore he let go and swung himself to the earth by a thread of his own spinning, and advised all to hurry at once to camp, lest the monster should appear and get as much interested in the savants as they were in him and his works. so they departed with speed, making notes about the gigantic web as they went. and that evening the naturalist of the expedition built a beautiful model of the colossal spider, having no need to see it in order to do this, because he had picked up a fragment of its vertebra by the tree, and so knew exactly what the creature looked like and what its habits and its preferences were by this simple evidence alone. he built it with a tail, teeth, fourteen legs, and a snout, and said it ate grass, cattle, pebbles, and dirt with equal enthusiasm. this animal was regarded as a very precious addition to science. it was hoped a dead one might be found to stuff. professor woodlouse thought that he and his brother scholars, by lying hid and being quiet, might maybe catch a live one. he was advised to try it. which was all the attention that was paid to his suggestion. the conference ended with the naming the monster after the naturalist, since he, after god, had created it. "and improved it, mayhap," muttered the tumble-bug, who was intruding again, according to his idle custom and his unappeasable curiosity. end of part first some learned fables for good old boys and girls part second how the animals of the wood completed their scientific labors a week later the expedition camped in the midst of a collection of wonderful curiosities. these were a sort of vast caverns of stone that rose singly and in bunches out of the plain by the side of the river which they had first seen when they emerged from the forest. these caverns stood in long, straight rows on opposite sides of broad aisles that were bordered with single ranks of trees. the summit of each cavern sloped sharply both ways. several horizontal rows of great square holes, obstructed by a thin, shiny, transparent substance, pierced the frontage of each cavern. inside were caverns within caverns; and one might ascend and visit these minor compartments by means of curious winding ways consisting of continuous regular terraces raised one above another. there were many huge, shapeless objects in each compartment which were considered to have been living creatures at one time, though now the thin brown skin was shrunken and loose, and rattled when disturbed. spiders were here in great number, and their cobwebs, stretched in all directions and wreathing the great skinny dead together, were a pleasant spectacle, since they inspired with life and wholesome cheer a scene which would otherwise have brought to the mind only a sense of forsakenness and desolation. information was sought of these spiders, but in vain. they were of a different nationality from those with the expedition, and their language seemed but a musical, meaningless jargon. they were a timid, gentle race, but ignorant, and heathenish worshipers of unknown gods. the expedition detailed a great detachment of missionaries to teach them the true religion, and in a week's time a precious work had been wrought among those darkened creatures, not three families being by that time at peace with each other or having a settled belief in any system of religion whatever. this encouraged the expedition to establish a colony of missionaries there permanently, that the work of grace might go on. but let us not outrun our narrative. after close examination of the fronts of the caverns, and much thinking and exchanging of theories, the scientists determined the nature of these singular formations. they said that each belonged mainly to the old red sandstone period; that the cavern fronts rose in innumerable and wonderfully regular strata high in the air, each stratum about five frog-spans thick, and that in the present discovery lay an overpowering refutation of all received geology; for between every two layers of old red sandstone reposed a thin layer of decomposed limestone; so instead of there having been but one old red sandstone period there had certainly been not less than a hundred and seventy-five! and by the same token it was plain that there had also been a hundred and seventy-five floodings of the earth and depositings of limestone strata! the unavoidable deduction from which pair of facts was the overwhelming truth that the world, instead of being only two hundred thousand years old, was older by millions upon millions of years! and there was another curious thing: every stratum of old red sandstone was pierced and divided at mathematically regular intervals by vertical strata of limestone. up-shootings of igneous rock through fractures in water formations were common; but here was the first instance where water-formed rock had been so projected. it was a great and noble discovery, and its value to science was considered to be inestimable. a critical examination of some of the lower strata demonstrated the presence of fossil ants and tumble-bugs (the latter accompanied by their peculiar goods), and with high gratification the fact was enrolled upon the scientific record; for this was proof that these vulgar laborers belonged to the first and lowest orders of created beings, though at the same time there was something repulsive in the reflection that the perfect and exquisite creature of the modern uppermost order owed its origin to such ignominious beings through the mysterious law of development of species. the tumble-bug, overhearing this discussion, said he was willing that the parvenus of these new times should find what comfort they might in their wise-drawn theories, since as far as he was concerned he was content to be of the old first families and proud to point back to his place among the old original aristocracy of the land. "enjoy your mushroom dignity, stinking of the varnish of yesterday's veneering, since you like it," said he; "suffice it for the tumble-bugs that they come of a race that rolled their fragrant spheres down the solemn aisles of antiquity, and left their imperishable works embalmed in the old red sandstone to proclaim it to the wasting centuries as they file along the highway of time!" "oh, take a walk!" said the chief of the expedition, with derision. the summer passed, and winter approached. in and about many of the caverns were what seemed to be inscriptions. most of the scientists said they were inscriptions, a few said they were not. the chief philologist, professor woodlouse, maintained that they were writings, done in a character utterly unknown to scholars, and in a language equally unknown. he had early ordered his artists and draftsmen to make facsimiles of all that were discovered; and had set himself about finding the key to the hidden tongue. in this work he had followed the method which had always been used by decipherers previously. that is to say, he placed a number of copies of inscriptions before him and studied them both collectively and in detail. to begin with, he placed the following copies together: the american hotel. meals at all hours. the shades. no smoking. boats for hire cheap union prayer meeting, p.m. billiards. the waterside journal. the a barber shop. telegraph office. keep off the grass. try brandreth's pills. cottages for rent during the watering season. for sale cheap. for sale cheap. for sale cheap. for sale cheap. at first it seemed to the professor that this was a sign-language, and that each word was represented by a distinct sign; further examination convinced him that it was a written language, and that every letter of its alphabet was represented by a character of its own; and finally he decided that it was a language which conveyed itself partly by letters, and partly by signs or hieroglyphics. this conclusion was forced upon him by the discovery of several specimens of the following nature: he observed that certain inscriptions were met with in greater frequency than others. such as "for sale cheap"; "billiards"; "s. t.-- --x"; "keno"; "ale on draught." naturally, then, these must be religious maxims. but this idea was cast aside by and by, as the mystery of the strange alphabet began to clear itself. in time, the professor was enabled to translate several of the inscriptions with considerable plausibility, though not to the perfect satisfaction of all the scholars. still, he made constant and encouraging progress. finally a cavern was discovered with these inscriptions upon it: waterside museum. open at all hours. admission cents. wonderful collection of wax-works, ancient fossils, etc. professor woodlouse affirmed that the word "museum" was equivalent to the phrase "lumgath molo," or "burial place." upon entering, the scientists were well astonished. but what they saw may be best conveyed in the language of their own official report: "erect, in a row, were a sort of rigid great figures which struck us instantly as belonging to the long extinct species of reptile called man, described in our ancient records. this was a peculiarly gratifying discovery, because of late times it has become fashionable to regard this creature as a myth and a superstition, a work of the inventive imaginations of our remote ancestors. but here, indeed, was man, perfectly preserved, in a fossil state. and this was his burial place, as already ascertained by the inscription. and now it began to be suspected that the caverns we had been inspecting had been his ancient haunts in that old time that he roamed the earth--for upon the breast of each of these tall fossils was an inscription in the character heretofore noticed. one read, 'captain kidd the pirate'; another, 'queen victoria'; another, 'abe lincoln'; another, 'george washington,' etc. "with feverish interest we called for our ancient scientific records to discover if perchance the description of man there set down would tally with the fossils before us. professor woodlouse read it aloud in its quaint and musty phraseology, to wit: "'in ye time of our fathers man still walked ye earth, as by tradition we know. it was a creature of exceeding great size, being compassed about with a loose skin, sometimes of one color, sometimes of many, the which it was able to cast at will; which being done, the hind legs were discovered to be armed with short claws like to a mole's but broader, and ye forelegs with fingers of a curious slimness and a length much more prodigious than a frog's, armed also with broad talons for scratching in ye earth for its food. it had a sort of feathers upon its head such as hath a rat, but longer, and a beak suitable for seeking its food by ye smell thereof. when it was stirred with happiness, it leaked water from its eyes; and when it suffered or was sad, it manifested it with a horrible hellish cackling clamor that was exceeding dreadful to hear and made one long that it might rend itself and perish, and so end its troubles. two mans being together, they uttered noises at each other like this: "haw-haw-haw--dam good, dam good," together with other sounds of more or less likeness to these, wherefore ye poets conceived that they talked, but poets be always ready to catch at any frantic folly, god he knows. sometimes this creature goeth about with a long stick ye which it putteth to its face and bloweth fire and smoke through ye same with a sudden and most damnable bruit and noise that doth fright its prey to death, and so seizeth it in its talons and walketh away to its habitat, consumed with a most fierce and devilish joy.' "now was the description set forth by our ancestors wonderfully indorsed and confirmed by the fossils before us, as shall be seen. the specimen marked 'captain kidd' was examined in detail. upon its head and part of its face was a sort of fur like that upon the tail of a horse. with great labor its loose skin was removed, whereupon its body was discovered to be of a polished white texture, thoroughly petrified. the straw it had eaten, so many ages gone by, was still in its body, undigested--and even in its legs. "surrounding these fossils were objects that would mean nothing to the ignorant, but to the eye of science they were a revelation. they laid bare the secrets of dead ages. these musty memorials told us when man lived, and what were his habits. for here, side by side with man, were the evidences that he had lived in the earliest ages of creation, the companion of the other low orders of life that belonged to that forgotten time. here was the fossil nautilus that sailed the primeval seas; here was the skeleton of the mastodon, the ichthyosaurus, the cave-bear, the prodigious elk. here, also, were the charred bones of some of these extinct animals and of the young of man's own species, split lengthwise, showing that to his taste the marrow was a toothsome luxury. it was plain that man had robbed those bones of their contents, since no tooth-mark of any beast was upon them albeit the tumble-bug intruded the remark that 'no beast could mark a bone with its teeth, anyway.' here were proofs that man had vague, groveling notions of art; for this fact was conveyed by certain things marked with the untranslatable words, 'flint hatchets, knives, arrow--heads, and bone ornaments of primeval man.' some of these seemed to be rude weapons chipped out of flint, and in a secret place was found some more in process of construction, with this untranslatable legend, on a thin, flimsy material, lying by: "'jones, if you don't want to be discharged from the musseum, make the next primeaveal weppons more careful--you couldn't even fool one of these sleepy old syentific grannys from the coledge with the last ones. and mind you the animles you carved on some of the bone ornaments is a blame sight too good for any primeaveal man that was ever fooled.--varnum, manager.' "back of the burial place was a mass of ashes, showing that man always had a feast at a funeral--else why the ashes in such a place; and showing, also, that he believed in god and the immortality of the soil --else why these solemn ceremonies? "to, sum up. we believe that man had a written language. we know that he indeed existed at one time, and is not a myth; also, that he was the companion of the cave-bear, the mastodon, and other extinct species; that he cooked and ate them and likewise the young of his own kind; also, that he bore rude weapons, and knew something of art; that he imagined he had a soul, and pleased himself with the fancy that it was immortal. but let us not laugh; there may be creatures in existence to whom we and our vanities and profundities may seem as ludicrous." end of part second some learned fables for good old boys and girls part third near the margin of the great river the scientists presently found a huge, shapely stone, with this inscription: "in , in the spring, the river overflowed its banks and covered the whole township. the depth was from two to six feet. more than head of cattle were lost, and many homes destroyed. the mayor ordered this memorial to be erected to perpetuate the event. god spare us the repetition of it!" with infinite trouble, professor woodlouse succeeded in making a translation of this inscription, which was sent home, and straightway an enormous excitement was created about it. it confirmed, in a remarkable way, certain treasured traditions of the ancients. the translation was slightly marred by one or two untranslatable words, but these did not impair the general clearness of the meaning. it is here presented: "one thousand eight hundred and forty-seven years ago, the (fires?) descended and consumed the whole city. only some nine hundred souls were saved, all others destroyed. the (king?) commanded this stone to be set up to . . . (untranslatable) . . . prevent the repetition of it." this was the first successful and satisfactory translation that had been made of the mysterious character let behind him by extinct man, and it gave professor woodlouse such reputation that at once every seat of learning in his native land conferred a degree of the most illustrious grade upon him, and it was believed that if he had been a soldier and had turned his splendid talents to the extermination of a remote tribe of reptiles, the king would have ennobled him and made him rich. and this, too, was the origin of that school of scientists called manologists, whose specialty is the deciphering of the ancient records of the extinct bird termed man. [for it is now decided that man was a bird and not a reptile.] but professor woodlouse began and remained chief of these, for it was granted that no translations were ever so free from error as his. others made mistakes he seemed incapable of it. many a memorial of the lost race was afterward found, but none ever attained to the renown and veneration achieved by the "mayoritish stone" it being so called from the word "mayor" in it, which, being translated "king," "mayoritish stone" was but another way of saying "king stone." another time the expedition made a great "find." it was a vast round flattish mass, ten frog-spans in diameter and five or six high. professor snail put on his spectacles and examined it all around, and then climbed up and inspected the top. he said: "the result of my perlustration and perscontation of this isoperimetrical protuberance is a belief at it is one of those rare and wonderful creation left by the mound builders. the fact that this one is lamellibranchiate in its formation, simply adds to its interest as being possibly of a different kind from any we read of in the records of science, but yet in no manner marring its authenticity. let the megalophonous grasshopper sound a blast and summon hither the perfunctory and circumforaneous tumble-bug, to the end that excavations may be made and learning gather new treasures." not a tumble-bug could be found on duty, so the mound was excavated by a working party of ants. nothing was discovered. this would have been a great disappointment, had not the venerable longlegs explained the matter. he said: "it is now plain to me that the mysterious and forgotten race of mound builders did not always erect these edifices as mausoleums, else in this case, as in all previous cases, their skeletons would be found here, along with the rude implements which the creatures used in life. is not this manifest?" "true! true!" from everybody. "then we have made a discovery of peculiar value here; a discovery which greatly extends our knowledge of this creature in place of diminishing it; a discovery which will add luster to the achievements of this expedition and win for us the commendations of scholars everywhere. for the absence of the customary relics here means nothing less than this: the mound builder, instead of being the ignorant, savage reptile we have been taught to consider him, was a creature of cultivation and high intelligence, capable of not only appreciating worthy achievements of the great and noble of his species, but of commemorating them! fellow-scholars, this stately mound is not a sepulcher, it is a monument!" a profound impression was produced by this. but it was interrupted by rude and derisive laughter--and the tumble-bug appeared. "a monument!" quoth he. "a monument setup by a mound builder! aye, so it is! so it is, indeed, to the shrewd keen eye of science; but to an, ignorant poor devil who has never seen a college, it is not a monument, strictly speaking, but is yet a most rich and noble property; and with your worship's good permission i will proceed to manufacture it into spheres of exceedings grace and--" the tumble-bug was driven away with stripes, and the draftsmen of the expedition were set to making views of the monument from different standpoints, while professor woodlouse, in a frenzy of scientific zeal, traveled all over it and all around it hoping to find an inscription. but if there had ever been one, it had decayed or been removed by some vandal as a relic. the views having been completed, it was now considered safe to load the precious monument itself upon the backs of four of the largest tortoises and send it home to the king's museum, which was done; and when it arrived it was received with enormous mat and escorted to its future abiding-place by thousands of enthusiastic citizens, king bullfrog xvi. himself attending and condescending to sit enthroned upon it throughout the progress. the growing rigor of the weather was now admonishing the scientists to close their labors for the present, so they made preparations to journey homeward. but even their last day among the caverns bore fruit; for one of the scholars found in an out-of-the-way corner of the museum or "burial place" a most strange and extraordinary thing. it was nothing less than a double man-bird lashed together breast to breast by a natural ligament, and labeled with the untranslatable words, "siamese twins." the official report concerning this thing closed thus: "wherefore it appears that there were in old times two distinct species of this majestic fowl, the one being single and the other double. nature has a reason for all things. it is plain to the eye of science that the double-man originally inhabited a region where dangers abounded; hence he was paired together to the end that while one part slept the other might watch; and likewise that, danger being discovered, there might always be a double instead of a single power to oppose it. all honor to the mystery-dispelling eye of godlike science!" and near the double man-bird was found what was plainly an ancient record of his, marked upon numberless sheets of a thin white substance and bound together. almost the first glance that professor woodlouse threw into it revealed this following sentence, which he instantly translated and laid before the scientists, in a tremble, and it uplifted every soul there with exultation and astonishment: "in truth it is believed by many that the lower animals reason and talk together." when the great official report of the expedition appeared, the above sentence bore this comment: "then there are lower animals than man! this remarkable passage can mean nothing else. man himself is extinct, but they may still exist. what can they be? where do they inhabit? one's enthusiasm bursts all bounds in the contemplation of the brilliant field of discovery and investigation here thrown open to science. we close our labors with the humble prayer that your majesty will immediately appoint a commission and command it to rest not nor spare expense until the search for this hitherto unsuspected race of the creatures of god shall be crowned with success." the expedition then journeyed homeward after its long absence and its faithful endeavors, and was received with a mighty ovation by the whole grateful country. there were vulgar, ignorant carpers, of course, as there always are and always will be; and naturally one of these was the obscene tumble-bug. he said that all he had learned by his travels was that science only needed a spoonful of supposition to build a mountain of demonstrated fact out of; and that for the future he meant to be content with the knowledge that nature had made free to all creatures and not go prying into the august secrets of the deity. my late senatorial secretaryship--[written about .] i am not a private secretary to a senator any more i now. i held the berth two months in security and in great cheerfulness of spirit, but my bread began to return from over the waters then--that is to say, my works came back and revealed themselves. i judged it best to resign. the way of it was this. my employer sent for me one morning tolerably early, and, as soon as i had finished inserting some conundrums clandestinely into his last great speech upon finance, i entered the presence. there was something portentous in his appearance. his cravat was untied, his hair was in a state of disorder, and his countenance bore about it the signs of a suppressed storm. he held a package of letters in his tense grasp, and i knew that the dreaded pacific mail was in. he said: "i thought you were worthy of confidence." i said, "yes, sir." he said, "i gave you a letter from certain of my constituents in the state of nevada, asking the establishment of a post-office at baldwin's ranch, and told you to answer it, as ingeniously as you could, with arguments which should persuade them that there was no real necessity for as office at that place." i felt easier. "oh, if that is all, sir, i did do that." "yes, you did. i will read your answer for your own humiliation: 'washington, nov. 'messrs. smith, jones, and others. 'gentlemen: what the mischief do you suppose you want with a post-office at baldwin's ranch? it would not do you any good. if any letters came there, you couldn't read them, you know; and, besides, such letters as ought to pass through, with money in them, for other localities, would not be likely to get through, you must perceive at once; and that would make trouble for us all. no, don't bother about a post-office in your camp. i have your best interests at heart, and feel that it would only be an ornamental folly. what you want is a nice jail, you know--a nice, substantial jail and a free school. these will be a lasting benefit to you. these will make you really contented and happy. i will move in the matter at once. 'very truly, etc., mark twain, 'for james w. n------, u. s. senator.' "that is the way you answered that letter. those people say they will hang me, if i ever enter that district again; and i am perfectly satisfied they will, too." "well, sir, i did not know i was doing any harm. i only wanted to convince them." "ah. well, you did convince them, i make no manner of doubt. now, here is another specimen. i gave you a petition from certain gentlemen of nevada, praying that i would get a bill through congress incorporating the methodist episcopal church of the state of nevada. i told you to say, in reply, that the creation of such a law came more properly within the province of the state legislature; and to endeavor to show them that, in the present feebleness of the religious element in that new commonwealth, the expediency of incorporating the church was questionable. what did you write? "'washington, nov. . "'rev. john halifax and others. "'gentlemen: you will have to go to the state legislature about that speculation of yours--congress don't know anything about religion. but don't you hurry to go there, either; because this thing you propose to do out in that new country isn't expedient--in fact, it is ridiculous. your religious people there are too feeble, in intellect, in morality, in piety in everything, pretty much. you had better drop this--you can't make it work. you can't issue stock on an incorporation like that--or if you could, it would only keep you in trouble all the time. the other denominations would abuse it, and "bear" it, and "sell it short," and break it down. they would do with it just as they would with one of your silver-mines out there--they would try to make all the world believe it was "wildcat." you ought not to do anything that is calculated to bring a sacred thing into disrepute. you ought to be ashamed of yourselves that is what i think about it. you close your petition with the words: "and we will ever pray." i think you had better you need to do it. "'very truly, etc., "'mark twain, "'for james w. n-----, u. s. senator.' "that luminous epistle finishes me with the religious element among my constituents. but that my political murder might be made sure, some evil instinct prompted me to hand you this memorial from the grave company of elders composing the board of aldermen of the city of san francisco, to try your hand upon a, memorial praying that the city's right to the water-lots upon the city front might be established by law of congress. i told you this was a dangerous matter to move in. i told you to write a non-committal letter to the aldermen--an ambiguous letter--a letter that should avoid, as far as possible, all real consideration and discussion of the water-lot question. if there is any feeling left in you--any shame--surely this letter you wrote, in obedience to that order, ought to evoke it, when its words fall upon your ears: 'washington, nov. 'the honorable board of aldermen, etc. 'gentlemen: george washington, the revered father of his country, is dead. his long and brilliant career is closed, alas! forever. he was greatly respected in this section of the country, and his untimely decease cast a gloom over the whole community. he died on the th day of december, . he passed peacefully away from the scene of his honors and his great achievements, the most lamented hero and the best beloved that ever earth hath yielded unto death. at such a time as this, you speak of water-lots! what a lot was his! 'what is fame! fame is an accident. sir isaac newton discovered an apple falling to the ground--a trivial discovery, truly, and one which a million men had made before him--but his parents were influential, and so they tortured that small circumstance into something wonderful, and, lo! the simple world took up the shout and, in almost the twinkling of an eye, that man was famous. treasure these thoughts. 'poesy, sweet poesy, who shall estimate what the world owes to thee! "mary had a little lamb, its fleece was white as snow-- and everywhere that mary went, the lamb was sure to go." "jack and gill went up the hill to draw a pail of water; jack fell down and broke his crown, and gill came tumbling after." 'for simplicity, elegance of diction, and freedom from immoral tendencies, i regard those two poems in the light of gems. they are suited to all grades of intelligence, to every sphere of life --to the field, to the nursery, to the guild. especially should no board of aldermen be without them. 'venerable fossils! write again. nothing improves one so much as friendly correspondence. write again--and if there is anything in this memorial of yours that refers to anything in particular, do not be backward about explaining it. we shall always be happy to hear you chirp. 'very truly, etc., "'mark twain, 'for james w. n-----, u. s. senator.' "that is an atrocious, a ruinous epistle! distraction!" "well, sir, i am really sorry if there is anything wrong about it--but --but it appears to me to dodge the water-lot question." "dodge the mischief! oh!--but never mind. as long as destruction must come now, let it be complete. let it be complete--let this last of your performances, which i am about to read, make a finality of it. i am a ruined man. i had my misgivings when i gave you the letter from humboldt, asking that the post route from indian gulch to shakespeare gap and intermediate points be changed partly to the old mormon trail. but i told you it was a delicate question, and warned you to deal with it deftly--to answer it dubiously, and leave them a little in the dark. and your fatal imbecility impelled you to make this disastrous reply. i should think you would stop your ears, if you are not dead to all shame: "'washington, nov. . "'messes. perkins, wagner, et at. "'gentlemen: it is a delicate question about this indian trail, but, handled with proper deftness and dubiousness, i doubt not we shall succeed in some measure or otherwise, because the place where the route leaves the lassen meadows, over beyond where those two shawnee chiefs, dilapidated vengeance and biter-of-the-clouds, were scalped last winter, this being the favorite direction to some, but others preferring something else in consequence of things, the mormon trail leaving mosby's at three in the morning, and passing through jaw bone flat to blucher, and then down by jug-handle, the road passing to the right of it, and naturally leaving it on the right, too, and dawson's on the left of the trail where it passes to the left of said dawson's and onward thence to tomahawk, thus making the route cheaper, easier of access to all who can get at it, and compassing all the desirable objects so considered by others, and, therefore, conferring the most good upon the greatest number, and, consequently, i am encouraged to hope we shall. however, i shall be ready, and happy, to afford you still further information upon the subject, from time to time, as you may desire it and the post-office department be enabled to furnish it to me. "'very truly, etc., "'mark twain, "'for james w. n-----, u. s. senator.' "there--now what do you think of that?" "well, i don't know, sir. it--well, it appears to me--to be dubious enough." "du--leave the house! i am a ruined man. those humboldt savages never will forgive me for tangling their brains up with this inhuman letter. i have lost the respect of the methodist church, the board of aldermen--" "well, i haven't anything to say about that, because i may have missed it a little in their cases, but i was too many for the baldwin's ranch people, general!" "leave the house! leave it forever and forever, too." i regarded that as a sort of covert intimation that my service could be dispensed with, and so i resigned. i never will be a private secretary to a senator again. you can't please that kind of people. they don't know anything. they can't appreciate a party's efforts. a fashion item--[written about .] at general g----'s reception the other night, the most fashionably dressed lady was mrs. g. c. she wore a pink satin dress, plain in front but with a good deal of rake to it--to the train, i mean; it was said to be two or three yards long. one could see it creeping along the floor some little time after the woman was gone. mrs. c. wore also a white bodice, cut bias, with pompadour sleeves, flounced with ruches; low neck, with the inside handkerchief not visible, with white kid gloves. she had on a pearl necklace, which glinted lonely, high up the midst of that barren waste of neck and shoulders. her hair was frizzled into a tangled chaparral, forward of her ears, aft it was drawn together, and compactly bound and plaited into a stump like a pony's tail, and furthermore was canted upward at a sharp angle, and ingeniously supported by a red velvet crupper, whose forward extremity was made fast with a half-hitch around a hairpin on the top of her head. her whole top hamper was neat and becoming. she had a beautiful complexion when she first came, but it faded out by degrees in an unaccountable way. however, it is not lost for good. i found the most of it on my shoulder afterward. (i stood near the door when she squeezed out with the throng.) there were other ladies present, but i only took notes of one as a specimen. i would gladly enlarge upon the subject were i able to do it justice. riley-newspaper correspondent one of the best men in washington--or elsewhere--is riley, correspondent of one of the great san francisco dailies. riley is full of humor, and has an unfailing vein of irony, which makes his conversation to the last degree entertaining (as long as the remarks are about somebody else). but notwithstanding the possession of these qualities, which should enable a man to write a happy and an appetizing letter, riley's newspaper letters often display a more than earthly solemnity, and likewise an unimaginative devotion to petrified facts, which surprise and distress all men who know him in his unofficial character. he explains this curious thing by saying that his employers sent him to washington to write facts, not fancy, and that several times he has come near losing his situation by inserting humorous remarks which, not being looked for at headquarters, and consequently not understood, were thought to be dark and bloody speeches intended to convey signals and warnings to murderous secret societies, or something of that kind, and so were scratched out with a shiver and a prayer and cast into the stove. riley says that sometimes he is so afflicted with a yearning to write a sparkling and absorbingly readable letter that he simply cannot resist it, and so he goes to his den and revels in the delight of untrammeled scribbling; and then, with suffering such as only a mother can know, he destroys the pretty children of his fancy and reduces his letter to the required dismal accuracy. having seen riley do this very thing more than once, i know whereof i speak. often i have laughed with him over a happy passage, and grieved to see him plow his pen through it. he would say, "i had to write that or die; and i've got to scratch it out or starve. they wouldn't stand it, you know." i think riley is about the most entertaining company i ever saw. we lodged together in many places in washington during the winter of ' - , moving comfortably from place to place, and attracting attention by paying our board--a course which cannot fail to make a person conspicuous in washington. riley would tell all about his trip to california in the early days, by way of the isthmus and the san juan river; and about his baking bread in san francisco to gain a living, and setting up tenpins, and practising law, and opening oysters, and delivering lectures, and teaching french, and tending bar, and reporting for the newspapers, and keeping dancing-schools, and interpreting chinese in the courts--which latter was lucrative, and riley was doing handsomely and laying up a little money when people began to find fault because his translations were too "free," a thing for which riley considered he ought not to be held responsible, since he did not know a word of the chinese tongue, and only adopted interpreting as a means of gaining an honest livelihood. through the machinations of enemies he was removed from the position of official interpreter, and a man put in his place who was familiar with the chinese language, but did not know any english. and riley used to tell about publishing a newspaper up in what is alaska now, but was only an iceberg then, with a population composed of bears, walruses, indians, and other animals; and how the iceberg got adrift at last, and left all his paying subscribers behind, and as soon as the commonwealth floated out of the jurisdiction of russia the people rose and threw off their allegiance and ran up the english flag, calculating to hook on and become an english colony as they drifted along down the british possessions; but a land breeze and a crooked current carried them by, and they ran up the stars and stripes and steered for california, missed the connection again and swore allegiance to mexico, but it wasn't any use; the anchors came home every time, and away they went with the northeast trades drifting off sideways toward the sandwich islands, whereupon they ran up the cannibal flag and had a grand human barbecue in honor of it, in which it was noticed that the better a man liked a friend the better he enjoyed him; and as soon as they got fairly within the tropics the weather got so fearfully hot that the iceberg began to melt, and it got so sloppy under foot that it was almost impossible for ladies to get about at all; and at last, just as they came in sight of the islands, the melancholy remnant of the once majestic iceberg canted first to one side and then to the other, and then plunged under forever, carrying the national archives along with it--and not only the archives and the populace, but some eligible town lots which had increased in value as fast as they diminished in size in the tropics, and which riley could have sold at thirty cents a pound and made himself rich if he could have kept the province afloat ten hours longer and got her into port. riley is very methodical, untiringly accommodating, never forgets anything that is to be attended to, is a good son, a stanch friend, and a permanent reliable enemy. he will put himself to any amount of trouble to oblige a body, and therefore always has his hands full of things to be done for the helpless and the shiftless. and he knows how to do nearly everything, too. he is a man whose native benevolence is a well-spring that never goes dry. he stands always ready to help whoever needs help, as far as he is able--and not simply with his money, for that is a cheap and common charity, but with hand and brain, and fatigue of limb and sacrifice of time. this sort of men is rare. riley has a ready wit, a quickness and aptness at selecting and applying quotations, and a countenance that is as solemn and as blank as the back side of a tombstone when he is delivering a particularly exasperating joke. one night a negro woman was burned to death in a house next door to us, and riley said that our landlady would be oppressively emotional at breakfast, because she generally made use of such opportunities as offered, being of a morbidly sentimental turn, and so we should find it best to let her talk along and say nothing back--it was the only way to keep her tears out of the gravy. riley said there never was a funeral in the neighborhood but that the gravy was watery for a week. and, sure enough, at breakfast the landlady was down in the very sloughs of woe--entirely brokenhearted. everything she looked at reminded her of that poor old negro woman, and so the buckwheat cakes made her sob, the coffee forced a groan, and when the beefsteak came on she fetched a wail that made our hair rise. then she got to talking about deceased, and kept up a steady drizzle till both of us were soaked through and through. presently she took a fresh breath and said, with a world of sobs: "ah, to think of it, only to think of it!--the poor old faithful creature. for she was so faithful. would you believe it, she had been a servant in that selfsame house and that selfsame family for twenty seven years come christmas, and never a cross word and never a lick! and, oh, to think she should meet such a death at last!--a-sitting over the red hot stove at three o'clock in the morning and went to sleep and fell on it and was actually roasted! not just frizzled up a bit, but literally roasted to a crisp! poor faithful creature, how she was cooked! i am but a poor woman, but even if i have to scrimp to do it, i will put up a tombstone over that lone sufferer's grave--and mr. riley if you would have the goodness to think up a little epitaph to put on it which would sort of describe the awful way in which she met her--" "put it, 'well done, good and faithful servant,'" said riley, and never smiled. a fine old man john wagner, the oldest man in buffalo--one hundred and four years old --recently walked a mile and a half in two weeks. he is as cheerful and bright as any of these other old men that charge around so persistently and tiresomely in the newspapers, and in every way as remarkable. last november he walked five blocks in a rainstorm, without any shelter but an umbrella, and cast his vote for grant, remarking that he had voted for forty-seven presidents--which was a lie. his "second crop" of rich brown hair arrived from new york yesterday, and he has a new set of teeth coming from philadelphia. he is to be married next week to a girl one hundred and two years old, who still takes in washing. they have been engaged eighty years, but their parents persistently refused their consent until three days ago. john wagner is two years older than the rhode island veteran, and yet has never tasted a drop of liquor in his life--unless-unless you count whisky. science v.s. luck--[written about .] at that time, in kentucky (said the hon. mr. k-----); the law was very strict against what is termed "games of chance." about a dozen of the boys were detected playing "seven up" or "old sledge" for money, and the grand jury found a true bill against them. jim sturgis was retained to defend them when the case came up, of course. the more he studied over the matter, and looked into the evidence, the plainer it was that he must lose a case at last--there was no getting around that painful fact. those boys had certainly been betting money on a game of chance. even public sympathy was roused in behalf of sturgis. people said it was a pity to see him mar his successful career with a big prominent case like this, which must go against him. but after several restless nights an inspired idea flashed upon sturgis, and he sprang out of bed delighted. he thought he saw his way through. the next day he whispered around a little among his clients and a few friends, and then when the case came up in court he acknowledged the seven-up and the betting, and, as his sole defense, had the astounding effrontery to put in the plea that old sledge was not a game of chance! there was the broadest sort of a smile all over the faces of that sophisticated audience. the judge smiled with the rest. but sturgis maintained a countenance whose earnestness was even severe. the opposite counsel tried to ridicule him out of his position, and did not succeed. the judge jested in a ponderous judicial way about the thing, but did not move him. the matter was becoming grave. the judge lost a little of his patience, and said the joke had gone far enough. jim sturgis said he knew of no joke in the matter--his clients could not be punished for indulging in what some people chose to consider a game of chance until it was proven that it was a game of chance. judge and counsel said that would be an easy matter, and forthwith called deacons job, peters, burke, and johnson, and dominies wirt and miggles, to testify; and they unanimously and with strong feeling put down the legal quibble of sturgis by pronouncing that old sledge was a game of chance. "what do you call it now?" said the judge. "i call it a game of science!" retorted sturgis; "and i'll prove it, too!" they saw his little game. he brought in a cloud of witnesses, and produced an overwhelming mass of testimony, to show that old sledge was not a game of chance but a game of science. instead of being the simplest case in the world, it had somehow turned out to be an excessively knotty one. the judge scratched his head over it awhile, and said there was no way of coming to a determination, because just as many men could be brought into court who would testify on one side as could be found to testify on the other. but he said he was willing to do the fair thing by all parties, and would act upon any suggestion mr. sturgis would make for the solution of the difficulty. mr. sturgis was on his feet in a second. "impanel a jury of six of each, luck versus science. give them candles and a couple of decks of cards. send them into the jury-room, and just abide by the result!" there was no disputing the fairness of the proposition. the four deacons and the two dominies were sworn in as the "chance" jurymen, and six inveterate old seven-up professors were chosen to represent the "science" side of the issue. they retired to the jury-room. in about two hours deacon peters sent into court to borrow three dollars from a friend. [sensation.] in about two hours more dominie miggles sent into court to borrow a "stake" from a friend. [sensation.] during the next three or four hours the other dominie and the other deacons sent into court for small loans. and still the packed audience waited, for it was a prodigious occasion in bull's corners, and one in which every father of a family was necessarily interested. the rest of the story can be told briefly. about daylight the jury came in, and deacon job, the foreman, read the following: verdict: we, the jury in the case of the commonwealth of kentucky vs. john wheeler et al., have carefully considered the points of the case, and tested the merits of the several theories advanced, and do hereby unanimously decide that the game commonly known as old sledge or seven-up is eminently a game of science and not of chance. in demonstration whereof it is hereby and herein stated, iterated, reiterated, set forth, and made manifest that, during the entire night, the "chance" men never won a game or turned a jack, although both feats were common and frequent to the opposition; and furthermore, in support of this our verdict, we call attention to the significant fact that the "chance" men are all busted, and the "science" men have got the money. it is the deliberate opinion of this jury, that the "chance" theory concerning seven-up is a pernicious doctrine, and calculated to inflict untold suffering and pecuniary loss upon any community that takes stock in it. "that is the way that seven-up came to be set apart and particularized in the statute-books of kentucky as being a game not of chance but of science, and therefore not punishable under the law," said mr. k-----. "that verdict is of record, and holds good to this day." sketches new and old by mark twain part . answers to correspondents--[written about .] "moral statistician."--i don't want any of your statistics; i took your whole batch and lit my pipe with it. i hate your kind of people. you are always ciphering out how much a man's health is injured, and how much his intellect is impaired, and how many pitiful dollars and cents he wastes in the course of ninety-two years' indulgence in the fatal practice of smoking; and in the equally fatal practice of drinking coffee; and in playing billiards occasionally; and in taking a glass of wine at dinner, etc., etc., etc. and you are always figuring out how many women have been burned to death because of the dangerous fashion of wearing expansive hoops, etc., etc., etc. you never see more than one side of the question. you are blind to the fact that most old men in america smoke and drink coffee, although, according to your theory, they ought to have died young; and that hearty old englishmen drink wine and survive it, and portly old dutchmen both drink and smoke freely, and yet grow older and fatter all the time. and you never by to find out how much solid comfort, relaxation, and enjoyment a man derives from smoking in the course of a lifetime (which is worth ten times the money he would save by letting it alone), nor the appalling aggregate of happiness lost in a lifetime your kind of people from not smoking. of course you can save money by denying yourself all the little vicious enjoyments for fifty years; but then what can you do with it? what use can you put it to? money can't save your infinitesimal soul. all the use that money can be put to is to purchase comfort and enjoyment in this life; therefore, as you are an enemy to comfort and enjoyment, where is the use of accumulating cash? it won't do for you say that you can use it to better purpose in furnishing a good table, and in charities, and in supporting tract societies, because you know yourself that you people who have no petty vices are never known to give away a cent, and that you stint yourselves so in the matter of food that you are always feeble and hungry. and you never dare to laugh in the daytime for fear some poor wretch, seeing you in a good humor, will try to borrow a dollar of you; and in church you are always down on your knees, with your eyes buried in the cushion, when the contribution-box comes around; and you never give the revenue officer: full statement of your income. now you know these things yourself, don't you? very well, then what is the use of your stringing out your miserable lives to a lean and withered old age? what is the use of your saving money that is so utterly worthless to you? in a word, why don't you go off somewhere and die, and not be always trying to seduce people into becoming as "ornery" and unlovable as you are yourselves, by your villainous "moral statistics"? now i don't approve of dissipation, and i don't indulge in it, either; but i haven't a particle of confidence in a man who has no redeeming petty vices, and so i don't want to hear from you any more. i think you are the very same man who read me a long lecture last week about the degrading vice of smoking cigars, and then came back, in my absence, with your reprehensible fireproof gloves on, and carried off my beautiful parlor stove. "young author."--yes, agassiz does recommend authors to eat fish, because the phosphorus in it makes brain. so far you are correct. but i cannot help you to a decision about the amount you need to eat--at least, not with certainty. if the specimen composition you send is about your fair usual average, i should judge that perhaps a couple of whales would be all you would want for the present. not the largest kind, but simply good, middling-sized whales. "simon wheeler," sonora.--the following simple and touching remarks and accompanying poem have just come to hand from the rich gold-mining region of sonora: to mr. mark twain: the within parson, which i have set to poetry under the name and style of "he done his level best," was one among the whitest men i ever see, and it ain't every man that knowed him that can find it in his heart to say he's glad the poor cuss is busted and gone home to the states. he was here in an early day, and he was the handyest man about takin' holt of anything that come along you most ever see, i judge. he was a cheerful, stirnn' cretur, always doin' somethin', and no man can say he ever see him do anything by halvers. preachin was his nateral gait, but he warn't a man to lay back a twidle his thumbs because there didn't happen to be nothin' do in his own especial line--no, sir, he was a man who would meander forth and stir up something for hisself. his last acts was to go his pile on "kings-and" (calkatin' to fill, but which he didn't fill), when there was a "flush" out agin him, and naterally, you see, he went under. and so he was cleaned out as you may say, and he struck the home-trail, cheerful but flat broke. i knowed this talonted man in arkansaw, and if you would print this humbly tribute to his gorgis abilities, you would greatly obleege his onhappy friend. he done his level best was he a mining on the flat-- he done it with a zest; was he a leading of the choir-- he done his level best. if he'd a reg'lar task to do, he never took no rest; or if 'twas off-and-on-the same-- he done his level best. if he was preachin' on his beat, he'd tramp from east to west, and north to south-in cold and heat he done his level best. he'd yank a sinner outen (hades),** and land him with the blest; then snatch a prayer'n waltz in again, and do his level best. **here i have taken a slight liberty with the original ms. "hades" does not make such good meter as the other word of one syllable, but it sounds better. he'd cuss and sing and howl and pray, and dance and drink and jest, and lie and steal--all one to him-- he done his level best. whate'er this man was sot to do, he done it with a zest; no matter what his contract was, he'd do his level best. verily, this man was gifted with "gorgis abilities," and it is a happiness to me to embalm the memory of their luster in these columns. if it were not that the poet crop is unusually large and rank in california this year, i would encourage you to continue writing, simon wheeler; but, as it is, perhaps it might be too risky in you to enter against so much opposition. "professional beggar."--no; you are not obliged to take greenbacks at par. "melton mowbray," dutch flat.--this correspondent sends a lot of doggerel, and says it has been regarded as very good in dutch flat. i give a specimen verse: the assyrian came down like a wolf on the fold, and his cohorts were gleaming with purple and gold; and the sheen of his spears was like stars on the sea, when the blue wave rolls nightly on deep galilee.** **this piece of pleasantry, published in a san francisco paper, was mistaken by the country journals for seriousness, and many and loud were the denunciations of the ignorance of author and editor, in not knowing that the lines in question were "written by byron." there, that will do. that may be very good dutch flat poetry, but it won't do in the metropolis. it is too smooth and blubbery; it reads like butter milk gurgling from a jug. what the people ought to have is something spirited--something like "johnny comes marching home." however keep on practising, and you may succeed yet. there is genius in you, but too much blubber. "st. clair higgins." los angeles.--"my life is a failure; i have adored, wildly, madly, and she whom i love has turned coldly from me and shed her affections upon another. what would you advise me to do?" you should set your affections on another also--or on several, if there are enough to go round. also, do everything you can to make your former flame unhappy. there is an absurd idea disseminated in novels, that the happier a girl is with another man, the happier it makes the old lover she has blighted. don't allow yourself to believe any such nonsense as that. the more cause that girl finds to regret that she did not marry you, the more comfortable you will feel over it. it isn't poetical, but it is mighty sound doctrine. "arithmeticus." virginia, nevada.--"if it would take a cannon-ball and / seconds to travel four miles, and and / seconds to travel the next four, and and / to travel the next four, and if its rate of progress continued to diminish in the same ratio, how long would it take it to go fifteen hundred million miles?" i don't know. "ambitious learner," oakland.--yes; you are right america was not discovered by alexander selkirk. "discarded lover."--"i loved, and still love, the beautiful edwitha howard, and intended to marry her. yet, during my temporary absence at benicia, last week, alas! she married jones. is my happiness to be thus blasted for life? have i no redress?" of course you have. all the law, written and unwritten, is on your side. the intention and not the act constitutes crime--in other words, constitutes the deed. if you call your bosom friend a fool, and intend it for an insult, it is an insult; but if you do it playfully, and meaning no insult, it is not an insult. if you discharge a pistol accidentally, and kill a man, you can go free, for you have done no murder; but if you try to kill a man, and manifestly intend to kill him, but fail utterly to do it, the law still holds that the intention constituted the crime, and you are guilty of murder. ergo, if you had married edwitha accidentally, and without really intending to do it, you would not actually be married to her at all, because the act of marriage could not be complete without the intention. and ergo, in the strict spirit of the law, since you deliberately intended to marry edwitha, and didn't do it, you are married to her all the same--because, as i said before, the intention constitutes the crime. it is as clear as day that edwitha is your wife, and your redress lies in taking a club and mutilating jones with it as much as you can. any man has a right to protect his own wife from the advances of other men. but you have another alternative--you were married to edwitha first, because of your deliberate intention, and now you can prosecute her for bigamy, in subsequently marrying jones. but there is another phase in this complicated case: you intended to marry edwitha, and consequently, according to law, she is your wife--there is no getting around that; but she didn't marry you, and if she never intended to marry you, you are not her husband, of course. ergo, in marrying jones, she was guilty of bigamy, because she was the wife of another man at the time; which is all very well as far as it goes--but then, don't you see, she had no other husband when she married jones, and consequently she was not guilty of bigamy. now, according to this view of the case, jones married a spinster, who was a widow at the same time and another man's wife at the same time, and yet who had no husband and never had one, and never had any intention of getting married, and therefore, of course, never had been married; and by the same reasoning you are a bachelor, because you have never been any one's husband; and a married man, because you have a wife living; and to all intents and purposes a widower, because you have been deprived of that wife; and a consummate ass for going off to benicia in the first place, while things were so mixed. and by this time i have got myself so tangled up in the intricacies of this extraordinary case that i shall have to give up any further attempt to advise you--i might get confused and fail to make myself understood. i think i could take up the argument where i left off, and by following it closely awhile, perhaps i could prove to your satisfaction, either that you never existed at all, or that you are dead now, and consequently don't need the faithless edwitha--i think i could do that, if it would afford you any comfort. "arthur augustus."--no; you are wrong; that is the proper way to throw a brickbat or a tomahawk; but it doesn't answer so well for a bouquet; you will hurt somebody if you keep it up. turn your nosegay upside down, take it by the stems, and toss it with an upward sweep. did you ever pitch quoits? that is the idea. the practice of recklessly heaving immense solid bouquets, of the general size and weight of prize cabbages, from the dizzy altitude of the galleries, is dangerous and very reprehensible. now, night before last, at the academy of music, just after signorina had finished that exquisite melody, "the last rose of summer," one of these floral pile-drivers came cleaving down through the atmosphere of applause, and if she hadn't deployed suddenly to the right, it would have driven her into the floor like a shinglenail. of course that bouquet was well meant; but how would you like to have been the target? a sincere compliment is always grateful to a lady, so long as you don't try to knock her down with it. "young mother."--and so you think a baby is a thing of beauty and a joy forever? well, the idea is pleasing, but not original; every cow thinks the same of its own calf. perhaps the cow may not think it so elegantly, but still she thinks it nevertheless. i honor the cow for it. we all honor this touching maternal instinct wherever we find it, be it in the home of luxury or in the humble cow-shed. but really, madam, when i come to examine the matter in all its bearings, i find that the correctness of your assertion does not assert itself in all cases. a soiled baby, with a neglected nose, cannot be conscientiously regarded as a thing of beauty; and inasmuch as babyhood spans but three short years, no baby is competent to be a joy "forever." it pains me thus to demolish two-thirds of your pretty sentiment in a single sentence; but the position i hold in this chair requires that i shall not permit you to deceive and mislead the public with your plausible figures of speech. i know a female baby, aged eighteen months, in this city, which cannot hold out as a "joy" twenty-four hours on a stretch, let alone "forever." and it possesses some of the most remarkable eccentricities of character and appetite that have ever fallen under my notice. i will set down here a statement of this infant's operations (conceived, planned, and earned out by itself, and without suggestion or assistance from its mother or any one else), during a single day; and what i shall say can be substantiated by the sworn testimony of witnesses. it commenced by eating one dozen large blue-mass pills, box and all; then it fell down a flight of stairs, and arose with a blue and purple knot on its forehead, after which it proceeded in quest of further refreshment and amusement. it found a glass trinket ornamented with brass-work --smashed up and ate the glass, and then swallowed the brass. then it drank about twenty drops of laudanum, and more than a dozen tablespoonfuls of strong spirits of camphor. the reason why it took no more laudanum was because there was no more to take. after this it lay down on its back, and shoved five or six, inches of a silver-headed whalebone cane down its throat; got it fast there, and it was all its mother could do to pull the cane out again, without pulling out some of the child with it. then, being hungry for glass again, it broke up several wine glasses, and fell to eating and swallowing the fragments, not minding a cut or two. then it ate a quantity of butter, pepper, salt, and california matches, actually taking a spoonful of butter, a spoonful of salt, a spoonful of pepper, and three or four lucifer matches at each mouthful. (i will remark here that this thing of beauty likes painted german lucifers, and eats all she can get of them; but she prefers california matches, which i regard as a compliment to our home manufactures of more than ordinary value, coming, as it does, from one who is too young to flatter.) then she washed her head with soap and water, and afterward ate what soap was left, and drank as much of the suds as she had room for; after which she sallied forth and took the cow familiarly by the tail, and got kicked heels over head. at odd times during the day, when this joy forever happened to have nothing particular on hand, she put in the time by climbing up on places, and falling down off them, uniformly damaging her self in the operation. as young as she is, she speaks many words tolerably distinctly; and being plain spoken in other respects, blunt and to the point, she opens conversation with all strangers, male or female, with the same formula, "how do, jim?" not being familiar with the ways of children, it is possible that i have been magnifying into matter of surprise things which may not strike any one who is familiar with infancy as being at all astonishing. however, i cannot believe that such is the case, and so i repeat that my report of this baby's performances is strictly true; and if any one doubts it, i can produce the child. i will further engage that she will devour anything that is given her (reserving to myself only the right to exclude anvils), and fall down from any place to which she may be elevated (merely stipulating that her preference for alighting on her head shall be respected, and, therefore, that the elevation chosen shall be high enough to enable her to accomplish this to her satisfaction). but i find i have wandered from my subject; so, without further argument, i will reiterate my conviction that not all babies are things of beauty and joys forever. "arithmeticus." virginia, nevada.--"i am an enthusiastic student of mathematics, and it is so vexatious to me to find my progress constantly impeded by these mysterious arithmetical technicalities. now do tell me what the difference is between geometry and conchology?" here you come again with your arithmetical conundrums, when i am suffering death with a cold in the head. if you could have seen the expression of scorn that darkened my countenance a moment ago, and was instantly split from the center in every direction like a fractured looking-glass by my last sneeze, you never would have written that disgraceful question. conchology is a science which has nothing to do with mathematics; it relates only to shells. at the same time, however, a man who opens oysters for a hotel, or shells a fortified town, or sucks eggs, is not, strictly speaking, a conchologist-a fine stroke of sarcasm that, but it will be lost on such an unintellectual clam as you. now compare conchology and geometry together, and you will see what the difference is, and your question will be answered. but don't torture me with any more arithmetical horrors until you know i am rid of my cold. i feel the bitterest animosity toward you at this moment-bothering me in this way, when i can do nothing but sneeze and rage and snort pocket-handkerchiefs to atoms. if i had you in range of my nose now i would blow your brains out. to raise poultry --[being a letter written to a poultry society that had conferred a complimentary membership upon the author. written about .] seriously, from early youth i have taken an especial interest in the subject of poultry-raising, and so this membership touches a ready sympathy in my breast. even as a schoolboy, poultry-raising was a study with me, and i may say without egotism that as early as the age of seventeen i was acquainted with all the best and speediest methods of raising chickens, from raising them off a roost by burning lucifer matches under their noses, down to lifting them off a fence on a frosty night by insinuating the end of a warm board under their heels. by the time i was twenty years old, i really suppose i had raised more poultry than any one individual in all the section round about there. the very chickens came to know my talent by and by. the youth of both sexes ceased to paw the earth for worms, and old roosters that came to crow, "remained to pray," when i passed by. i have had so much experience in the raising of fowls that i cannot but think that a few hints from me might be useful to the society. the two methods i have already touched upon are very simple, and are only used in the raising of the commonest class of fowls; one is for summer, the other for winter. in the one case you start out with a friend along about eleven o'clock' on a summer's night (not later, because in some states --especially in california and oregon--chickens always rouse up just at midnight and crow from ten to thirty minutes, according to the ease or difficulty they experience in getting the public waked up), and your friend carries with him a sack. arrived at the henroost (your neighbor's, not your own), you light a match and hold it under first one and then another pullet's nose until they are willing to go into that bag without making any trouble about it. you then return home, either taking the bag with you or leaving it behind, according as circumstances shall dictate. n. b.--i have seen the time when it was eligible and appropriate to leave the sack behind and walk off with considerable velocity, without ever leaving any word where to send it. in the case of the other method mentioned for raising poultry, your friend takes along a covered vessel with a charcoal fire in it, and you carry a long slender plank. this is a frosty night, understand. arrived at the tree, or fence, or other henroost (your own if you are an idiot), you warm the end of your plank in your friend's fire vessel, and then raise it aloft and ease it up gently against a slumbering chicken's foot. if the subject of your attentions is a true bird, he will infallibly return thanks with a sleepy cluck or two, and step out and take up quarters on the plank, thus becoming so conspicuously accessory before the fact to his own murder as to make it a grave question in our minds as it once was in the mind of blackstone, whether he is not really and deliberately, committing suicide in the second degree. [but you enter into a contemplation of these legal refinements subsequently not then.] when you wish to raise a fine, large, donkey voiced shanghai rooster, you do it with a lasso, just as you would a bull. it is because he must choked, and choked effectually, too. it is the only good, certain way, for whenever he mentions a matter which he is cordially interested in, the chances are ninety-nine in a hundred that he secures somebody else's immediate attention to it too, whether it day or night. the black spanish is an exceedingly fine bird and a costly one. thirty-five dollars is the usual figure and fifty a not uncommon price for a specimen. even its eggs are worth from a dollar to a dollar and a half apiece, and yet are so unwholesome that the city physician seldom or never orders them for the workhouse. still i have once or twice procured as high as a dozen at a time for nothing, in the dark of the moon. the best way to raise the black spanish fowl is to go late in the evening and raise coop and all. the reason i recommend this method is that, the birds being so valuable, the owners do not permit them to roost around promiscuously, they put them in a coop as strong as a fireproof safe and keep it in the kitchen at night. the method i speak of is not always a bright and satisfying success, and yet there are so many little articles of vertu about a kitchen, that if you fail on the coop you can generally bring away something else. i brought away a nice steel trap one night, worth ninety cents. but what is the use in my pouring out my whole intellect on this subject? i have shown the western new york poultry society that they have taken to their bosom a party who is not a spring chicken by any means, but a man who knows all about poultry, and is just as high up in the most efficient methods of raising it as the president of the institution himself. i thank these gentlemen for the honorary membership they have conferred upon me, and shall stand at all times ready and willing to testify my good feeling and my official zeal by deeds as well as by this hastily penned advice and information. whenever they are ready to go to raising poultry, let them call for me any evening after eleven o'clock. experience of the mcwilliamses with membranous croup [as related to the author of this book by mr. mcwilliams, a pleasant new york gentleman whom the said author met by chance on a journey.] well, to go back to where i was before i digressed to explain to you how that frightful and incurable disease, membranous croup,[diphtheria d.w.] was ravaging the town and driving all mothers mad with terror, i called mrs. mcwilliams's attention to little penelope, and said: "darling, i wouldn't let that child be chewing that pine stick if i were you." "precious, where is the harm in it?" said she, but at the same time preparing to take away the stick for women cannot receive even the most palpably judicious suggestion without arguing it, that is married women. i replied: "love, it is notorious that pine is the least nutritious wood that a child can eat." my wife's hand paused, in the act of taking the stick, and returned itself to her lap. she bridled perceptibly, and said: "hubby, you know better than that. you know you do. doctors all say that the turpentine in pine wood is good for weak back and the kidneys." "ah--i was under a misapprehension. i did not know that the child's kidneys and spine were affected, and that the family physician had recommended--" "who said the child's spine and kidneys were affected?" "my love, you intimated it." "the idea! i never intimated anything of the kind." "why, my dear, it hasn't been two minutes since you said--" "bother what i said! i don't care what i did say. there isn't any harm in the child's chewing a bit of pine stick if she wants to, and you know it perfectly well. and she shall chew it, too. so there, now!" "say no more, my dear. i now see the force of your reasoning, and i will go and order two or three cords of the best pine wood to-day. no child of mine shall want while i--" "oh, please go along to your office and let me have some peace. a body can never make the simplest remark but you must take it up and go to arguing and arguing and arguing till you don't know what you are talking about, and you never do." "very well, it shall be as you say. but there is a want of logic in your last remark which--" however, she was gone with a flourish before i could finish, and had taken the child with her. that night at dinner she confronted me with a face a white as a sheet: "oh, mortimer, there's another! little georgi gordon is taken." "membranous croup?" "membranous croup." "is there any hope for him?" "none in the wide world. oh, what is to be come of us!" by and by a nurse brought in our penelope to say good night and offer the customary prayer at the mother's knee. in the midst of "now i lay me down to sleep," she gave a slight cough! my wife fell back like one stricken with death. but the next moment she was up and brimming with the activities which terror inspires. she commanded that the child's crib be removed from the nursery to our bedroom; and she went along to see the order executed. she took me with her, of course. we got matters arranged with speed. a cot-bed was put up in my wife's dressing room for the nurse. but now mrs. mcwilliams said we were too far away from the other baby, and what if he were to have the symptoms in the night--and she blanched again, poor thing. we then restored the crib and the nurse to the nursery and put up a bed for ourselves in a room adjoining. presently, however, mrs. mcwilliams said suppose the baby should catch it from penelope? this thought struck a new panic to her heart, and the tribe of us could not get the crib out of the nursery again fast enough to satisfy my wife, though she assisted in her own person and well-nigh pulled the crib to pieces in her frantic hurry. we moved down-stairs; but there was no place there to stow the nurse, and mrs. mcwilliams said the nurse's experience would be an inestimable help. so we returned, bag and baggage, to our own bedroom once more, and felt a great gladness, like storm-buffeted birds that have found their nest again. mrs. mcwilliams sped to the nursery to see how things were going on there. she was back in a moment with a new dread. she said: "what can make baby sleep so?" i said: "why, my darling, baby always sleeps like a graven image." "i know. i know; but there's something peculiar about his sleep now. he seems to--to--he seems to breathe so regularly. oh, this is dreadful." "but, my dear, he always breathes regularly." "oh, i know it, but there's something frightful about it now. his nurse is too young and inexperienced. maria shall stay there with her, and be on hand if anything happens." "that is a good idea, but who will help you?" "you can help me all i want. i wouldn't allow anybody to do anything but myself, anyhow, at such a time as this." i said i would feel mean to lie abed and sleep, and leave her to watch and toil over our little patient all the weary night. but she reconciled me to it. so old maria departed and took up her ancient quarters in the nursery. penelope coughed twice in her sleep. "oh, why don't that doctor come! mortimer, this room is too warm. this room is certainly too warm. turn off the register-quick!" i shut it off, glancing at the thermometer at the same time, and wondering to myself if was too warm for a sick child. the coachman arrived from down-town now with the news that our physician was ill and confined to his bed. mrs. mcwilliams turned a dead eye upon me, and said in a dead voice: "there is a providence in it. it is foreordained. he never was sick before. never. we have not been living as we ought to live, mortimer. time and time again i have told you so. now you see the result. our child will never get well. be thankful if you can forgive yourself; i never can forgive myself." i said, without intent to hurt, but with heedless choice of words, that i could not see that we had been living such an abandoned life. "mortimer! do you want to bring the judgment upon baby, too!" then she began to cry, but suddenly exclaimed: "the doctor must have sent medicines!" i said: "certainly. they are here. i was only waiting for you to give me a chance." "well do give them to me! don't you know that every moment is precious now? but what was the use in sending medicines, when he knows that the disease is incurable?" i said that while there was life there was hope. "hope! mortimer, you know no more what you are talking about than the child unborn. if you would--as i live, the directions say give one teaspoonful once an hour! once an hour!--as if we had a whole year before us to save the child in! mortimer, please hurry. give the poor perishing thing a tablespoonful, and try to be quick!" "why, my dear, a tablespoonful might--" "don't drive me frantic! . . . there, there, there, my precious, my own; it's nasty bitter stuff, but it's good for nelly--good for mother's precious darling; and it will make her well. there, there, there, put the little head on mamma's breast and go to sleep, and pretty soon--oh, i know she can't live till morning! mortimer, a tablespoonful every half-hour will--oh, the child needs belladonna, too; i know she does--and aconite. get them, mortimer. now do let me have my way. you know nothing about these things." we now went to bed, placing the crib close to my wife's pillow. all this turmoil had worn upon me, and within two minutes i was something more than half asleep. mrs. mcwilliams roused me: "darling, is that register turned on?" "no." "i thought as much. please turn it on at once. this room is cold." i turned it on, and presently fell asleep again. i was aroused once more: "dearie, would you mind moving the crib to your side of the bed? it is nearer the register." i moved it, but had a collision with the rug and woke up the child. i dozed off once more, while my wife quieted the sufferer. but in a little while these words came murmuring remotely through the fog of my drowsiness: "mortimer, if we only had some goose grease--will you ring?" i climbed dreamily out, and stepped on a cat, which responded with a protest and would have got a convincing kick for it if a chair had not got it instead. "now, mortimer, why do you want to turn up the gas and wake up the child again?" "because i want to see how much i am hurt, caroline." "well, look at the chair, too--i have no doubt it is ruined. poor cat, suppose you had--" "now i am not going to suppose anything about the cat. it never would have occurred if maria had been allowed to remain here and attend to these duties, which are in her line and are not in mine." "now, mortimer, i should think you would be ashamed to make a remark like that. it is a pity if you cannot do the few little things i ask of you at such an awful time as this when our child--" "there, there, i will do anything you want. but i can't raise anybody with this bell. they're all gone to bed. where is the goose grease?" "on the mantelpiece in the nursery. if you'll step there and speak to maria--" i fetched the goose grease and went to sleep again. once more i was called: "mortimer, i so hate to disturb you, but the room is still too cold for me to try to apply this stuff. would you mind lighting the fire? it is all ready to touch a match to." i dragged myself out and lit the fire, and then sat down disconsolate. "mortimer, don't sit there and catch your death of cold. come to bed." as i was stepping in she said: "but wait a moment. please give the child some more of the medicine." which i did. it was a medicine which made a child more or less lively; so my wife made use of its waking interval to strip it and grease it all over with the goose oil. i was soon asleep once more, but once more i had to get up. "mortimer, i feel a draft. i feel it distinctly. there is nothing so bad for this disease as a draft. please move the crib in front of the fire." i did it; and collided with the rug again, which i threw in the fire. mrs. mcwilliams sprang out of bed and rescued it and we had some words. i had another trifling interval of sleep, and then got up, by request, and constructed a flax-seed poultice. this was placed upon the child's breast and left there to do its healing work. a wood-fire is not a permanent thing. i got up every twenty minutes and renewed ours, and this gave mrs. mcwilliams the opportunity to shorten the times of giving the medicines by ten minutes, which was a great satisfaction to her. now and then, between times, i reorganized the flax-seed poultices, and applied sinapisms and other sorts of blisters where unoccupied places could be found upon the child. well, toward morning the wood gave out and my wife wanted me to go down cellar and get some more. i said: "my dear, it is a laborious job, and the child must be nearly warm enough, with her extra clothing. now mightn't we put on another layer of poultices and--" i did not finish, because i was interrupted. i lugged wood up from below for some little time, and then turned in and fell to snoring as only a man can whose strength is all gone and whose soul is worn out. just at broad daylight i felt a grip on my shoulder that brought me to my senses suddenly. my wife was glaring down upon me and gasping. as soon as she could command her tongue she said: "it is all over! all over! the child's perspiring! what shall we do?" "mercy, how you terrify me! i don't know what we ought to do. maybe if we scraped her and put her in the draft again--" "oh, idiot! there is not a moment to lose! go for the doctor. go yourself. tell him he must come, dead or alive." i dragged that poor sick man from his bed and brought him. he looked at the child and said she was not dying. this was joy unspeakable to me, but it made my wife as mad as if he had offered her a personal affront. then he said the child's cough was only caused by some trifling irritation or other in the throat. at this i thought my wife had a mind to show him the door. now the doctor said he would make the child cough harder and dislodge the trouble. so he gave her something that sent her into a spasm of coughing, and presently up came a little wood splinter or so. "this child has no membranous croup," said he. "she has been chewing a bit of pine shingle or something of the kind, and got some little slivers in her throat. they won't do her any hurt." "no," said i, "i can well believe that. indeed, the turpentine that is in them is very good for certain sorts of diseases that are peculiar to children. my wife will tell you so." but she did not. she turned away in disdain and left the room; and since that time there is one episode in our life which we never refer to. hence the tide of our days flows by in deep and untroubled serenity. [very few married men have such an experience as mcwilliams's, and so the author of this book thought that maybe the novelty of it would give it a passing interest to the reader.] my first literary venture i was a very smart child at the age of thirteen--an unusually smart child, i thought at the time. it was then that i did my first newspaper scribbling, and most unexpectedly to me it stirred up a fine sensation in the community. it did, indeed, and i was very proud of it, too. i was a printer's "devil," and a progressive and aspiring one. my uncle had me on his paper (the weekly hannibal journal, two dollars a year in advance --five hundred subscribers, and they paid in cordwood, cabbages, and unmarketable turnips), and on a lucky summer's day he left town to be gone a week, and asked me if i thought i could edit one issue of the paper judiciously. ah! didn't i want to try! higgins was the editor on the rival paper. he had lately been jilted, and one night a friend found an open note on the poor fellow's bed, in which he stated that he could not longer endure life and had drowned himself in bear creek. the friend ran down there and discovered higgins wading back to shore. he had concluded he wouldn't. the village was full of it for several days, but higgins did not suspect it. i thought this was a fine opportunity. i wrote an elaborately wretched account of the whole matter, and then illustrated it with villainous cuts engraved on the bottoms of wooden type with a jackknife--one of them a picture of higgins wading out into the creek in his shirt, with a lantern, sounding the depth of the water with a walking-stick. i thought it was desperately funny, and was densely unconscious that there was any moral obliquity about such a publication. being satisfied with this effort i looked around for other worlds to conquer, and it struck me that it would make good, interesting matter to charge the editor of a neighboring country paper with a piece of gratuitous rascality and "see him squirm." i did it, putting the article into the form of a parody on the "burial of sir john moore"--and a pretty crude parody it was, too. then i lampooned two prominent citizens outrageously--not because they had done anything to deserve, but merely because i thought it was my duty to make the paper lively. next i gently touched up the newest stranger--the lion of the day, the gorgeous journeyman tailor from quincy. he was a simpering coxcomb of the first water, and the "loudest" dressed man in the state. he was an inveterate woman-killer. every week he wrote lushy "poetry" for the journal, about his newest conquest. his rhymes for my week were headed, "to mary in h--l," meaning to mary in hannibal, of course. but while setting up the piece i was suddenly riven from head to heel by what i regarded as a perfect thunderbolt of humor, and i compressed it into a snappy footnote at the bottom--thus: "we will let this thing pass, just this once; but we wish mr. j. gordon runnels to understand distinctly that we have a character to sustain, and from this time forth when he wants to commune with his friends in h--l, he must select some other medium than the columns of this journal!" the paper came out, and i never knew any little thing attract so much attention as those playful trifles of mine. for once the hannibal journal was in demand--a novelty it had not experienced before. the whole town was stirred. higgins dropped in with a double-barreled shotgun early in the forenoon. when he found that it was an infant (as he called me) that had done him the damage, he simply pulled my ears and went away; but he threw up his situation that night and left town for good. the tailor came with his goose and a pair of shears; but he despised me, too, and departed for the south that night. the two lampooned citizens came with threats of libel, and went away incensed at my insignificance. the country editor pranced in with a war-whoop next day, suffering for blood to drink; but he ended by forgiving me cordially and inviting me down to the drug store to wash away all animosity in a friendly bumper of "fahnestock's vermifuge." it was his little joke. my uncle was very angry when he got back --unreasonably so, i thought, considering what an impetus i had given the paper, and considering also that gratitude for his preservation ought to have been uppermost in his mind, inasmuch as by his delay he had so wonderfully escaped dissection, tomahawking, libel, and getting his head shot off. but he softened when he looked at the accounts and saw that i had actually booked the unparalleled number of thirty-three new subscribers, and had the vegetables to show for it, cordwood, cabbage, beans, and unsalable turnips enough to run the family for two dears! how the author was sold in newark--[written about .] it is seldom pleasant to tell on oneself, but some times it is a sort of relief to a man to make a confession. i wish to unburden my mind now, and yet i almost believe that i am moved to do it more because i long to bring censure upon another man than because i desire to pour balm upon my wounded heart. (i don't know what balm is, but i believe it is the correct expression to use in this connection--never having seen any balm.) you may remember that i lectured in newark lately for the young gentlemen of the-----society? i did at any rate. during the afternoon of that day i was talking with one of the young gentlemen just referred to, and he said he had an uncle who, from some cause or other, seemed to have grown permanently bereft of all emotion. and with tears in his eyes, this young man said, "oh, if i could only see him laugh once more! oh, if i could only see him weep!" i was touched. i could never withstand distress. i said: "bring him to my lecture. i'll start him for you." "oh, if you could but do it! if you could but do it, all our family would bless you for evermore--for he is so very dear to us. oh, my benefactor, can you make him laugh? can you bring soothing tears to those parched orbs?" i was profoundly moved. i said: "my son, bring the old party round. i have got some jokes in that lecture that will make him laugh if there is any laugh in him; and if they miss fire, i have got some others that will make him cry or kill him, one or the other." then the young man blessed me, and wept on my neck, and went after his uncle. he placed him in full view, in the second row of benches, that night, and i began on him. i tried him with mild jokes, then with severe ones; i dosed him with bad jokes and riddled him with good ones; i fired old stale jokes into him, and peppered him fore and aft with red-hot new ones; i warmed up to my work, and assaulted him on the right and left, in front and behind; i fumed and sweated and charged and ranted till i was hoarse and sick and frantic and furious; but i never moved him once--i never started a smile or a tear! never a ghost of a smile, and never a suspicion of moisture! i was astounded. i closed the lecture at last with one despairing shriek--with one wild burst of humor, and hurled a joke of supernatural atrocity full at him! then i sat down bewildered and exhausted. the president of the society came up and bathed my head with cold water, and said: "what made you carry on so toward the last?" i said: "i was trying to make that confounded old fool laugh, in the second row." and he said: "well, you were wasting your time, because he is deaf and dumb, and as blind as a badger!" now, was that any way for that old man's nephew to impose on a stranger and orphan like me? i ask you as a man and brother, if that was any way for him to do? the office bore--[written about ] he arrives just as regularly as the clock strikes nine in the morning. and so he even beats the editor sometimes, and the porter must leave his work and climb two or three pairs of stairs to unlock the "sanctum" door and let him in. he lights one of the office pipes--not reflecting, perhaps, that the editor may be one of those "stuck-up" people who would as soon have a stranger defile his tooth-brush as his pipe-stem. then he begins to loll--for a person who can consent to loaf his useless life away in ignominious indolence has not the energy to sit up straight. he stretches full length on the sofa awhile; then draws up to half length; then gets into a chair, hangs his head back and his arms abroad, and stretches his legs till the rims of his boot-heels rest upon the floor; by and by sits up and leans forward, with one leg or both over the arm of the chair. but it is still observable that with all his changes of position, he never assumes the upright or a fraudful affectation of dignity. from time to time he yawns, and stretches, and scratches himself with a tranquil, mangy enjoyment, and now and then he grunts a kind of stuffy, overfed grunt, which is full of animal contentment. at rare and long intervals, however, he sighs a sigh that is the eloquent expression of a secret confession, to wit "i am useless and a nuisance, a cumberer of the earth." the bore and his comrades--for there are usually from two to four on hand, day and night--mix into the conversation when men come in to see the editors for a moment on business; they hold noisy talks among themselves about politics in particular, and all other subjects in general--even warming up, after a fashion, sometimes, and seeming to take almost a real interest in what they are discussing. they ruthlessly call an editor from his work with such a remark as: "did you see this, smith, in the gazette?" and proceed to read the paragraph while the sufferer reins in his impatient pen and listens; they often loll and sprawl round the office hour after hour, swapping anecdotes and relating personal experiences to each other --hairbreadth escapes, social encounters with distinguished men, election reminiscences, sketches of odd characters, etc. and through all those hours they never seem to comprehend that they are robbing the editors of their time, and the public of journalistic excellence in next day's paper. at other times they drowse, or dreamily pore over exchanges, or droop limp and pensive over the chair-arms for an hour. even this solemn silence is small respite to the editor, for the next uncomfortable thing to having people look over his shoulders, perhaps, is to have them sit by in silence and listen to the scratching of his pen. if a body desires to talk private business with one of the editors, he must call him outside, for no hint milder than blasting-powder or nitroglycerin would be likely to move the bores out of listening-distance. to have to sit and endure the presence of a bore day after day; to feel your cheerful spirits begin to sink as his footstep sounds on the stair, and utterly vanish away as his tiresome form enters the door; to suffer through his anecdotes and die slowly to his reminiscences; to feel always the fetters of his clogging presence; to long hopelessly for one single day's privacy; to note with a shudder, by and by, that to contemplate his funeral in fancy has ceased to soothe, to imagine him undergoing in strict and fearful detail the tortures of the ancient inquisition has lost its power to satisfy the heart, and that even to wish him millions and millions and millions of miles in tophet is able to bring only a fitful gleam of joy; to have to endure all this, day after day, and week after week, and month after month, is an affliction that transcends any other that men suffer. physical pain is pastime to it, and hanging a pleasure excursion. johnny greer "the church was densely crowded that lovely summer sabbath," said the sunday-school superintendent, "and all, as their eyes rested upon the small coffin, seemed impressed by the poor black boy's fate. above the stillness the pastor's voice rose, and chained the interest of every ear as he told, with many an envied compliment, how that the brave, noble, daring little johnny greer, when he saw the drowned body sweeping down toward the deep part of the river whence the agonized parents never could have recovered it in this world, gallantly sprang into the stream, and, at the risk of his life, towed the corpse to shore, and held it fast till help came and secured it. johnny greer was sitting just in front of me. a ragged street-boy, with eager eye, turned upon him instantly, and said in a hoarse whisper "'no; but did you, though?' "'yes.' "'towed the carkiss ashore and saved it yo'self?' "'yes.' "'cracky! what did they give you?' "'nothing.' "'w-h-a-t [with intense disgust]! d'you know what i'd 'a' done? i'd 'a' anchored him out in the stream, and said, five dollars, gents, or you carn't have yo' nigger.'" the facts in the case of the great beef contract--[written about .] in as few words as possible i wish to lay before the nation what's here, howsoever small, i have had in this matter--this matter which has so exercised the public mind, engendered so much ill-feeling, and so filled the newspapers of both continents with distorted statements and extravagant comments. the origin of this distressful thing was this--and i assert here that every fact in the following resume can be amply proved by the official records of the general government. john wilson mackenzie, of rotterdam, chemung county, new jersey, deceased, contracted with the general government, on or about the th day of october, , to furnish to general sherman the sum total of thirty barrels of beef. very well. he started after sherman with the beef, but when he got to washington sherman had gone to manassas; so he took the beef and followed him there, but arrived too late; he followed him to nashville, and from nashville to chattanooga, and from chattanooga to atlanta--but he never could overtake him. at atlanta he took a fresh start and followed him clear through his march to the sea. he arrived too late again by a few days; but hearing that sherman was going out in the quaker city excursion to the holy land, he took shipping for beirut, calculating to head off the other vessel. when he arrived in jerusalem with his beef, he learned that sherman had not sailed in the quaker city, but had gone to the plains to fight the indians. he returned to america and started for the rocky mountains. after sixty-eight days of arduous travel on the plains, and when he had got within four miles of sherman's headquarters, he was tomahawked and scalped, and the indians got the beef. they got all of it but one barrel. sherman's army captured that, and so, even in death, the bold navigator partly fulfilled his contract. in his will, which he had kept like a journal, he bequeathed the contract to his son bartholomew w. bartholomew w. made out the following bill, and then died: the united states in account with john wilson mackenzie, of new jersey, deceased, . . . . . . . . . . dr. to thirty barrels of beef for general sherman, at $ , $ , to traveling expenses and transportation . . . . . , total . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . $ , rec'd pay't. he died then; but he left the contract to wm. j. martin, who tried to collect it, but died before he got through. he left it to barker j. allen, and he tried to collect it also. he did not survive. barker j. allen left it to anson g. rogers, who attempted to collect it, and got along as far as the ninth auditor's office, when death, the great leveler, came all unsummoned, and foreclosed on him also. he left the bill to a relative of his in connecticut, vengeance hopkins by name, who lasted four weeks and two days, and made the best time on record, coming within one of reaching the twelfth auditor. in his will he gave the contract bill to his uncle, by the name of o-be-joyful johnson. it was too undermining for joyful. his last words were: "weep not for me--i am willing to go." and so he was, poor soul. seven people inherited the contract after that; but they all died. so it came into my hands at last. it fell to me through a relative by the name of, hubbard --bethlehem hubbard, of indiana. he had had a grudge against me for a long time; but in his last moments he sent for me, and forgave me everything, and, weeping, gave me the beef contract. this ends the history of it up to the time that i succeeded to the property. i will now endeavor to set myself straight before the nation in everything that concerns my share in the matter. i took this beef contract, and the bill for mileage and transportation, to the president of the united states. he said, "well, sir, what can i do for you?" i said, "sire, on or about the th day of october, , john wilson mackenzie, of rotterdam, chemung county, new jersey, deceased, contracted with the general government to furnish to general sherman the sum total of thirty barrels of beef--" he stopped me there, and dismissed me from his presence--kindly, but firmly. the next day called on the secretary of state. he said, "well, sir?" i said, "your royal highness: on or about the th day of october, , john wilson mackenzie of rotterdam, chemung county, new jersey, deceased, contracted with the general government to furnish to general sherman the sum total of thirty barrels of beef--" "that will do, sir--that will do; this office has nothing to do with contracts for beef." i was bowed out. i thought the matter all over and finally, the following day, i visited the secretary of the navy, who said, "speak quickly, sir; do not keep me waiting." i said, "your royal highness, on or about the th day of october, , john wilson mackenzie of rotterdam, chemung county, new jersey, deceased, contracted with the general government to general sherman the sum total of thirty barrels of beef--" well, it was as far as i could get. he had nothing to do with beef contracts for general sherman either. i began to think it was a curious kind of government. it looked somewhat as if they wanted to get out of paying for that beef. the following day i went to the secretary of the interior. i said, "your imperial highness, on or about the th day of october--" "that is sufficient, sir. i have heard of you before. go, take your infamous beef contract out of this establishment. the interior department has nothing whatever to do with subsistence for the army." i went away. but i was exasperated now. i said i would haunt them; i would infest every department of this iniquitous government till that contract business was settled. i would collect that bill, or fall, as fell my predecessors, trying. i assailed the postmaster-general; i besieged the agricultural department; i waylaid the speaker of the house of representatives. they had nothing to do with army contracts for beef. i moved upon the commissioner of the patent office. i said, "your august excellency, on or about--" "perdition! have you got here with your incendiary beef contract, at last? we have nothing to do with beef contracts for the army, my dear sir." "oh, that is all very well--but somebody has got to pay for that beef. it has got to be paid now, too, or i'll confiscate this old patent office and everything in it." "but, my dear sir--" "it don't make any difference, sir. the patent office is liable for that beef, i reckon; and, liable or not liable, the patent office has got to pay for it." never mind the details. it ended in a fight. the patent office won. but i found out something to my advantage. i was told that the treasury department was the proper place for me to go to. i went there. i waited two hours and a half, and then i was admitted to the first lord of the treasury. i said, "most noble, grave, and reverend signor, on or about the th day of october, , john wilson macken--" "that is sufficient, sir. i have heard of you. go to the first auditor of the treasury." i did so. he sent me to the second auditor. the second auditor sent me to the third, and the third sent me to the first comptroller of the corn-beef division. this began to look like business. he examined his books and all his loose papers, but found no minute of the beef contract. i went to the second comptroller of the corn-beef division. he examined his books and his loose papers, but with no success. i was encouraged. during that week i got as far as the sixth comptroller in that division; the next week i got through the claims department; the third week i began and completed the mislaid contracts department, and got a foothold in the dead reckoning department. i finished that in three days. there was only one place left for it now. i laid siege to the commissioner of odds and ends. to his clerk, rather--he was not there himself. there were sixteen beautiful young ladies in the room, writing in books, and there were seven well-favored young clerks showing them how. the young women smiled up over their shoulders, and the clerks smiled back at them, and all went merry as a marriage bell. two or three clerks that were reading the newspapers looked at me rather hard, but went on reading, and nobody said anything. however, i had been used to this kind of alacrity from fourth assistant junior clerks all through my eventful career, from the very day i entered the first office of the corn-beef bureau clear till i passed out of the last one in the dead reckoning division. i had got so accomplished by this time that i could stand on one foot from the moment i entered an office till a clerk spoke to me, without changing more than two, or maybe three, times. so i stood there till i had changed four different times. then i said to one of the clerks who was reading: "illustrious vagrant, where is the grand turk?" "what do you mean, sir? whom do you mean? if you mean the chief of the bureau, he is out." "will he visit the harem to-day?" the young man glared upon me awhile, and then went on reading his paper. but i knew the ways of those clerks. i knew i was safe if he got through before another new york mail arrived. he only had two more papers left. after a while he finished them, and then he yawned and asked me what i wanted. "renowned and honored imbecile: on or about--" "you are the beef-contract man. give me your papers." he took them, and for a long time he ransacked his odds and ends. finally he found the northwest passage, as i regarded it--he found the long lost record of that beef contract--he found the rock upon which so many of my ancestors had split before they ever got to it. i was deeply moved. and yet i rejoiced--for i had survived. i said with emotion, "give it me. the government will settle now." he waved me back, and said there was something yet to be done first. "where is this john wilson mackenzie?" said he. "dead." "when did he die?" "he didn't die at all--he was killed." "how?" "tomahawked." "who tomahawked him?" "why, an indian, of course. you didn't suppose it was the superintendent of a sunday-school, did you?" "no. an indian, was it?" "the same." "name of the indian?" "his name? i don't know his name." "must have his name. who saw the tomahawking done?" "i don't know." "you were not present yourself, then?" "which you can see by my hair. i was absent. "then how do you know that mackenzie is dead?" "because he certainly died at that time, and have every reason to believe that he has been dead ever since. i know he has, in fact." "we must have proofs. have you got this indian?" "of course not." "well, you must get him. have you got the tomahawk?" "i never thought of such a thing." "you must get the tomahawk. you must produce the indian and the tomahawk. if mackenzie's death can be proven by these, you can then go before the commission appointed to audit claims with some show of getting your bill under such headway that your children may possibly live to receive the money and enjoy it. but that man's death must be proven. however, i may as well tell you that the government will never pay that transportation and those traveling expenses of the lamented mackenzie. it may possibly pay for the barrel of beef that sherman's soldiers captured, if you can get a relief bill through congress making an appropriation for that purpose; but it will not pay for the twenty-nine barrels the indians ate." "then there is only a hundred dollars due me, and that isn't certain! after all mackenzie's travels in europe, asia, and america with that beef; after all his trials and tribulations and transportation; after the slaughter of all those innocents that tried to collect that bill! young man, why didn't the first comptroller of the corn-beef division tell me this?" "he didn't know anything about the genuineness of your claim." "why didn't the second tell me? why didn't the, third? why didn't all those divisions and departments tell me?" "none of them knew. we do things by routine here. you have followed the routine and found out what you wanted to know. it is the best way. it is the only way. it is very regular, and very slow, but it is very certain." "yes, certain death. it has been, to the most of our tribe. i begin to feel that i, too, am called." "young man, you love the bright creature yonder with the gentle blue eyes and the steel pens behind her ears--i see it in your soft glances; you wish to marry her--but you are poor. here, hold out your hand--here is the beef contract; go, take her and be happy heaven bless you, my children!" this is all i know about the great beef contract that has created so much talk in the community. the clerk to whom i bequeathed it died. i know nothing further about the contract, or any one connected with it. i only know that if a man lives long enough he can trace a thing through the circumlocution office of washington and find out, after much labor and trouble and delay, that which he could have found out on the first day if the business of the circumlocution office were as ingeniously systematized as it would be if it were a great private mercantile institution. the case of george fisher --[some years ago, about , when this was first published, few people believed it, but considered it a mere extravaganza. in these latter days it seems hard to realize that there was ever a time when the robbing of our government was a novelty. the very man who showed me where to find the documents for this case was at that very time spending hundreds of thousands of dollars in washington for a mail steamship concern, in the effort to procure a subsidy for the company--a fact which was a long time in coming to the surface, but leaked out at last and underwent congressional investigation.] this is history. it is not a wild extravaganza, like "john wilson mackenzie's great beef contract," but is a plain statement of facts and circumstances with which the congress of the united states has interested itself from time to time during the long period of half a century. i will not call this matter of george fisher's a great deathless and unrelenting swindle upon the government and people of the united states --for it has never been so decided, and i hold that it is a grave and solemn wrong for a writer to cast slurs or call names when such is the case--but will simply present the evidence and let the reader deduce his own verdict. then we shall do nobody injustice, and our consciences shall be clear. on or about the st day of september, , the creek war being then in progress in florida, the crops, herds, and houses of mr. george fisher, a citizen, were destroyed, either by the indians or by the united states troops in pursuit of them. by the terms of the law, if the indians destroyed the property, there was no relief for fisher; but if the troops destroyed it, the government of the united states was debtor to fisher for the amount involved. george fisher must have considered that the indians destroyed the property, because, although he lived several years afterward, he does not appear to have ever made any claim upon the government. in the course of time fisher died, and his widow married again. and by and by, nearly twenty years after that dimly remembered raid upon fisher's corn-fields, the widow fisher's new husband petitioned congress for pay for the property, and backed up the petition with many depositions and affidavits which purported to prove that the troops, and not the indians, destroyed the property; that the troops, for some inscrutable reason, deliberately burned down "houses" (or cabins) valued at $ , the same belonging to a peaceable private citizen, and also destroyed various other property belonging to the same citizen. but congress declined to believe that the troops were such idiots (after overtaking and scattering a band of indians proved to have been found destroying fisher's property) as to calmly continue the work of destruction themselves; and make a complete job of what the indians had only commenced. so congress denied the petition of the heirs of george fisher in , and did not pay them a cent. we hear no more from them officially until , sixteen years after their first attempt on the treasury, and a full generation after the death of the man whose fields were destroyed. the new generation of fisher heirs then came forward and put in a bill for damages. the second auditor awarded them $ , , being half the damage sustained by fisher. the auditor said the testimony showed that at least half the destruction was done by the indians "before the troops started in pursuit," and of course the government was not responsible for that half. . that was in april, . in december, , the heirs of george fisher, deceased, came forward and pleaded for a "revision" of their bill of damages. the revision was made, but nothing new could be found in their favor except an error of $ in the former calculation. however, in order to keep up the spirits of the fisher family, the auditor concluded to go back and allow interest from the date of the first petition ( ) to the date when the bill of damages was awarded. this sent the fishers home happy with sixteen years' interest on $ , --the same amounting to $ , . . total, $ , . . . for an entire year the suffering fisher family remained quiet--even satisfied, after a fashion. then they swooped down upon the government with their wrongs once more. that old patriot, attorney-general toucey, burrowed through the musty papers of the fishers and discovered one more chance for the desolate orphans--interest on that original award of $ , from date of destruction of the property ( ) up to ! result, $ , . for the indigent fishers. so now we have: first, $ , damages; second, interest on it from to , $ . ; third, interest on it dated back to , $ , . . total, $ , . ! what better investment for a great-grandchild than to get the indians to burn a corn-field for him sixty or seventy years before his birth, and plausibly lay it on lunatic united states troops? . strange as it may seem, the fishers let congress alone for five years--or, what is perhaps more likely, failed to make themselves heard by congress for that length of time. but at last, in , they got a hearing. they persuaded congress to pass an act requiring the auditor to re-examine their case. but this time they stumbled upon the misfortune of an honest secretary of the treasury (mr. james guthrie), and he spoiled everything. he said in very plain language that the fishers were not only not entitled to another cent, but that those children of many sorrows and acquainted with grief had been paid too much already. . therefore another interval of rest and silent ensued-an interval which lasted four years--viz till . the "right man in the right place" was then secretary of war--john b. floyd, of peculiar renown! here was a master intellect; here was the very man to succor the suffering heirs of dead and forgotten fisher. they came up from florida with a rush--a great tidal wave of fishers freighted with the same old musty documents about the same in immortal corn-fields of their ancestor. they straight-way got an act passed transferring the fisher matter from the dull auditor to the ingenious floyd. what did floyd do? he said, "it was proved that the indians destroyed everything they could before the troops entered in pursuit." he considered, therefore, that what they destroyed must have consisted of "the houses with all their contents, and the liquor" (the most trifling part of the destruction, and set down at only $ , all told), and that the government troops then drove them off and calmly proceeded to destroy-- two hundred and twenty acres of corn in the field, thirty-five acres of wheat, and nine hundred and eighty-six head of live stock! [what a singularly intelligent army we had in those days, according to mr. floyd --though not according to the congress of .] so mr. floyd decided that the government was not responsible for that $ , worth of rubbish which the indians destroyed, but was responsible for the property destroyed by the troops--which property consisted of (i quote from the printed united states senate document): dollars corn at bassett's creek, ............... , cattle, ................................ , stock hogs, ............................ , drove hogs, ............................ , wheat, ................................. hides, ................................. , corn on the alabama river, ............. , total, ............. , that sum, in his report, mr. floyd calls the "full value of the property destroyed by the troops." he allows that sum to the starving fishers, together with interest from . from this new sum total the amounts already paid to the fishers were deducted, and then the cheerful remainder (a fraction under forty thousand dollars) was handed to then and again they retired to florida in a condition of temporary tranquillity. their ancestor's farm had now yielded them altogether nearly sixty-seven thousand dollars in cash. . does the reader suppose that that was the end of it? does he suppose those diffident fishers we: satisfied? let the evidence show. the fishers were quiet just two years. then they came swarming up out of the fertile swamps of florida with their same old documents, and besieged congress once more. congress capitulated on the st of june, , and instructed mr. floyd to overhaul those papers again, and pay that bill. a treasury clerk was ordered to go through those papers and report to mr. floyd what amount was still due the emaciated fishers. this clerk (i can produce him whenever he is wanted) discovered what was apparently a glaring and recent forgery in the paper; whereby a witness's testimony as to the price of corn in florida in was made to name double the amount which that witness had originally specified as the price! the clerk not only called his superior's attention to this thing, but in making up his brief of the case called particular attention to it in writing. that part of the brief never got before congress, nor has congress ever yet had a hint of forgery existing among the fisher papers. nevertheless, on the basis of the double prices (and totally ignoring the clerk's assertion that the figures were manifestly and unquestionably a recent forgery), mr. floyd remarks in his new report that "the testimony, particularly in regard to the corn crops, demands a much higher allowance than any heretofore made by the auditor or myself." so he estimates the crop at sixty bushels to the acre (double what florida acres produce), and then virtuously allows pay for only half the crop, but allows two dollars and a half a bushel for that half, when there are rusty old books and documents in the congressional library to show just what the fisher testimony showed before the forgery--viz., that in the fall of corn was only worth from $ . to $ . a bushel. having accomplished this, what does mr. floyd do next? mr. floyd ("with an earnest desire to execute truly the legislative will," as he piously remarks) goes to work and makes out an entirely new bill of fisher damages, and in this new bill he placidly ignores the indians altogether puts no particle of the destruction of the fisher property upon them, but, even repenting him of charging them with burning the cabins and drinking the whisky and breaking the crockery, lays the entire damage at the door of the imbecile united states troops down to the very last item! and not only that, but uses the forgery to double the loss of corn at "bassett's creek," and uses it again to absolutely treble the loss of corn on the "alabama river." this new and ably conceived and executed bill of mr. floyd's figures up as follows (i copy again from the printed united states senate document): the united states in account with the legal representatives of george fisher, deceased. dol.c .--to head of cattle, at dollars, ............. , . to head of drove hogs, ......................... , . to head of stock hogs, ........................ , . to acres of corn on bassett's creek, .......... , . to barrels of whisky, ........................... . to barrels of brandy, ........................... . to barrel of rum, ............................... . to dry-goods and merchandise in store, ............ , . to acres of wheat, ............................. . to , hides, ................................... , . to furs and hats in store, ........................ . to crockery ware in store, ........................ . to smith's and carpenter's tools, ................. . to houses burned and destroyed, ................... . to dozen bottles of wine, ....................... . .--to acres of corn on alabama river, ............ , . to crops of peas, fodder, etc. .................... , . total, .......................... , . to interest on $ , , from july to november , years and months, ....... , . to interest on $ , , from september to november , years and months, .. , . total, ........................ , . he puts everything in this time. he does not even allow that the indians destroyed the crockery or drank the four dozen bottles of (currant) wine. when it came to supernatural comprehensiveness in "gobbling," john b. floyd was without his equal, in his own or any other generation. subtracting from the above total the $ , already paid to george fisher's implacable heirs, mr. floyd announced that the government was still indebted to them in the sum of sixty-six thousand five hundred and nineteen dollars and eighty-five cents, "which," mr. floyd complacently remarks, "will be paid, accordingly, to the administrator of the estate of george fisher, deceased, or to his attorney in fact." but, sadly enough for the destitute orphans, a new president came in just at this time, buchanan and floyd went out, and they never got their money. the first thing congress did in was to rescind the resolution of june , , under which mr. floyd had been ciphering. then floyd (and doubtless the heirs of george fisher likewise) had to give up financial business for a while, and go into the confederate army and serve their country. were the heirs of george fisher killed? no. they are back now at this very time (july, ), beseeching congress through that blushing and diffident creature, garrett davis, to commence making payments again on their interminable and insatiable bill of damages for corn and whisky destroyed by a gang of irresponsible indians, so long ago that even government red-tape has failed to keep consistent and intelligent track of it. now the above are facts. they are history. any one who doubts it can send to the senate document department of the capitol for h. r. ex. doc. no. , th congress, d session; and for s. ex. doc. no. , st congress, d session, and satisfy himself. the whole case is set forth in the first volume of the court of claims reports. it is my belief that as long as the continent of america holds together, the heirs of george fisher, deceased, will still make pilgrimages to washington from the swamps of florida, to plead for just a little more cash on their bill of damages (even when they received the last of that sixty-seven thousand dollars, they said it was only one fourth what the government owed them on that fruitful corn-field), and as long as they choose to come they will find garrett davises to drag their vampire schemes before congress. this is not the only hereditary fraud (if fraud it is--which i have before repeatedly remarked is not proven) that is being quietly handed down from generation to generation of fathers and sons, through the persecuted treasury of the united states. sketches new and old by mark twain part . the late benjamin franklin--[written about .] ["never put off till to-morrow what you can do day after to-morrow just as well."--b. f.] this party was one of those persons whom they call philosophers. he was twins, being born simultaneously in two different houses in the city of boston. these houses remain unto this day, and have signs upon them worded in accordance with the facts. the signs are considered well enough to have, though not necessary, because the inhabitants point out the two birthplaces to the stranger anyhow, and sometimes as often as several times in the same day. the subject of this memoir was of a vicious disposition, and early prostituted his talents to the invention of maxims and aphorisms calculated to inflict suffering upon the rising generation of all subsequent ages. his simplest acts, also, were contrived with a view to their being held up for the emulation of boys forever--boys who might otherwise have been happy. it was in this spirit that he became the son of a soap-boiler, and probably for no other reason than that the efforts of all future boys who tried to be anything might be looked upon with suspicion unless they were the sons of soap-boilers. with a malevolence which is without parallel in history, he would work all day, and then sit up nights, and let on to be studying algebra by the light of a smoldering fire, so that all other boys might have to do that also, or else have benjamin franklin thrown up to them. not satisfied with these proceedings, he had a fashion of living wholly on bread and water, and studying astronomy at meal-time--a thing which has brought affliction to millions of boys since, whose fathers had read franklin's pernicious biography. his maxims were full of animosity toward boys. nowadays a boy cannot follow out a single natural instinct without tumbling over some of those everlasting aphorisms and hearing from franklin, on the spot. if he buys two cents' worth of peanuts, his father says, "remember what franklin has said, my son--'a grout a day's a penny a year"'; and the comfort is all gone out of those peanuts. if he wants to spin his top when he has done work, his father quotes, "procrastination is the thief of time." if he does a virtuous action, he never gets anything for it, because "virtue is its own reward." and that boy is hounded to death and robbed of his natural rest, because franklin, said once, in one of his inspired flights of malignity: early to bed and early to rise makes a man healthy and wealthy and wise. as if it were any object to a boy to be healthy and wealthy and wise on such terms. the sorrow that that maxim has cost me, through my parents, experimenting on me with it, tongue cannot tell. the legitimate result is my present state of general debility, indigence, and mental aberration. my parents used to have me up before nine o'clock in the morning sometimes when i was a boy. if they had let me take my natural rest where would i have been now? keeping store, no doubt, and respected by all. and what an adroit old adventurer the subject of this memoir was! in order to get a chance to fly his kite on sunday he used to hang a key on the string and let on to be fishing for lightning. and a guileless public would go home chirping about the "wisdom" and the "genius" of the hoary sabbath-breaker. if anybody caught him playing "mumblepeg" by himself, after the age of sixty, he would immediately appear to be ciphering out how the grass grew--as if it was any of his business. my grandfather knew him well, and he says franklin was always fixed--always ready. if a body, during his old age, happened on him unexpectedly when he was catching flies, or making mud-pies, or sliding on a cellar door, he would immediately look wise, and rip out a maxim, and walk off with his nose in the air and his cap turned wrong side before, trying to appear absent-minded and eccentric. he was a hard lot. he invented a stove that would smoke your head off in four hours by the clock. one can see the almost devilish satisfaction he took in it by his giving it his name. he was always proud of telling how he entered philadelphia for the first time, with nothing in the world but two shillings in his pocket and four rolls of bread under his arm. but really, when you come to examine it critically, it was nothing. anybody could have done it. to the subject of this memoir belongs the honor of recommending the army to go back to bows and arrows in place of bayonets and muskets. he observed, with his customary force, that the bayonet was very well under some circumstances, but that he doubted whether it could be used with accuracy at a long range. benjamin franklin did a great many notable things for his country, and made her young name to be honored in many lands as the mother of such a son. it is not the idea of this memoir to ignore that or cover it up. no; the simple idea of it is to snub those pretentious maxims of his, which he worked up with a great show of originality out of truisms that had become wearisome platitudes as early as the dispersion from babel; and also to snub his stove, and his military inspirations, his unseemly endeavor to make himself conspicuous when he entered philadelphia, and his flying his kite and fooling away his time in all sorts of such ways when he ought to have been foraging for soap-fat, or constructing candles. i merely desired to do away with somewhat of the prevalent calamitous idea among heads of families that franklin acquired his great genius by working for nothing, studying by moonlight, and getting up in the night instead of waiting till morning like a christian; and that this program, rigidly inflicted, will make a franklin of every father's fool. it is time these gentlemen were finding out that these execrable eccentricities of instinct and conduct are only the evidences of genius, not the creators of it. i wish i had been the father of my parents long enough to make them comprehend this truth, and thus prepare them to let their son have an easier time of it. when i was a child i had to boil soap, notwithstanding my father was wealthy, and i had to get up early and study geometry at breakfast, and peddle my own poetry, and do everything just as franklin did, in the solemn hope that i would be a franklin some day. and here i am. mr. bloke's item--[written about .] our esteemed friend, mr. john william bloke, of virginia city, walked into the office where we are sub-editor at a late hour last night, with an expression of profound and heartfelt suffering upon his countenance, and, sighing heavily, laid the following item reverently upon the desk, and walked slowly out again. he paused a moment at the door, and seemed struggling to command his feelings sufficiently to enable him to speak, and then, nodding his head toward his manuscript, ejaculated in a broken voice, "friend of mine--oh! how sad!" and burst into tears. we were so moved at his distress that we did not think to call him back and endeavor to comfort him until he was gone, and it was too late. the paper had already gone to press, but knowing that our friend would consider the publication of this item important, and cherishing the hope that to print it would afford a melancholy satisfaction to his sorrowing heart, we stopped, the press at once and inserted it in our columns: distressing accident.--last evening, about six o'clock, as mr. william schuyler, an old and respectable citizen of south park, was leaving his residence to go down-town, as has been his usual custom for many years with the exception only of a short interval in the spring of , during which he was confined to his bed by injuries received in attempting to stop a runaway horse by thoughtlessly placing himself directly in its wake and throwing up his hands and shouting, which if he had done so even a single moment sooner, must inevitably have frightened the animal still more instead of checking its speed, although disastrous enough to himself as it was, and rendered more melancholy and distressing by reason of the presence of his wife's mother, who was there and saw the sad occurrence notwithstanding it is at least likely, though not necessarily so, that she should be reconnoitering in another direction when incidents occur, not being vivacious and on the lookout, as a general thing, but even the reverse, as her own mother is said to have stated, who is no more, but died in the full hope of a glorious resurrection, upwards of three years ago; aged eighty-six, being a christian woman and without guile, as it were, or property, in consequence of the fire of , which destroyed every single thing she had in the world. but such is life. let us all take warning by this solemn occurrence, and let us endeavor so to conduct ourselves that when we come to die we can do it. let us place our hands upon our heart, and say with earnestness and sincerity that from this day forth we will beware of the intoxicating bowl.--'first edition of the californian.' the head editor has been in here raising the mischief, and tearing his hair and kicking the furniture about, and abusing me like a pickpocket. he says that every time he leaves me in charge of the paper for half an hour i get imposed upon by the first infant or the first idiot that comes along. and he says that that distressing item of mr. bloke's is nothing but a lot of distressing bash, and has no point to it, and no sense in it, and no information in it, and that there was no sort of necessity for stopping the press to publish it. now all this comes of being good-hearted. if i had been as unaccommodating and unsympathetic as some people, i would have told mr. bloke that i wouldn't receive his communication at such a late hour; but no, his snuffling distress touched my heart, and i jumped at the chance of doing something to modify his misery. i never read his item to see whether there was anything wrong about it, but hastily wrote the few lines which preceded it, and sent it to the printers. and what has my kindness done for me? it has done nothing but bring down upon me a storm of abuse and ornamental blasphemy. now i will read that item myself, and see if there is any foundation for all this fuss. and if there is, the author of it shall hear from me. i have read it, and i am bound to admit that it seems a little mixed at a first glance. however, i will peruse it once more. i have read it again, and it does really seem a good deal more mixed than ever. i have read it over five times, but if i can get at the meaning of it i wish i may get my just deserts. it won't bear analysis. there are things about it which i cannot understand at all. it don't say whatever became of william schuyler. it just says enough about him to get one interested in his career, and then drops him. who is william schuyler, anyhow, and what part of south park did he live in, and if he started down-town at six o'clock, did he ever get there, and if he did, did anything happen to him? is he the individual that met with the "distressing accident"? considering the elaborate circumstantiality of detail observable in the item, it seems to me that it ought to contain more information than it does. on the contrary, it is obscure and not only obscure, but utterly incomprehensible. was the breaking of mr. schuyler's leg, fifteen years ago, the "distressing accident" that plunged mr. bloke into unspeakable grief, and caused him to come up here at dead of night and stop our press to acquaint the world with the circumstance? or did the "distressing accident" consist in the destruction of schuyler's mother-in-law's property in early times? or did it consist in the death of that person herself three years ago (albeit it does not appear that she died by accident)? in a word, what did that "distressing accident" consist in? what did that driveling ass of a schuyler stand in the wake of a runaway horse for, with his shouting and gesticulating, if he wanted to stop him? and how the mischief could he get run over by a horse that had already passed beyond him? and what are we to take "warning" by? and how is this extraordinary chapter of incomprehensibilities going to be a "lesson" to us? and, above all, what has the intoxicating "bowl" got to do with it, anyhow? it is not stated that schuyler drank, or that his wife drank, or that his mother-in-law drank, or that the horse drank wherefore, then, the reference to the intoxicating bowl? it does seem to me that if mr. bloke had let the intoxicating bowl alone himself, he never would have got into so much trouble about this exasperating imaginary accident. i have read this. absurd item over and over again, with all its insinuating plausibility, until my head swims; but i can make neither head nor tail of it. there certainly seems to have been an accident of some kind or other, but it is impossible to determine what the nature of it was, or who was the sufferer by it. i do not like to do it, but i feel compelled to request that the next time anything happens to one of mr. bloke's friends, he will append such explanatory notes to his account of it as will enable me to find out what sort of an accident it was and whom it happened to. i had rather all his friends should die than that i should be driven to the verge of lunacy again in trying to cipher out the meaning of another such production as the above. a medieval romance chapter i the secret revealed. it was night. stillness reigned in the grand old feudal castle of klugenstein. the year was drawing to a close. far away up in the tallest of the castle's towers a single light glimmered. a secret council was being held there. the stern old lord of klugenstein sat in a chair of state meditating. presently he, said, with a tender accent: "my daughter!" a young man of noble presence, clad from head to heel in knightly mail, answered: "speak, father!" "my daughter, the time is come for the revealing of the mystery that hath puzzled all your young life. know, then, that it had its birth in the matters which i shall now unfold. my brother ulrich is the great duke of brandenburgh. our father, on his deathbed, decreed that if no son were born to ulrich, the succession should pass to my house, provided a son were born to me. and further, in case no son, were born to either, but only daughters, then the succession should pass to ulrich's daughter, if she proved stainless; if she did not, my daughter should succeed, if she retained a blameless name. and so i, and my old wife here, prayed fervently for the good boon of a son, but the prayer was vain. you were born to us. i was in despair. i saw the mighty prize slipping from my grasp, the splendid dream vanishing away. and i had been so hopeful! five years had ulrich lived in wedlock, and yet his wife had borne no heir of either sex. "'but hold,' i said, 'all is not lost.' a saving scheme had shot athwart my brain. you were born at midnight. only the leech, the nurse, and six waiting-women knew your sex. i hanged them every one before an hour had sped. next morning all the barony went mad with rejoicing over the proclamation that a son was born to klugenstein, an heir to mighty brandenburgh! and well the secret has been kept. your mother's own sister nursed your infancy, and from that time forward we feared nothing. "when you were ten years old, a daughter was born to ulrich. we grieved, but hoped for good results from measles, or physicians, or other natural enemies of infancy, but were always disappointed. she lived, she throve --heaven's malison upon her! but it is nothing. we are safe. for, ha-ha! have we not a son? and is not our son the future duke? our well-beloved conrad, is it not so?--for, woman of eight-and-twenty years --as you are, my child, none other name than that hath ever fallen to you! "now it hath come to pass that age hath laid its hand upon my brother, and he waxes feeble. the cares of state do tax him sore. therefore he wills that you shall come to him and be already duke--in act, though not yet in name. your servitors are ready--you journey forth to-night. "now listen well. remember every word i say. there is a law as old as germany that if any woman sit for a single instant in the great ducal chair before she hath been absolutely crowned in presence of the people, she shall die! so heed my words. pretend humility. pronounce your judgments from the premier's chair, which stands at the foot of the throne. do this until you are crowned and safe. it is not likely that your sex will ever be discovered; but still it is the part of wisdom to make all things as safe as may be in this treacherous earthly life." "oh; my father, is it for this my life hath been a lie! was it that i might cheat my unoffending cousin of her rights? spare me, father, spare your child!" "what, huzzy! is this my reward for the august fortune my brain has wrought for thee? by the bones of my father, this puling sentiment of thine but ill accords with my humor. "betake thee to the duke, instantly! and beware how thou meddlest with my purpose!" let this suffice, of the conversation. it is enough for us to know that the prayers, the entreaties and the tears of the gentle-natured girl availed nothing. they nor anything could move the stout old lord of klugenstein. and so, at last, with a heavy heart, the daughter saw the castle gates close behind her, and found herself riding away in the darkness surrounded by a knightly array of armed, vassals and a brave following of servants. the old baron sat silent for many minutes after his daughter's departure, and then he turned to his sad wife and said: "dame, our matters seem speeding fairly. it is full three months since i sent the shrewd and handsome count detzin on his devilish mission to my brother's daughter constance. if he fail, we are not wholly safe; but if he do succeed, no power can bar our girl from being duchess e'en though ill-fortune should decree she never should be duke!" "my heart is full of bodings, yet all may still be well." "tush, woman! leave the owls to croak. to bed with ye, and dream of brandenburgh and grandeur!" chapter ii. festivity and tears six days after the occurrences related in the above chapter, the brilliant capital of the duchy of brandenburgh was resplendent with military pageantry, and noisy with the rejoicings of loyal multitudes; for conrad, the young heir to the crown, was come. the old duke's, heart was full of happiness, for conrad's handsome person and graceful bearing had won his love at once. the great halls of tie palace were thronged with nobles, who welcomed conrad bravely; and so bright and happy did all things seem, that he felt his fears and sorrows passing away and giving place to a comforting contentment. but in a remote apartment of the palace a scene of a different nature was, transpiring. by a window stood the duke's only child, the lady constance. her eyes were red and swollen, and full of tears. she was alone. presently she fell to weeping anew, and said aloud: "the villain detzin is gone--has fled the dukedom! i could not believe it at first, but alas! it is too true. and i loved him so. i dared to love him though i knew the duke my father would never let me wed him. i loved him--but now i hate him! with all, my soul i hate him! oh, what is to become of me! i am lost, lost, lost! i shall go mad!" chapter iii. the plot thickens. few months drifted by. all men published the praises of the young conrad's government and extolled the wisdom of his judgments, the mercifulness of his sentences, and the modesty with which he bore himself in his great office. the old duke soon gave everything into his hands, and sat apart and listened with proud satisfaction while his heir delivered the decrees of the crown from the seat of the premier. it seemed plain that one so loved and praised and honored of all men as conrad was, could not be otherwise than happy. but strange enough, he was not. for he saw with dismay that the princess constance had begun to love him! the love of, the rest of the world was happy fortune for him, but this was freighted with danger! and he saw, moreover, that the delighted duke had discovered his daughter's passion likewise, and was already dreaming of a marriage. every day somewhat of the deep sadness that had been in the princess' face faded away; every day hope and animation beamed brighter from her eye; and by and by even vagrant smiles visited the face that had been so troubled. conrad was appalled. he bitterly cursed himself for having yielded to the instinct that had made him seek the companionship of one of his own sex when he was new and a stranger in the palace--when he was sorrowful and yearned for a sympathy such as only women can give or feel. he now began to avoid, his cousin. but this only made matters worse, for, naturally enough, the more he avoided her, the more she cast herself in his way. he marveled at this at first; and next it startled him. the girl haunted him; she hunted him; she happened upon him at all times and in all places, in the night as well as in the day. she seemed singularly anxious. there was surely a mystery somewhere. this could not go on forever. all the world was talking about it. the duke was beginning to look perplexed. poor conrad was becoming a very ghost through dread and dire distress. one day as he was emerging from a private ante-room attached to the picture gallery, constance confronted him, and seizing both his hands, in hers, exclaimed: "oh, why, do you avoid me? what have i done--what have i said, to lose your kind opinion of me--for, surely i had it once? conrad, do not despise me, but pity a tortured heart? i cannot,--cannot hold the words unspoken longer, lest they kill me--i love you, conrad! there, despise me if you must, but they would be uttered!" conrad was speechless. constance hesitated a moment, and then, misinterpreting his silence, a wild gladness flamed in her eyes, and she flung her arms about his neck and said: "you relent! you relent! you can love me--you will love me! oh, say you will, my own, my worshipped conrad!'" "conrad groaned aloud. a sickly pallor overspread his countenance, and he trembled like an aspen. presently, in desperation, he thrust the poor girl from him, and cried: "you know not what you ask! it is forever and ever impossible!" and then he fled like a criminal and left the princess stupefied with amazement. a minute afterward she was crying and sobbing there, and conrad was crying and sobbing in his chamber. both were in despair. both save ruin staring them in the face. by and by constance rose slowly to her feet and moved away, saying: "to think that he was despising my love at the very moment that i thought it was melting his cruel heart! i hate him! he spurned me--did this man--he spurned me from him like a dog!" chapter iv the awful revelation. time passed on. a settled sadness rested once more upon the countenance of the good duke's daughter. she and conrad were seen together no more now. the duke grieved at this. but as the weeks wore away, conrad's color came back to his cheeks and his old-time vivacity to his eye, and he administered the government with a clear and steadily ripening wisdom. presently a strange whisper began to be heard about the palace. it grew louder; it spread farther. the gossips of the city got hold-of it. it swept the dukedom. and this is what the whisper said: "the lady constance hath given birth to a child!" when the lord of klugenstein heard it, he swung his plumed helmet thrice around his head and shouted: "long live. duke conrad!--for lo, his crown is sure, from this day forward! detzin has done his errand well, and the good scoundrel shall be rewarded!" and he spread, the tidings far and wide, and for eight-and-forty hours no soul in all the barony but did dance and sing, carouse and illuminate, to celebrate the great event, and all at proud and happy old klugenstein's expense. chapter v. the frightful catastrophe. the trial was at hand. all the great lords and barons of brandenburgh were assembled in the hall of justice in the ducal palace. no space was left unoccupied where there was room for a spectator to stand or sit. conrad, clad in purple and ermine, sat in the premier's chair, and on either side sat the great judges of the realm. the old duke had sternly commanded that the trial of his daughter should proceed, without favor, and then had taken to his bed broken-hearted. his days were numbered. poor conrad had begged, as for his very life, that he might be spared the misery of sitting in judgment upon his cousin's crime, but it did not avail. the saddest heart in all that great assemblage was in conrad's breast. the gladdest was in his father's. for, unknown to his daughter "conrad," the old baron klugenstein was come, and was among the crowd of nobles, triumphant in the swelling fortunes of his house. after the heralds had made due proclamation and the other preliminaries had followed, the venerable lord chief justice said: "prisoner, stand forth!" the unhappy princess rose and stood unveiled before the vast multitude. the lord chief justice continued: "most noble lady, before the great judges of this realm it hath been charged and proven that out of holy wedlock your grace hath given birth unto a child; and by our ancient law the penalty is death, excepting in one sole contingency, whereof his grace the acting duke, our good lord conrad, will advertise you in his solemn sentence now; wherefore, give heed." conrad stretched forth the reluctant sceptre, and in the self-same moment the womanly heart beneath his robe yearned pityingly toward the doomed prisoner, and the tears came into his eyes. he opened his lips to speak, but the lord chief justice said quickly: "not there, your grace, not there! it is not lawful to pronounce judgment upon any of the ducal line save from the ducal throne!" a shudder went to the heart of poor conrad, and a tremor shook the iron frame of his old father likewise. conrad had not been crowned--dared he profane the throne? he hesitated and turned pale with fear. but it must be done. wondering eyes were already upon him. they would be suspicious eyes if he hesitated longer. he ascended the throne. presently he stretched forth the sceptre again, and said: "prisoner, in the name of our sovereign lord, ulrich, duke of brandenburgh, i proceed to the solemn duty that hath devolved upon me. give heed to my words. by the ancient law of the land, except you produce the partner of your guilt and deliver him up to the executioner, you must surely die. embrace this opportunity--save yourself while yet you may. name the father of your child!" a solemn hush fell upon the great court--a silence so profound that men could hear their own hearts beat. then the princess slowly turned, with eyes gleaming with hate, and pointing her finger straight at conrad, said: "thou art the man!" an appalling conviction of his helpless, hopeless peril struck a chill to conrad's heart like the chill of death itself. what power on earth could save him! to disprove the charge, he must reveal that he was a woman; and for an uncrowned woman to sit in the ducal chair was death! at one and the same moment, he and his grim old father swooned and fell to, the ground. [the remainder of this thrilling and eventful story will not be found in this or any other publication, either now or at any future time.] the truth is, i have got my hero (or heroine) into such a particularly close place, that i do not see how i am ever going to get him (or her) out of it again--and therefore i will wash my hands of the whole business, and leave that person to get out the best way that offers--or else stay there. i thought it was going to be easy enough to straighten out that little difficulty, but it looks different now. petition concerning copyright to the honorable the senate and house of representatives in congress assembled: whereas, the constitution guarantees equal rights to all, backed by the declaration of independence; and whereas, under our laws, the right of property in real estate is perpetual; and whereas, under our laws, the right of property in the literary result of a citizen's intellectual labor is restricted to forty-two years; and whereas, forty-two years seems an exceedingly just and righteous term, and a sufficiently long one for the retention of property; therefore, your petitioner, having the good of his country solely at heart, humbly prays that "equal rights" and fair and equal treatment may be meted out to all citizens, by the restriction of rights in all property, real estate included, to the beneficent term of forty-two years. then shall all men bless your honorable body and be happy. and for this will your petitioner ever pray. mark twain. a paragraph not added to the petition the charming absurdity of restricting property-rights in books to forty-two years sticks prominently out in the fact that hardly any man's books ever live forty-two years, or even the half of it; and so, for the sake of getting a shabby advantage of the heirs of about one scott or burns or milton in a hundred years, the lawmakers of the "great" republic are content to leave that poor little pilfering edict upon the statute-books. it is like an emperor lying in wait to rob a phenix's nest, and waiting the necessary century to get the chance. after-dinner speech [at a fourth of july gathering, in london, of americans] mr. chairman and ladies and gentlemen: i thank you for the compliment which has just been tendered me, and to show my appreciation of it i will not afflict you with many words. it is pleasant to celebrate in this peaceful way, upon this old mother soil, the anniversary of an experiment which was born of war with this same land so long ago, and wrought out to a successful issue by the devotion of our ancestors. it has taken nearly a hundred years to bring the english and americans into kindly and mutually appreciative relations, but i believe it has been accomplished at last. it was a great step when the two last misunderstandings were settled by arbitration instead of cannon. it is another great step when england adopts our sewing-machines without claiming the invention--as usual. it was another when they imported one of our sleeping-cars the other day. and it warmed my heart more than i can tell, yesterday, when i witnessed the spectacle of an englishman ordering an american sherry cobbler of his own free will and accord--and not only that but with a great brain and a level head reminding the barkeeper not to forget the strawberries. with a common origin, a common language, a common literature, a common religion and--common drinks, what is longer needful to the cementing of the two nations together in a permanent bond of brotherhood? this is an age of progress, and ours is a progressive land. a great and glorious land, too--a land which has developed a washington, a franklin, a william m. tweed, a longfellow, a motley, a jay gould, a samuel c. pomeroy, a recent congress which has never had its equal (in some respects), and a united states army which conquered sixty indians in eight months by tiring them out--which is much better than uncivilized slaughter, god knows. we have a criminal jury system which is superior to any in the world; and its efficiency is only marred by the difficulty of finding twelve men every day who don't know anything and can't read. and i may observe that we have an insanity plea that would have saved cain. i think i can say,--and say with pride, that we have some legislatures that bring higher prices than any in the world. i refer with effusion to our railway system, which consents to let us live, though it might do the opposite, being our owners. it only destroyed three thousand and seventy lives last year by collisions, and twenty-seven thousand two hundred and sixty by running over heedless and unnecessary people at crossings. the companies seriously regretted the killing of these thirty thousand people, and went so far as to pay for some of them--voluntarily, of course, for the meanest of us would not claim that we possess a court treacherous enough to enforce a law against a railway company. but, thank heaven, the railway companies are generally disposed to do the right and kindly thing without compulsion. i know of an instance which greatly touched me at the time. after an accident the company sent home the remains of a dear distant old relative of mine in a basket, with the remark, "please state what figure you hold him at--and return the basket." now there couldn't be anything friendlier than that. but i must not stand here and brag all night. however, you won't mind a body bragging a little about his country on the fourth of july. it is a fair and legitimate time to fly the eagle. i will say only one more word of brag--and a hopeful one. it is this. we have a form of government which gives each man a fair chance and no favor. with us no individual is born with a right to look down upon his neighbor and hold him in contempt. let such of us as are not dukes find our consolation in that. and we may find hope for the future in the fact that as unhappy as is the condition of our political morality to-day, england has risen up out of a far fouler since the days when charles i. ennobled courtesans and all political place was a matter of bargain and sale. there is hope for us yet. [at least the above is the speech which i was going to make, but our minister, general schenck, presided, and after the blessing, got up and made a great long inconceivably dull harangue, and wound up by saying that inasmuch as speech-making did not seem to exhilarate the guests much, all further oratory would be dispensed with during the evening, and we could just sit and talk privately to our elbow-neighbors and have a good sociable time. it is known that in consequence of that remark forty-four perfected speeches died in the womb. the depression, the gloom, the solemnity that reigned over the banquet from that time forth will be a lasting memory with many that were there. by that one thoughtless remark general schenck lost forty-four of the best friends he had in england. more than one said that night, "and this is the sort of person that is sent to represent us in a great sister empire!"] lionizing murderers i had heard so much about the celebrated fortune-teller madame-----, that i went to see her yesterday. she has a dark complexion naturally, and this effect is heightened by artificial aids which cost her nothing. she wears curls--very black ones, and i had an impression that she gave their native attractiveness a lift with rancid butter. she wears a reddish check handkerchief, cast loosely around her neck, and it was plain that her other one is slow getting back from the wash. i presume she takes snuff. at any rate, something resembling it had lodged among the hairs sprouting from her upper lip. i know she likes garlic--i knew that as soon as she sighed. she looked at me searchingly for nearly a minute, with her black eyes, and then said: "it is enough. come!" she started down a very dark and dismal corridor--i stepping close after her. presently she stopped, and said that, as the way was so crooked and dark, perhaps she had better get a light. but it seemed ungallant to allow a woman to put herself to so much trouble for me, and so i said: "it is not worth while, madam. if you will heave another sigh, i think i can follow it." so we got along all right. arrived at her official and mysterious den, she asked me to tell her the date of my birth, the exact hour of that occurrence, and the color of my grandmother's hair. i answered as accurately as i could. then she said: "young man, summon your fortitude--do not tremble. i am about to reveal the past." "information concerning the future would be, in a general way, more--" "silence! you have had much trouble, some joy, some good fortune, some bad. your great grandfather was hanged." "that is a l--" "silence! hanged sir. but it was not his fault. he could not help it." "i am glad you do him justice." "ah--grieve, rather, that the jury did. he was hanged. his star crosses yours in the fourth division, fifth sphere. consequently you will be hanged also." "in view of this cheerful--" "i must have silence. yours was not, in the beginning, a criminal nature, but circumstances changed it. at the age of nine you stole sugar. at the age of fifteen you stole money. at twenty you stole horses. at twenty-five you committed arson. at thirty, hardened in crime, you became an editor. you are now a public lecturer. worse things are in store for you. you will be sent to congress. next, to the penitentiary. finally, happiness will come again--all will be well--you will be hanged." i was now in tears. it seemed hard enough to go to congress; but to be hanged--this was too sad, too dreadful. the woman seemed surprised at my grief. i told her the thoughts that were in my mind. then she comforted me. "why, man," she said, "hold up your head--you have nothing to grieve about. listen. --[in this paragraph the fortune-teller details the exact history of the pike-brown assassination case in new hampshire, from the succoring and saving of the stranger pike by the browns, to the subsequent hanging and coffining of that treacherous miscreant. she adds nothing, invents nothing, exaggerates nothing (see any new england paper for november, ). this pike-brown case is selected merely as a type, to illustrate a custom that prevails, not in new hampshire alone, but in every state in the union--i mean the sentimental custom of visiting, petting, glorifying, and snuffling over murderers like this pike, from the day they enter the jail under sentence of death until they swing from the gallows. the following extract from the temple bar ( ) reveals the fact that this custom is not confined to the united states.--"on december , , a man named john johnes, a shoemaker, murdered his sweetheart, mary hallam, the daughter of a respectable laborer, at mansfield, in the county of nottingham. he was executed on march , . he was a man of unsteady habits, and gave way to violent fits of passion. the girl declined his addresses, and he said if he did not have her no one else should. after he had inflicted the first wound, which was not immediately fatal, she begged for her life, but seeing him resolved, asked for time to pray. he said that he would pray for both, and completed the crime. the wounds were inflicted by a shoemaker's knife, and her throat was cut barbarously. after this he dropped on his knees some time, and prayed god to have mercy on two unfortunate lovers. he made no attempt to escape, and confessed the crime. after his imprisonment he behaved in a most decorous manner; he won upon the good opinion of the jail chaplain, and he was visited by the bishop of lincoln. it does not appear that he expressed any contrition for the crime, but seemed to pass away with triumphant certainty that he was going to rejoin his victim in heaven. he was visited by some pious and benevolent ladies of nottingham, some of whom declared he was a child of god, if ever there was one. one of the ladies sent him a while camellia to wear at his execution."] "you will live in new hampshire. in your sharp need and distress the brown family will succor you--such of them as pike the assassin left alive. they will be benefactors to you. when you shall have grown fat upon their bounty, and are grateful and happy, you will desire to make some modest return for these things, and so you will go to the house some night and brain the whole family with an ax. you will rob the dead bodies of your benefactors, and disburse your gains in riotous living among the rowdies and courtesans of boston. then you will, be arrested, tried, condemned to be hanged, thrown into prison. now is your happy day. you will be converted--you will be converted just as soon as every effort to compass pardon, commutation, or reprieve has failed--and then!--why, then, every morning and every afternoon, the best and purest young ladies of the village will assemble in your cell and sing hymns. this will show that assassination is respectable. then you will write a touching letter, in which you will forgive all those recent browns. this will excite the public admiration. no public can withstand magnanimity. next, they will take you to the scaffold, with great eclat, at the head of an imposing procession composed of clergymen, officials, citizens generally, and young ladies walking pensively two and two, and bearing bouquets and immortelles. you will mount the scaffold, and while the great concourse stand uncovered in your presence, you will read your sappy little speech which the minister has written for you. and then, in the midst of a grand and impressive silence, they will swing you into per--paradise, my son. there will not be a dry eye on the ground. you will be a hero! not a rough there but will envy you. not a rough there but will resolve to emulate you. and next, a great procession will follow you to the tomb--will weep over your remains--the young ladies will sing again the hymns made dear by sweet associations connected with the jail, and, as a last tribute of affection, respect, and appreciation of your many sterling qualities, they will walk two and two around your bier, and strew wreaths of flowers on it. and lo! you are canonized. think of it, son-ingrate, assassin, robber of the dead, drunken brawler among thieves and harlots in the slums of boston one month, and the pet of the pure and innocent daughters of the land the next! a bloody and hateful devil--a bewept, bewailed, and sainted martyr--all in a month! fool!--so noble a fortune, and yet you sit here grieving!" "no, madam," i said, "you do me wrong, you do, indeed. i am perfectly satisfied. i did not know before that my great-grandfather was hanged, but it is of no consequence. he has probably ceased to bother about it by this time--and i have not commenced yet. i confess, madam, that i do something in the way of editing and lecturing, but the other crimes you mention have escaped my memory. yet i must have committed them--you would not deceive a stranger. but let the past be as it was, and let the future be as it may--these are nothing. i have only cared for one thing. i have always felt that i should be hanged some day, and somehow the thought has annoyed me considerably; but if you can only assure me that i shall be hanged in new hampshire--" "not a shadow of a doubt!" "bless you, my benefactress!--excuse this embrace--you have removed a great load from my breast. to be hanged in new hampshire is happiness --it leaves an honored name behind a man, and introduces him at once into the best new hampshire society in the other world." i then took leave of the fortune-teller. but, seriously, is it well to glorify a murderous villain on the scaffold, as pike was glorified in new hampshire? is it well to turn the penalty for a bloody crime into a reward? is it just to do it? is, it safe? a new crime legislation needed this country, during the last thirty or forty years, has produced some of the most remarkable cases of insanity of which there is any mention in history. for instance, there was the baldwin case, in ohio, twenty-two years ago. baldwin, from his boyhood up, had been of a vindictive, malignant, quarrelsome nature. he put a boy's eye out once, and never was heard upon any occasion to utter a regret for it. he did many such things. but at last he did something that was serious. he called at a house just after dark one evening, knocked, and when the occupant came to the door, shot him dead, and then tried to escape, but was captured. two days before, he had wantonly insulted a helpless cripple, and the man he afterward took swift vengeance upon with an assassin bullet had knocked him down. such was the baldwin case. the trial was long and exciting; the community was fearfully wrought up. men said this spiteful, bad-hearted villain had caused grief enough in his time, and now he should satisfy the law. but they were mistaken; baldwin was insane when he did the deed--they had not thought of that. by the argument of counsel it was shown that at half past ten in the morning on the day of the murder, baldwin became insane, and remained so for eleven hours and a half exactly. this just covered the case comfortably, and he was acquitted. thus, if an unthinking and excited community had been listened to instead of the arguments of counsel, a poor crazy creature would have been held to a fearful responsibility for a mere freak of madness. baldwin went clear, and although his relatives and friends were naturally incensed against the community for their injurious suspicions and remarks, they said let it go for this time, and did not prosecute. the baldwins were very wealthy. this same baldwin had momentary fits of insanity twice afterward, and on both occasions killed people he had grudges against. and on both these occasions the circumstances of the killing were so aggravated, and the murders so seemingly heartless and treacherous, that if baldwin had not been insane he would have been hanged without the shadow of a doubt. as it was, it required all his political and family influence to get him clear in one of the cases, and cost him not less than ten thousand dollars to get clear in the other. one of these men he had notoriously been threatening to kill for twelve years. the poor creature happened, by the merest piece of ill fortune, to come along a dark alley at the very moment that baldwin's insanity came upon him, and so he was shot in the back with a gun loaded with slugs. take the case of lynch hackett, of pennsylvania. twice, in public, he attacked a german butcher by the name of bemis feldner, with a cane, and both times feldner whipped him with his fists. hackett was a vain, wealthy, violent gentleman, who held his blood and family in high esteem, and believed that a reverent respect was due to his great riches. he brooded over the shame of his chastisement for two weeks, and then, in a momentary fit of insanity, armed himself to the teeth, rode into town, waited a couple of hours until he saw feldner coming down the street with his wife on his arm, and then, as the couple passed the doorway in which he had partially concealed himself, he drove a knife into feldner's neck, killing him instantly. the widow caught the limp form and eased it to the earth. both were drenched with blood. hackett jocosely remarked to her that as a professional butcher's recent wife she could appreciate the artistic neatness of the job that left her in condition to marry again, in case she wanted to. this remark, and another which he made to a friend, that his position in society made the killing of an obscure citizen simply an "eccentricity" instead of a crime, were shown to be evidences of insanity, and so hackett escaped punishment. the jury were hardly inclined to accept these as proofs at first, inasmuch as the prisoner had never been insane before the murder, and under the tranquilizing effect of the butchering had immediately regained his right mind; but when the defense came to show that a third cousin of hackett's wife's stepfather was insane, and not only insane, but had a nose the very counterpart of hackett's, it was plain that insanity was hereditary in the family, and hackett had come by it by legitimate inheritance. of course the jury then acquitted him. but it was a merciful providence that mrs. h.'s people had been afflicted as shown, else hackett would certainly have been hanged. however, it is not possible to recount all the marvelous cases of insanity that have come under the public notice in the last thirty or forty years. there was the durgin case in new jersey three years ago. the servant girl, bridget durgin, at dead of night, invaded her mistress's bedroom and carved the lady literally to pieces with a knife. then she dragged the body to the middle of the floor, and beat and banged it with chairs and such things. next she opened the feather beds, and strewed the contents around, saturated everything with kerosene, and set fire to the general wreck. she now took up the young child of the murdered woman in her blood smeared hands and walked off, through the snow, with no shoes on, to a neighbor's house a quarter of a mile off, and told a string of wild, incoherent stories about some men coming and setting fire to the house; and then she cried piteously, and without seeming to think there was anything suggestive about the blood upon her hands, her clothing, and the baby, volunteered the remark that she was afraid those men had murdered her mistress! afterward, by her own confession and other testimony, it was proved that the mistress had always been kind to the girl, consequently there was no revenge in the murder; and it was also shown that the girl took nothing away from the burning house, not even her own shoes, and consequently robbery was not the motive. now, the reader says, "here comes that same old plea of insanity again." but the reader has deceived himself this time. no such plea was offered in her defense. the judge sentenced her, nobody persecuted the governor with petitions for her pardon, and she was promptly hanged. there was that youth in pennsylvania, whose curious confession was published some years ago. it was simply a conglomeration of incoherent drivel from beginning to end; and so was his lengthy speech on the scaffold afterward. for a whole year he was haunted with a desire to disfigure a certain young woman, so that no one would marry her. he did not love her himself, and did not want to marry her, but he did not want anybody else to do it. he would not go anywhere with her, and yet was opposed to anybody else's escorting her. upon one occasion he declined to go to a wedding with her, and when she got other company, lay in wait for the couple by the road, intending to make them go back or kill the escort. after spending sleepless nights over his ruling desire for a full year, he at last attempted its execution--that is, attempted to disfigure the young woman. it was a success. it was permanent. in trying to shoot her cheek (as she sat at the supper-table with her parents and brothers and sisters) in such a manner as to mar its comeliness, one of his bullets wandered a little out of the course, and she dropped dead. to the very last moment of his life he bewailed the ill luck that made her move her face just at the critical moment. and so he died, apparently about half persuaded that somehow it was chiefly her own fault that she got killed. this idiot was hanged. the plea, of insanity was not offered. insanity certainly is on the increase in the world, and crime is dying out. there are no longer any murders--none worth mentioning, at any rate. formerly, if you killed a man, it was possible that you were insane--but now, if you, having friends and money, kill a mate, it is evidence that you are a lunatic. in these days, too, if a person of good family and high social standing steals anything, they call it kleptomania, and send him to the lunatic asylum. if a person of high standing squanders his fortune in dissipation, and closes his career with strychnine or a bullet, "temporary aberration" is what was the trouble with him. is not this insanity plea becoming rather common? is it not so common that the reader confidently expects to see it offered in every criminal case that comes before the courts? and is it not so cheap, and so common, and often so trivial, that the reader smiles in derision when the newspaper mentions it? and is it not curious to note how very often it wins acquittal for the prisoner? of late years it does not seem possible for a man to so conduct himself, before killing another man, as not to be manifestly insane. if he talks about the stars, he is insane. if he appears nervous and uneasy an hour before the killing, he is insane. if he weeps over a great grief, his friends shake their heads, and fear that he is "not right." if, an hour after the murder, he seems ill at ease, preoccupied, and excited, he is, unquestionably insane. really, what we want now, is not laws against crime, but a law against insanity. there is where the true evil lies. a curious dream containing a moral night before last i had a singular dream. i seemed to be sitting on a doorstep (in no particular city perhaps) ruminating, and the time of night appeared to be about twelve or one o'clock. the weather was balmy and delicious. there was no human sound in the air, not even a footstep. there was no sound of any kind to emphasize the dead stillness, except the occasional hollow barking of a dog in the distance and the fainter answer of a further dog. presently up the street i heard a bony clack-clacking, and guessed it was the castanets of a serenading party. in a minute more a tall skeleton, hooded, and half clad in a tattered and moldy shroud, whose shreds were flapping about the ribby latticework of its person, swung by me with a stately stride and disappeared in the gray gloom of the starlight. it had a broken and worm-eaten coffin on its shoulder and a bundle of something in its hand. i knew what the clack-clacking was then; it was this party's joints working together, and his elbows knocking against his sides as he walked. i may say i was surprised. before i could collect my thoughts and enter upon any speculations as to what this apparition might portend, i heard another one coming for i recognized his clack-clack. he had two-thirds of a coffin on his shoulder, and some foot and head boards under his arm. i mightily wanted, to peer under his hood and speak to him, but when he turned and smiled upon me with his cavernous sockets and his projecting grin as he went by, i thought i would not detain him. he was hardly gone when i heard the clacking again, and another one issued from the shadowy half-light. this one was bending under a heavy gravestone, and dragging a shabby coffin after him by a string. when he got to me he gave me a steady look for a moment or two, and then rounded to and backed up to me, saying: "ease this down for a fellow, will you?" i eased the gravestone down till it rested on the ground, and in doing so noticed that it bore the name of "john baxter copmanhurst," with "may, ," as the date of his death. deceased sat wearily down by me, and wiped his os frontis with his major maxillary--chiefly from former habit i judged, for i could not see that he brought away any perspiration. "it is too bad, too bad," said he, drawing the remnant of the shroud about him and leaning his jaw pensively on his hand. then he put his left foot up on his knee and fell to scratching his anklebone absently with a rusty nail which he got out of his coffin. "what is too bad, friend?" "oh, everything, everything. i almost wish i never had died." "you surprise me. why do you say this? has anything gone wrong? what is the matter?" "matter! look at this shroud-rags. look at this gravestone, all battered up. look at that disgraceful old coffin. all a man's property going to ruin and destruction before his eyes, and ask him if anything is wrong? fire and brimstone!" "calm yourself, calm yourself," i said. "it is too bad--it is certainly too bad, but then i had not supposed that you would much mind such matters situated as you are." "well, my dear sir, i do mind them. my pride is hurt, and my comfort is impaired--destroyed, i might say. i will state my case--i will put it to you in such a way that you can comprehend it, if you will let me," said the poor skeleton, tilting the hood of his shroud back, as if he were clearing for action, and thus unconsciously giving himself a jaunty and festive air very much at variance with the grave character of his position in life--so to speak--and in prominent contrast with his distressful mood. "proceed," said i. "i reside in the shameful old graveyard a block or two above you here, in this street--there, now, i just expected that cartilage would let go! --third rib from the bottom, friend, hitch the end of it to my spine with a string, if you have got such a thing about you, though a bit of silver wire is a deal pleasanter, and more durable and becoming, if one keeps it polished--to think of shredding out and going to pieces in this way, just on account of the indifference and neglect of one's posterity!"--and the poor ghost grated his teeth in a way that gave me a wrench and a shiver --for the effect is mightily increased by the absence of muffling flesh and cuticle. "i reside in that old graveyard, and have for these thirty years; and i tell you things are changed since i first laid this old tired frame there, and turned over, and stretched out for a long sleep, with a delicious sense upon me of being done with bother, and grief, and anxiety, and doubt, and fear, forever and ever, and listening with comfortable and increasing satisfaction to the sexton's work, from the startling clatter of his first spadeful on my coffin till it dulled away to the faint patting that shaped the roof of my new home-delicious! my! i wish you could try it to-night!" and out of my reverie deceased fetched me a rattling slap with a bony hand. "yes, sir, thirty years ago i laid me down there, and was happy. for it was out in the country then--out in the breezy, flowery, grand old woods, and the lazy winds gossiped with the leaves, and the squirrels capered over us and around us, and the creeping things visited us, and the birds filled the tranquil solitude with music. ah, it was worth ten years of a man's life to be dead then! everything was pleasant. i was in a good neighborhood, for all the dead people that lived near me belonged to the best families in the city. our posterity appeared to think the world of us. they kept our graves in the very best condition; the fences were always in faultless repair, head-boards were kept painted or whitewashed, and were replaced with new ones as soon as they began to look rusty or decayed; monuments were kept upright, railings intact and bright, the rose-bushes and shrubbery trimmed, trained, and free from blemish, the walks clean and smooth and graveled. but that day is gone by. our descendants have forgotten us. my grandson lives in a stately house built with money made by these old hands of mine, and i sleep in a neglected grave with invading vermin that gnaw my shroud to build them nests withal! i and friends that lie with me founded and secured the prosperity of this fine city, and the stately bantling of our loves leaves us to rot in a dilapidated cemetery which neighbors curse and strangers scoff at. see the difference between the old time and this --for instance: our graves are all caved in now; our head-boards have rotted away and tumbled down; our railings reel this way and that, with one foot in the air, after a fashion of unseemly levity; our monuments lean wearily, and our gravestones bow their heads discouraged; there be no adornments any more--no roses, nor shrubs, nor graveled walks, nor anything that is a comfort to the eye; and even the paintless old board fence that did make a show of holding us sacred from companionship with beasts and the defilement of heedless feet, has tottered till it overhangs the street, and only advertises the presence of our dismal resting-place and invites yet more derision to it. and now we cannot hide our poverty and tatters in the friendly woods, for the city has stretched its withering arms abroad and taken us in, and all that remains of the cheer of our old home is the cluster of lugubrious forest trees that stand, bored and weary of a city life, with their feet in our coffins, looking into the hazy distance and wishing they were there. i tell you it is disgraceful! "you begin to comprehend--you begin to see how it is. while our descendants are living sumptuously on our money, right around us in the city, we have to fight hard to keep skull and bones together. bless you, there isn't a grave in our cemetery that doesn't leak not one. every time it rains in the night we have to climb out and roost in the trees and sometimes we are wakened suddenly by the chilly water trickling down the back of our necks. then i tell you there is a general heaving up of old graves and kicking over of old monuments, and scampering of old skeletons for the trees! bless me, if you had gone along there some such nights after twelve you might have seen as many as fifteen of us roosting on one limb, with our joints rattling drearily and the wind wheezing through our ribs! many a time we have perched there for three or four dreary hours, and then come down, stiff and chilled through and drowsy, and borrowed each other's skulls to bail out our graves with--if you will glance up in my mouth now as i tilt my head back, you can see that my head-piece is half full of old dry sediment how top-heavy and stupid it makes me sometimes! yes, sir, many a time if you had happened to come along just before the dawn you'd have caught us bailing out the graves and hanging our shrouds on the fence to dry. why, i had an elegant shroud stolen from there one morning--think a party by the name of smith took it, that resides in a plebeian graveyard over yonder--i think so because the first time i ever saw him he hadn't anything on but a check shirt, and the last time i saw him, which was at a social gathering in the new cemetery, he was the best-dressed corpse in the company--and it is a significant fact that he left when he saw me; and presently an old woman from here missed her coffin--she generally took it with her when she went anywhere, because she was liable to take cold and bring on the spasmodic rheumatism that originally killed her if she exposed herself to the night air much. she was named hotchkiss--anna matilda hotchkiss--you might know her? she has two upper front teeth, is tall, but a good deal inclined to stoop, one rib on the left side gone, has one shred of rusty hair hanging from the left side of her head, and one little tuft just above and a little forward of her right ear, has her underjaw wired on one side where it had worked loose, small bone of left forearm gone--lost in a fight has a kind of swagger in her gait and a 'gallus' way of going with: her arms akimbo and her nostrils in the air has been pretty free and easy, and is all damaged and battered up till she looks like a queensware crate in ruins--maybe you have met her?" "god forbid!" i involuntarily ejaculated, for somehow i was not looking for that form of question, and it caught me a little off my guard. but i hastened to make amends for my rudeness, and say, "i simply meant i had not had the honor--for i would not deliberately speak discourteously of a friend of yours. you were saying that you were robbed--and it was a shame, too--but it appears by what is left of the shroud you have on that it was a costly one in its day. how did--" a most ghastly expression began to develop among the decayed features and shriveled integuments of my guest's face, and i was beginning to grow uneasy and distressed, when he told me he was only working up a deep, sly smile, with a wink in it, to suggest that about the time he acquired his present garment a ghost in a neighboring cemetery missed one. this reassured me, but i begged him to confine himself to speech thenceforth, because his facial expression was uncertain. even with the most elaborate care it was liable to miss fire. smiling should especially be avoided. what he might honestly consider a shining success was likely to strike me in a very different light. i said i liked to see a skeleton cheerful, even decorously playful, but i did not think smiling was a skeleton's best hold. "yes, friend," said the poor skeleton, "the facts are just as i have given them to you. two of these old graveyards--the one that i resided in and one further along have been deliberately neglected by our descendants of to-day until there is no occupying them any longer. aside from the osteological discomfort of it--and that is no light matter this rainy weather--the present state of things is ruinous to property. we have got to move or be content to see our effects wasted away and utterly destroyed. "now, you will hardly believe it, but it is true, nevertheless, that there isn't a single coffin in good repair among all my acquaintance--now that is an absolute fact. i do not refer to low people who come in a pine box mounted on an express-wagon, but i am talking about your high-toned, silver-mounted burial-case, your monumental sort, that travel under black plumes at the head of a procession and have choice of cemetery lots --i mean folks like the jarvises, and the bledsoes and burlings, and such. they are all about ruined. the most substantial people in our set, they were. and now look at them--utterly used up and poverty-stricken. one of the bledsoes actually traded his monument to a late barkeeper for some fresh shavings to put under his head. i tell you it speaks volumes, for there is nothing a corpse takes so much pride in as his monument. he loves to read the inscription. he comes after a while to believe what it says himself, and then you may see him sitting on the fence night after night enjoying it. epitaphs are cheap, and they do a poor chap a world of good after he is dead, especially if he had hard luck while he was alive. i wish they were used more. now i don't complain, but confidentially i do think it was a little shabby in my descendants to give me nothing but this old slab of a gravestone--and all the more that there isn't a compliment on it. it used to have: 'gone to his just reward' on it, and i was proud when i first saw it, but by and by i noticed that whenever an old friend of mine came along he would hook his chin on the railing and pull a long face and read along down till he came to that, and then he would chuckle to himself and walk off, looking satisfied and comfortable. so i scratched it off to get rid of those fools. but a dead man always takes a deal of pride in his monument. yonder goes half a dozen of the jarvises now, with the family monument along. and smithers and some hired specters went by with his awhile ago. hello, higgins, good-by, old friend! that's meredith higgins--died in ' --belongs to our set in the cemetery--fine old family--great-grand mother was an injun--i am on the most familiar terms with him he didn't hear me was the reason he didn't answer me. and i am sorry, too, because i would have liked to introduce you. you would admire him. he is the most disjointed, sway-backed, and generally distorted old skeleton you ever saw, but he is full of fun. when he laughs it sounds like rasping two stones together, and he always starts it off with a cheery screech like raking a nail across a window-pane. hey, jones! that is old columbus jones--shroud cost four hundred dollars entire trousseau, including monument, twenty-seven hundred. this was in the spring of ' . it was enormous style for those days. dead people came all the way from the alleghanies to see his things--the party that occupied the grave next to mine remembers it well. now do you see that individual going along with a piece of a head-board under his arm, one leg-bone below his knee gone, and not a thing in the world on? that is barstow dalhousie, and next to columbus jones he was the most sumptuously outfitted person that ever entered our cemetery. we are all leaving. we cannot tolerate the treatment we are receiving at the hands of our descendants. they open new cemeteries, but they leave us to our ignominy. they mend the streets, but they never mend anything that is about us or belongs to us. look at that coffin of mine--yet i tell you in its day it was a piece of furniture that would have attracted attention in any drawing-room in this city. you may have it if you want it--i can't afford to repair it. put a new bottom in her, and part of a new top, and a bit of fresh lining along the left side, and you'll find her about as comfortable as any receptacle of her species you ever tried. no thanks no, don't mention it you have been civil to me, and i would give you all the property i have got before i would seem ungrateful. now this winding-sheet is a kind of a sweet thing in its way, if you would like to--no? well, just as you say, but i wished to be fair and liberal there's nothing mean about me. good-by, friend, i must be going. i may have a good way to go to-night --don't know. i only know one thing for certain, and that is that i am on the emigrant trail now, and i'll never sleep in that crazy old cemetery again. i will travel till i fiend respectable quarters, if i have to hoof it to new jersey. all the boys are going. it was decided in public conclave, last night, to emigrate, and by the time the sun rises there won't be a bone left in our old habitations. such cemeteries may suit my surviving friends, but they do not suit the remains that have the honor to make these remarks. my opinion is the general opinion. if you doubt it, go and see how the departing ghosts upset things before they started. they were almost riotous in their demonstrations of distaste. hello, here are some of the bledsoes, and if you will give me a lift with this tombstone i guess i will join company and jog along with them--mighty respectable old family, the bledsoes, and used to always come out in six-horse hearses and all that sort of thing fifty years ago when i walked these streets in daylight. good-by, friend." and with his gravestone on his shoulder he joined the grisly procession, dragging his damaged coffin after him, for notwithstanding he pressed it upon me so earnestly, i utterly refused his hospitality. i suppose that for as much as two hours these sad outcasts went clacking by, laden with their dismal effects, and all that time i sat pitying them. one or two of the youngest and least dilapidated among them inquired about midnight trains on the railways, but the rest seemed unacquainted with that mode of travel, and merely asked about common public roads to various towns and cities, some of which are not on the map now, and vanished from it and from the earth as much as thirty years ago, and some few of them never had existed anywhere but on maps, and private ones in real-estate agencies at that. and they asked about the condition of the cemeteries in these towns and cities, and about the reputation the citizens bore as to reverence for the dead. this whole matter interested me deeply, and likewise compelled my sympathy for these homeless ones. and it all seeming real, and i not knowing it was a dream, i mentioned to one shrouded wanderer an idea that had entered my head to publish an account of this curious and very sorrowful exodus, but said also that i could not describe it truthfully, and just as it occurred, without seeming to trifle with a grave subject and exhibit an irreverence for the dead that would shock and distress their surviving friends. but this bland and stately remnant of a former citizen leaned him far over my gate and whispered in my ear, and said: "do not let that disturb you. the community that can stand such graveyards as those we are emigrating from can stand anything a body can say about the neglected and forsaken dead that lie in them." at that very moment a cock crowed, and the weird procession vanished and left not a shred or a bone behind. i awoke, and found myself lying with my head out of the bed and "sagging" downward considerably--a position favorable to dreaming dreams with morals in them, maybe, but not poetry. note.--the reader is assured that if the cemeteries in his town are kept in good order, this dream is not leveled at his town at all, but is leveled particularly and venomously at the next town. a true story repeated word for word as i heard it--[written about ] it was summer-time, and twilight. we were sitting on the porch of the farmhouse, on the summit of the hill, and "aunt rachel" was sitting respectfully below our level, on the steps-for she was our servant, and colored. she was of mighty frame and stature; she was sixty years old, but her eye was undimmed and her strength unabated. she was a cheerful, hearty soul, and it was no more trouble for her to laugh than it is for a bird to sing. she was under fire now, as usual when the day was done. that is to say, she was being chaffed without mercy, and was enjoying it. she would let off peal after of laughter, and then sit with her face in her hands and shake with throes of enjoyment which she could no longer get breath enough to express. it such a moment as this a thought occurred to me, and i said: "aunt rachel, how is it that you've lived sixty years and never had any trouble?" she stopped quaking. she paused, and there was moment of silence. she turned her face over her shoulder toward me, and said, without even a smile her voice: "misto c-----, is you in 'arnest?" it surprised me a good deal; and it sobered my manner and my speech, too. i said: "why, i thought--that is, i meant--why, you can't have had any trouble. i've never heard you sigh, and never seen your eye when there wasn't a laugh in it." she faced fairly around now, and was full earnestness. "has i had any trouble? misto c-----, i's gwyne to tell you, den i leave it to you. i was bawn down 'mongst de slaves; i knows all 'bout slavery, 'case i ben one of 'em my own se'f. well sah, my ole man--dat's my husban'--he was lov an' kind to me, jist as kind as you is to yo' own wife. an' we had chil'en--seven chil'en--an' loved dem chil'en jist de same as you loves yo' chil'en. dey was black, but de lord can't make chil'en so black but what dey mother loves 'em an' wouldn't give 'em up, no, not for anything dat's in dis whole world. "well, sah, i was raised in ole fo'ginny, but mother she was raised in maryland; an' my souls she was turrible when she'd git started! my lan! but she'd make de fur fly! when she'd git into dem tantrums, she always had one word dat she said. she'd straighten herse'f up an' put her fists in her hips an' say, 'i want you to understan' dat i wa'n't bawn in the mash to be fool' by trash! i's one o' de ole blue hen's chickens, i is!' 'ca'se you see, dat's what folks dat's bawn in maryland calls deyselves, an' dey's proud of it. well, dat was her word. i don't ever forgit it, beca'se she said it so much, an' beca'se she said it one day when my little henry tore his wris' awful, and most busted 'is head, right up at de top of his forehead, an' de niggers didn't fly aroun' fas' enough to 'tend to him. an' when dey talk' back at her, she up an' she says, 'look-a-heah!' she says, 'i want you niggers to understan' dat i wa'n't bawn in de mash be fool' by trash! i's one o' de ole blue hen's chickens, i is!' an' den she clar' dat kitchen an' bandage' up de chile herse'f. so i says dat word, too, when i's riled. "well, bymeby my ole mistis say she's broke, an she got to sell all de niggers on de place. an' when i heah dat dey gwyne to sell us all off at oction in richmon', oh, de good gracious! i know what dat mean!" aunt rachel had gradually risen, while she warmed to her subject, and now she towered above us, black against the stars. "dey put chains on us an' put us on a stan' as high as dis po'ch--twenty foot high--an' all de people stood aroun', crowds 'an' crowds. an' dey'd come up dah an' look at us all roun', an' squeeze our arm, an' make us git up an' walk, an' den say, dis one too ole,' or 'dis one lame,' or 'dis one don't 'mount to much.' an' dey sole my ole man, an' took him away, an' dey begin to sell my chil'en an' take dem away, an' i begin to cry; an' de man say, 'shet up yo' damn blubberin',' an' hit me on de mouf wid his han'. an' when de las' one was gone but my little henry, i grab' him clost up to my breas' so, an' i ris up an' says, 'you sha'nt take him away,' i says; 'i'll kill de man dat tetch him!' i says. but my little henry whisper an' say 'i gwyne to run away, an' den i work an' buy yo' freedom' oh, bless de chile, he always so good! but dey got him--dey got him, de men did; but i took and tear de clo'es mos' off of 'em an' beat 'em over de head wid my chain; an' dey give it to me too, but i didn't mine dat. "well, dah was my ole man gone, an' all my chil'en, all my seven chil'en --an' six of 'em i hain't set eyes on ag'in to dis day, an' dat's twenty-two year ago las' easter. de man dat bought me b'long' in newbern, an' he took me dah. well, bymeby de years roll on an' de waw come. my marster he was a confedrit colonel, an' i was his family's cook. so when de unions took dat town dey all run away an' lef' me all by myse'f wid de other niggers in dat mons'us big house. so de big union officers move in dah, an' dey ask me would i cook for dem. 'lord bless you,' says i, 'dat what i's for.' "dey wa'n't no small-fry officers, mine you, de was de biggest dey is; an' de way dey made dem sojers mosey roun'! de gen'l he tole me to boss dat kitchen; an' he say, 'if anybody come meddlin' wid you, you jist make 'em walk chalk; don't you be afeared,' he say; 'you's 'mong frens now.' "well, i thinks to myse'f, if my little henry ever got a chance to run away, he'd make to de norf, o' course. so one day i comes in dah whar de big officers was, in de parlor, an' i drops a kurtchy, so, an' i up an' tole 'em 'bout my henry, dey a-listenin' to my troubles jist de same as if i was white folks; an' i says, 'what i come for is beca'se if he got away and got up norf whar you gemmen comes from, you might 'a' seen him, maybe, an' could tell me so as i could fine him ag'in; he was very little, an' he had a sk-yar on his lef' wris' an' at de top of his forehead.' den dey look mournful, an' de gen'l says, 'how long sence you los' him?' an' i say, 'thirteen year. den de gen'l say, 'he wouldn't be little no mo' now--he's a man!' "i never thought o' dat befo'! he was only dat little feller to me yit. i never thought 'bout him growin' up an' bein' big. but i see it den. none o' de gemmen had run acrost him, so dey couldn't do nothin' for me. but all dat time, do' i didn't know it, my henry was run off to de norf, years an' years, an' he was a barber, too, an' worked for hisse'f. an' bymeby, when de waw come he ups an' he says: 'i's done barberin',' he says, 'i's gwyne to fine my ole mammy, less'n she's dead.' so he sole out an' went to whar dey was recruitin', an' hired hisse'f out to de colonel for his servant an' den he went all froo de battles everywhah, huntin' for his ole mammy; yes, indeedy, he'd hire to fust one officer an' den another, tell he'd ransacked de whole souf; but you see i didn't know nuffin 'bout dis. how was i gwyne to know it? "well, one night we had a big sojer ball; de sojers dah at newbern was always havin' balls an' carryin' on. dey had 'em in my kitchen, heaps o' times, 'ca'se it was so big. mine you, i was down on sich doin's; beca'se my place was wid de officers, an' it rasp me to have dem common sojers cavortin' roun' in my kitchen like dat. but i alway' stood aroun' an kep' things straight, i did; an' sometimes dey'd git my dander up, an' den i'd make 'em clar dat kitchen mine i tell you! "well, one night--it was a friday night--dey comes a whole platoon f'm a nigger ridgment da was on guard at de house--de house was head quarters, you know-an' den i was jist a-bilin' mad? i was jist a-boomin'! i swelled aroun', an swelled aroun'; i jist was a-itchin' for 'em to do somefin for to start me. an' dey was a-waltzin' an a dancin'! my but dey was havin' a time! an i jist a-swellin' an' a-swellin' up! pooty soon, 'long comes sich a spruce young nigger a-sailin' down de room wid a yaller wench roun' de wais'; an' roun an' roun' an roun' dey went, enough to make a body drunk to look at 'em; an' when dey got abreas' o' me, dey went to kin' o' balancin' aroun' fust on one leg an' den on t'other, an' smilin' at my big red turban, an' makin' fun, an' i ups an' says 'git along wid you!--rubbage!' de young man's face kin' o' changed, all of a sudden, for 'bout a second but den he went to smilin' ag'in, same as he was befo'. well, 'bout dis time, in comes some niggers dat played music and b'long' to de ban', an' dey never could git along widout puttin' on airs. an de very fust air dey put on dat night, i lit into em! dey laughed, an' dat made me wuss. de res' o' de niggers got to laughin', an' den my soul alive but i was hot! my eye was jist a-blazin'! i jist straightened myself up so--jist as i is now, plum to de ceilin', mos' --an' i digs my fists into my hips, an' i says, 'look-a-heah!' i says, 'i want you niggers to understan' dat i wa'n't bawn in de mash to be fool' by trash! i's one o' de ole blue hen's chickens, i is!'--an' den i see dat young man stan' a-starin' an' stiff, lookin' kin' o' up at de ceilin' like he fo'got somefin, an' couldn't 'member it no mo'. well, i jist march' on dem niggers--so, lookin' like a gen'l--an' dey jist cave' away befo' me an' out at de do'. an' as dis young man a-goin' out, i heah him say to another nigger, 'jim,' he says, 'you go 'long an' tell de cap'n i be on han' 'bout eight o'clock in de mawnin'; dey's somefin on my mine,' he says; 'i don't sleep no mo' dis night. you go 'long,' he says, 'an' leave me by my own se'f.' "dis was 'bout one o'clock in de mawnin'. well, 'bout seven, i was up an' on han', gittin' de officers' breakfast. i was a-stoopin' down by de stove jist so, same as if yo' foot was de stove--an' i'd opened de stove do' wid my right han'--so, pushin' it back, jist as i pushes yo' foot --an' i'd jist got de pan o' hot biscuits in my han' an' was 'bout to raise up, when i see a black face come aroun' under mine, an' de eyes a-lookin' up into mine, jist as i's a-lookin' up clost under yo' face now; an' i jist stopped right dah, an' never budged! jist gazed an' gazed so; an' de pan begin to tremble, an' all of a sudden i knowed! de pan drop' on de flo' an' i grab his lef' han' an' shove back his sleeve--jist so, as i's doin' to you--an' den i goes for his forehead an' push de hair back so, an' 'boy!' i says, 'if you an't my henry, what is you doin' wid dis welt on yo' wris' an' dat sk-yar on yo' forehead? de lord god ob heaven be praise', i got my own ag'in!' "oh no' misto c-----, i hain't had no trouble. an' no joy!" sketches new and old by mark twain part . first interview with artemus ward--[written about .] i had never seen him before. he brought letters of introduction from mutual friends in san francisco, and by invitation i breakfasted with him. it was almost religion, there in the silver-mines, to precede such a meal with whisky cocktails. artemus, with the true cosmopolitan instinct, always deferred to the customs of the country he was in, and so he ordered three of those abominations. hingston was present. i said i would rather not drink a whisky cocktail. i said it would go right to my head, and confuse me so that i would be in a helpless tangle in ten minutes. i did not want to act like a lunatic before strangers. but artemus gently insisted, and i drank the treasonable mixture under protest, and felt all the time that i was doing a thing i might be sorry for. in a minute or two i began to imagine that my ideas were clouded. i waited in great anxiety for the conversation to open, with a sort of vague hope that my understanding would prove clear, after all, and my misgivings groundless. artemus dropped an unimportant remark or two, and then assumed a look of superhuman earnestness, and made the following astounding speech. he said: "now there is one thing i ought to ask you about before i forget it. you have been here in silver land--here in nevada--two or three years, and, of course, your position on the daily press has made it necessary for you to go down in the mines and examine them carefully in detail, and therefore you know all about the silver-mining business. now what i want to get at is--is, well, the way the deposits of ore are made, you know. for instance. now, as i understand it, the vein which contains the silver is sandwiched in between casings of granite, and runs along the ground, and sticks up like a curb stone. well, take a vein forty feet thick, for example, or eighty, for that matter, or even a hundred--say you go down on it with a shaft, straight down, you know, or with what you call 'incline' maybe you go down five hundred feet, or maybe you don't go down but two hundred--anyway, you go down, and all the time this vein grows narrower, when the casings come nearer or approach each other, you may say--that is, when they do approach, which, of course, they do not always do, particularly in cases where the nature of the formation is such that they stand apart wider than they otherwise would, and which geology has failed to account for, although everything in that science goes to prove that, all things being equal, it would if it did not, or would not certainly if it did, and then, of course, they are. do not you think it is?" i said to myself: "now i just knew how it would be--that whisky cocktail has done the business for me; i don't understand any more than a clam." and then i said aloud: "i--i--that is--if you don't mind, would you--would you say that over again? i ought--" "oh, certainly, certainly! you see i am very unfamiliar with the subject, and perhaps i don't present my case clearly, but i--" "no, no-no, no-you state it plain enough, but that cocktail has muddled me a little. but i will no, i do understand for that matter; but i would get the hang of it all the better if you went over it again-and i'll pay better attention this time." he said; "why, what i was after was this." [here he became even more fearfully impressive than ever, and emphasized each particular point by checking it off on his finger-ends.] "this vein, or lode, or ledge, or whatever you call it, runs along between two layers of granite, just the same as if it were a sandwich. very well. now suppose you go down on that, say a thousand feet, or maybe twelve hundred (it don't really matter) before you drift, and then you start your drifts, some of them across the ledge, and others along the length of it, where the sulphurets--i believe they call them sulphurets, though why they should, considering that, so far as i can see, the main dependence of a miner does not so lie, as some suppose, but in which it cannot be successfully maintained, wherein the same should not continue, while part and parcel of the same ore not committed to either in the sense referred to, whereas, under different circumstances, the most inexperienced among us could not detect it if it were, or might overlook it if it did, or scorn the very idea of such a thing, even though it were palpably demonstrated as such. am i not right?" i said, sorrowfully: "i feel ashamed of myself, mr. ward. i know i ought to understand you perfectly well, but you see that treacherous whisky cocktail has got into my head, and now i cannot understand even the simplest proposition. i told you how it would be." "oh, don't mind it, don't mind it; the fault was my own, no doubt--though i did think it clear enough for--" "don't say a word. clear! why, you stated it as clear as the sun to anybody but an abject idiot; but it's that confounded cocktail that has played the mischief." "no; now don't say that. i'll begin it all over again, and--" "don't now--for goodness' sake, don't do anything of the kind, because i tell you my head is in such a condition that i don't believe i could understand the most trifling question a man could ask me. "now don't you be afraid. i'll put it so plain this time that you can't help but get the hang of it. we will begin at the very beginning." [leaning far across the table, with determined impressiveness wrought upon his every feature, and fingers prepared to keep tally of each point enumerated; and i, leaning forward with painful interest, resolved to comprehend or perish.] "you know the vein, the ledge, the thing that contains the metal, whereby it constitutes the medium between all other forces, whether of present or remote agencies, so brought to bear in favor of the former against the latter, or the latter against the former or all, or both, or compromising the relative differences existing within the radius whence culminate the several degrees of similarity to which--" i said: "oh, hang my wooden head, it ain't any use!--it ain't any use to try--i can't understand anything. the plainer you get it the more i can't get the hang of it." i heard a suspicious noise behind me, and turned in time to see hingston dodging behind a newspaper, and quaking with a gentle ecstasy of laughter. i looked at ward again, and he had thrown off his dread solemnity and was laughing also. then i saw that i had been sold--that i had been made a victim of a swindle in the way of a string of plausibly worded sentences that didn't mean anything under the sun. artemus ward was one of the best fellows in the world, and one of the most companionable. it has been said that he was not fluent in conversation, but, with the above experience in my mind, i differ. cannibalism in the cars--[written abort .] i visited st. louis lately, and on my way west, after changing cars at terre haute, indiana, a mild, benevolent-looking gentleman of about forty-five, or maybe fifty, came in at one of the way-stations and sat down beside me. we talked together pleasantly on various subjects for an hour, perhaps, and i found him exceedingly intelligent and entertaining. when he learned that i was from washington, he immediately began to ask questions about various public men, and about congressional affairs; and i saw very shortly that i was conversing with a man who was perfectly familiar with the ins and outs of political life at the capital, even to the ways and manners, and customs of procedure of senators and representatives in the chambers of the national legislature. presently two men halted near us for a single moment, and one said to the other: "harris, if you'll do that for me, i'll never forget you, my boy." my new comrade's eye lighted pleasantly. the words had touched upon a happy memory, i thought. then his face settled into thoughtfulness --almost into gloom. he turned to me and said, "let me tell you a story; let me give you a secret chapter of my life --a chapter that has never been referred to by me since its events transpired. listen patiently, and promise that you will not interrupt me." i said i would not, and he related the following strange adventure, speaking sometimes with animation, sometimes with melancholy, but always with feeling and earnestness. the stranger's narrative "on the th of december, , i started from st. louis on the evening train bound for chicago. there were only twenty-four passengers, all told. there were no ladies and no children. we were in excellent spirits, and pleasant acquaintanceships were soon formed. the journey bade fair to be a happy one; and no individual in the party, i think, had even the vaguest presentiment of the horrors we were soon to undergo. "at p.m. it began to snow hard. shortly after leaving the small village of welden, we entered upon that tremendous prairie solitude that stretches its leagues on leagues of houseless dreariness far away toward the jubilee settlements. the winds, unobstructed by trees or hills, or even vagrant rocks, whistled fiercely across the level desert, driving the falling snow before it like spray from the crested waves of a stormy sea. the snow was deepening fast; and we knew, by the diminished speed of the train, that the engine was plowing through it with steadily increasing difficulty. indeed, it almost came to a dead halt sometimes, in the midst of great drifts that piled themselves like colossal graves across the track. conversation began to flag. cheerfulness gave place to grave concern. the possibility of being imprisoned in the snow, on the bleak prairie, fifty miles from any house, presented itself to every mind, and extended its depressing influence over every spirit. "at two o'clock in the morning i was aroused out of an uneasy slumber by the ceasing of all motion about me. the appalling truth flashed upon me instantly--we were captives in a snow-drift! 'all hands to the rescue!' every man sprang to obey. out into the wild night, the pitchy darkness, the billowy snow, the driving storm, every soul leaped, with the consciousness that a moment lost now might bring destruction to us all. shovels, hands, boards--anything, everything that could displace snow, was brought into instant requisition. it was a weird picture, that small company of frantic men fighting the banking snows, half in the blackest shadow and half in the angry light of the locomotive's reflector. "one short hour sufficed to prove the utter uselessness of our efforts. the storm barricaded the track with a dozen drifts while we dug one away. and worse than this, it was discovered that the last grand charge the engine had made upon the enemy had broken the fore-and-aft shaft of the driving-wheel! with a free track before us we should still have been helpless. we entered the car wearied with labor, and very sorrowful. we gathered about the stoves, and gravely canvassed our situation. we had no provisions whatever--in this lay our chief distress. we could not freeze, for there was a good supply of wood in the tender. this was our only comfort. the discussion ended at last in accepting the disheartening decision of the conductor, viz., that it would be death for any man to attempt to travel fifty miles on foot through snow like that. we could not send for help, and even if we could it would not come. we must submit, and await, as patiently as we might, succor or starvation! i think the stoutest heart there felt a momentary chill when those words were uttered. "within the hour conversation subsided to a low murmur here and there about the car, caught fitfully between the rising and falling of the blast; the lamps grew dim; and the majority of the castaways settled themselves among the flickering shadows to think--to forget the present, if they could--to sleep, if they might. "the eternal night-it surely seemed eternal to us-wore its lagging hours away at last, and the cold gray dawn broke in the east. as the light grew stronger the passengers began to stir and give signs of life, one after another, and each in turn pushed his slouched hat up from his forehead, stretched his stiffened limbs, and glanced out of the windows upon the cheerless prospect. it was cheer less, indeed!-not a living thing visible anywhere, not a human habitation; nothing but a vast white desert; uplifted sheets of snow drifting hither and thither before the wind--a world of eddying flakes shutting out the firmament above. "all day we moped about the cars, saying little, thinking much. another lingering dreary night--and hunger. "another dawning--another day of silence, sadness, wasting hunger, hopeless watching for succor that could not come. a night of restless slumber, filled with dreams of feasting--wakings distressed with the gnawings of hunger. "the fourth day came and went--and the fifth! five days of dreadful imprisonment! a savage hunger looked out at every eye. there was in it a sign of awful import--the foreshadowing of a something that was vaguely shaping itself in every heart--a something which no tongue dared yet to frame into words. "the sixth day passed--the seventh dawned upon as gaunt and haggard and hopeless a company of men as ever stood in the shadow of death. it must out now! that thing which had been growing up in every heart was ready to leap from every lip at last! nature had been taxed to the utmost--she must yield. richard h. gaston of minnesota, tall, cadaverous, and pale, rose up. all knew what was coming. all prepared--every emotion, every semblance of excitement--was smothered--only a calm, thoughtful seriousness appeared in the eyes that were lately so wild. "'gentlemen: it cannot be delayed longer! the time is at hand! we must determine which of us shall die to furnish food for the rest!' "mr. john j. williams of illinois rose and said: 'gentlemen--i nominate the rev. james sawyer of tennessee.' "mr. wm. r. adams of indiana said: 'i nominate mr. daniel slote of new york.' "mr. charles j. langdon: 'i nominate mr. samuel a. bowen of st. louis.' "mr. slote: 'gentlemen--i desire to decline in favor of mr. john a. van nostrand, jun., of new jersey.' "mr. gaston: 'if there be no objection, the gentleman's desire will be acceded to.' "mr. van nostrand objecting, the resignation of mr. slote was rejected. the resignations of messrs. sawyer and bowen were also offered, and refused upon the same grounds. "mr. a. l. bascom of ohio: 'i move that the nominations now close, and that the house proceed to an election by ballot.' "mr. sawyer: 'gentlemen--i protest earnestly against these proceedings. they are, in every way, irregular and unbecoming. i must beg to move that they be dropped at once, and that we elect a chairman of the meeting and proper officers to assist him, and then we can go on with the business before us understandingly.' "mr. bell of iowa: 'gentlemen--i object. this is no time to stand upon forms and ceremonious observances. for more than seven days we have been without food. every moment we lose in idle discussion increases our distress. i am satisfied with the nominations that have been made--every gentleman present is, i believe--and i, for one, do not see why we should not proceed at once to elect one or more of them. i wish to offer a resolution--' "mr. gaston: 'it would be objected to, and have to lie over one day under the rules, thus bringing about the very delay you wish to avoid. the gentleman from new jersey--' "mr. van nostrand: 'gentlemen--i am a stranger among you; i have not sought the distinction that has been conferred upon me, and i feel a delicacy--' "mr. morgan of alabama (interrupting): 'i move the previous question.' "the motion was carried, and further debate shut off, of course. the motion to elect officers was passed, and under it mr. gaston was chosen chairman, mr. blake, secretary, messrs. holcomb, dyer, and baldwin a committee on nominations, and mr. r. m. howland, purveyor, to assist the committee in making selections. "a recess of half an hour was then taken, and some little caucusing followed. at the sound of the gavel the meeting reassembled, and the committee reported in favor of messrs. george ferguson of kentucky, lucien herrman of louisiana, and w. messick of colorado as candidates. the report was accepted. "mr. rogers of missouri: 'mr. president the report being properly before the house now, i move to amend it by substituting for the name of mr. herrman that of mr. lucius harris of st. louis, who is well and honorably known to us all. i do not wish to be understood as casting the least reflection upon the high character and standing of the gentleman from louisiana far from it. i respect and esteem him as much as any gentleman here present possibly can; but none of us can be blind to the fact that he has lost more flesh during the week that we have lain here than any among us--none of us can be blind to the fact that the committee has been derelict in its duty, either through negligence or a graver fault, in thus offering for our suffrages a gentleman who, however pure his own motives may be, has really less nutriment in him--' "the chair: 'the gentleman from missouri will take his seat. the chair cannot allow the integrity of the committee to be questioned save by the regular course, under the rules. what action will the house take upon the gentleman's motion?' "mr. halliday of virginia: 'i move to further amend the report by substituting mr. harvey davis of oregon for mr. messick. it may be urged by gentlemen that the hardships and privations of a frontier life have rendered mr. davis tough; but, gentlemen, is this a time to cavil at toughness? is this a time to be fastidious concerning trifles? is this a time to dispute about matters of paltry significance? no, gentlemen, bulk is what we desire--substance, weight, bulk--these are the supreme requisites now--not talent, not genius, not education. i insist upon my motion.' "mr. morgan (excitedly): 'mr. chairman--i do most strenuously object to this amendment. the gentleman from oregon is old, and furthermore is bulky only in bone--not in flesh. i ask the gentleman from virginia if it is soup we want instead of solid sustenance? if he would delude us with shadows? if he would mock our suffering with an oregonian specter? i ask him if he can look upon the anxious faces around him, if he can gaze into our sad eyes, if he can listen to the beating of our expectant hearts, and still thrust this famine-stricken fraud upon us? i ask him if he can think of our desolate state, of our past sorrows, of our dark future, and still unpityingly foist upon us this wreck, this ruin, this tottering swindle, this gnarled and blighted and sapless vagabond from oregon's hospitable shores? never!' [applause.] "the amendment was put to vote, after a fiery debate, and lost. mr. harris was substituted on the first amendment. the balloting then began. five ballots were held without a choice. on the sixth, mr. harris was elected, all voting for him but himself. it was then moved that his election should be ratified by acclamation, which was lost, in consequence of his again voting against himself. "mr. radway moved that the house now take up the remaining candidates, and go into an election for breakfast. this was carried. "on the first ballot--there was a tie, half the members favoring one candidate on account of his youth, and half favoring the other on account of his superior size. the president gave the casting vote for the latter, mr. messick. this decision created considerable dissatisfaction among the friends of mr. ferguson, the defeated candidate, and there was some talk of demanding a new ballot; but in the midst of it a motion to adjourn was carried, and the meeting broke up at once. "the preparations for supper diverted the attention of the ferguson faction from the discussion of their grievance for a long time, and then, when they would have taken it up again, the happy announcement that mr. harris was ready drove all thought of it to the winds. "we improvised tables by propping up the backs of car-seats, and sat down with hearts full of gratitude to the finest supper that had blessed our vision for seven torturing days. how changed we were from what we had been a few short hours before! hopeless, sad-eyed misery, hunger, feverish anxiety, desperation, then; thankfulness, serenity, joy too deep for utterance now. that i know was the cheeriest hour of my eventful life. the winds howled, and blew the snow wildly about our prison house, but they were powerless to distress us any more. i liked harris. he might have been better done, perhaps, but i am free to say that no man ever agreed with me better than harris, or afforded me so large a degree of satisfaction. messick was very well, though rather high-flavored, but for genuine nutritiousness and delicacy of fiber, give me harris. messick had his good points--i will not attempt to deny it, nor do i wish to do it but he was no more fitted for breakfast than a mummy would be, sir--not a bit. lean?--why, bless me!--and tough? ah, he was very tough! you could not imagine it--you could never imagine anything like it." "do you mean to tell me that--" "do not interrupt me, please. after breakfast we elected a man by the name of walker, from detroit, for supper. he was very good. i wrote his wife so afterward. he was worthy of all praise. i shall always remember walker. he was a little rare, but very good. and then the next morning we had morgan of alabama for breakfast. he was one of the finest men i ever sat down to handsome, educated, refined, spoke several languages fluently a perfect gentleman he was a perfect gentleman, and singularly juicy. for supper we had that oregon patriarch, and he was a fraud, there is no question about it--old, scraggy, tough, nobody can picture the reality. i finally said, gentlemen, you can do as you like, but i will wait for another election. and grimes of illinois said, 'gentlemen, i will wait also. when you elect a man that has something to recommend him, i shall be glad to join you again.' it soon became evident that there was general dissatisfaction with davis of oregon, and so, to preserve the good will that had prevailed so pleasantly since we had had harris, an election was called, and the result of it was that baker of georgia was chosen. he was splendid! well, well--after that we had doolittle, and hawkins, and mcelroy (there was some complaint about mcelroy, because he was uncommonly short and thin), and penrod, and two smiths, and bailey (bailey had a wooden leg, which was clear loss, but he was otherwise good), and an indian boy, and an organ-grinder, and a gentleman by the name of buckminster--a poor stick of a vagabond that wasn't any good for company and no account for breakfast. we were glad we got him elected before relief came." "and so the blessed relief did come at last?" "yes, it came one bright, sunny morning, just after election. john murphy was the choice, and there never was a better, i am willing to testify; but john murphy came home with us, in the train that came to succor us, and lived to marry the widow harris--" "relict of--" "relict of our first choice. he married her, and is happy and respected and prosperous yet. ah, it was like a novel, sir--it was like a romance. this is my stopping-place, sir; i must bid you goodby. any time that you can make it convenient to tarry a day or two with me, i shall be glad to have you. i like you, sir; i have conceived an affection for you. i could like you as well as i liked harris himself, sir. good day, sir, and a pleasant journey." he was gone. i never felt so stunned, so distressed, so bewildered in my life. but in my soul i was glad he was gone. with all his gentleness of manner and his soft voice, i shuddered whenever he turned his hungry eye upon me; and when i heard that i had achieved his perilous affection, and that i stood almost with the late harris in his esteem, my heart fairly stood still! i was bewildered beyond description. i did not doubt his word; i could not question a single item in a statement so stamped with the earnestness of truth as his; but its dreadful details overpowered me, and threw my thoughts into hopeless confusion. i saw the conductor looking at me. i said, "who is that man?" "he was a member of congress once, and a good one. but he got caught in a snow-drift in the cars, and like to have been starved to death. he got so frost-bitten and frozen up generally, and used up for want of something to eat, that he was sick and out of his head two or three months afterward. he is all right now, only he is a monomaniac, and when he gets on that old subject he never stops till he has eat up that whole car-load of people he talks about. he would have finished the crowd by this time, only he had to get out here. he has got their names as pat as a b c. when he gets them all eat up but himself, he always says: 'then the hour for the usual election for breakfast having arrived; and there being no opposition, i was duly elected, after which, there being no objections offered, i resigned. thus i am here.'" i felt inexpressibly relieved to know that i had only been listening to the harmless vagaries of a madman instead of the genuine experiences of a bloodthirsty cannibal. the killing of julius caesar "localized"--[written about .] being the only true and reliable account ever published; taken from the roman "daily evening fasces," of the date of that tremendous occurrence. nothing in the world affords a newspaper reporter so much satisfaction as gathering up the details of a bloody and mysterious murder and writing them up with aggravating circumstantiality. he takes a living delight in this labor of love--for such it is to him, especially if he knows that all the other papers have gone to press, and his will be the only one that will contain the dreadful intelligence. a feeling of regret has often come over me that i was not reporting in rome when caesar was killed--reporting on an evening paper, and the only one in the city, and getting at least twelve hours ahead of the morning-paper boys with this most magnificent "item" that ever fell to the lot of the craft. other events have happened as startling as this, but none that possessed so peculiarly all the characteristics of the favorite "item" of the present day, magnified into grandeur and sublimity by the high rank, fame, and social and political standing of the actors in it. however, as i was not permitted to report caesar's assassination in the regular way, it has at least afforded me rare satisfaction to translate the following able account of it from the original latin of the roman daily evening fasces of that date--second edition: our usually quiet city of rome was thrown into a state of wild excitement yesterday by the occurrence of one of those bloody affrays which sicken the heart and fill the soul with fear, while they inspire all thinking men with forebodings for the future of a city where human life is held so cheaply and the gravest laws are so openly set at defiance. as the result of that affray, it is our painful duty, as public journalists, to record the death of one of our most esteemed citizens--a man whose name is known wherever this paper circulates, and where fame it has been our pleasure and our privilege to extend, and also to protect from the tongue of slander and falsehood, to the best of our poor ability. we refer to mr. j. caesar, the emperor-elect. the facts of the case, as nearly as our reporter could determine them from the conflicting statements of eye-witnesses, were about as follows:-- the affair was an election row, of course. nine-tenths of the ghastly butcheries that disgrace the city nowadays grow out of the bickerings and jealousies and animosities engendered by these accursed elections. rome would be the gainer by it if her very constables were elected to serve a century; for in our experience we have never even been able to choose a dog-pelter without celebrating the event with a dozen knockdowns and a general cramming of the station-house with drunken vagabonds overnight. it is said that when the immense majority for caesar at the polls in the market was declared the other day, and the crown was offered to that gentleman, even his amazing unselfishness in refusing it three times was not sufficient to save him from the whispered insults of such men as casca, of the tenth ward, and other hirelings of the disappointed candidate, hailing mostly from the eleventh and thirteenth and other outside districts, who were overheard speaking ironically and contemptuously of mr. caesar's conduct upon that occasion. we are further informed that there are many among us who think they are justified in believing that the assassination of julius caesar was a put-up thing--a cut-and-dried arrangement, hatched by marcus brutus and a lot of his hired roughs, and carried out only too faithfully according to the program. whether there be good grounds for this suspicion or not, we leave to the people to judge for themselves, only asking that they will read the following account of the sad occurrence carefully and dispassionately before they render that judgment. the senate was already in session, and caesar was coming down the street toward the capitol, conversing with some personal friends, and followed, as usual, by a large number of citizens. just as he was passing in front of demosthenes and thucydides' drug store, he was observing casually to a gentleman, who, our informant thinks, is a fortune-teller, that the ides of march were come. the reply was, "yes, they are come, but not gone yet." at this moment artemidorus stepped up and passed the time of day, and asked caesar to read a schedule or a tract or something of the kind, which he had brought for his perusal. mr. decius brutus also said something about an "humble suit" which he wanted read. artexnidorus begged that attention might be paid to his first, because it was of personal consequence to caesar. the latter replied that what concerned himself should be read last, or words to that effect. artemidorus begged and beseeched him to read the paper instantly!--[mark that: it is hinted by william shakespeare, who saw the beginning and the end of the unfortunate affray, that this "schedule" was simply a note discovering to caesar that a plot was brewing to take his life.]--however, caesar shook him off, and refused to read any petition in the street. he then entered the capitol, and the crowd followed him. about this time the following conversation was overheard, and we consider that, taken in connection with the events which succeeded it, it bears an appalling significance: mr. papilius lena remarked to george w. cassias (commonly known as the "nobby boy of the third ward"), a bruiser in the pay of the opposition, that he hoped his enterprise to-day might thrive; and when cassias asked "what enterprise?" he only closed his left eye temporarily and said with simulated indifference, "fare you well," and sauntered toward caesar. marcus brutus, who is suspected of being the ringleader of the band that killed caesar, asked what it was that lena had said. cassias told him, and added in a low tone, "i fear our purpose is discovered." brutus told his wretched accomplice to keep an eye on lena, and a moment after cassias urged that lean and hungry vagrant, casca, whose reputation here is none of the best, to be sudden, for he feared prevention. he then turned to brutus, apparently much excited, and asked what should be done, and swore that either he or caesar would never turn back--he would kill himself first. at this time caesar was talking to some of the back-country members about the approaching fall elections, and paying little attention to what was going on around him. billy trebonius got into conversation with the people's friend and caesar's--mark antony--and under some pretense or other got him away, and brutus, decius, casca, cinna, metellus cimber, and others of the gang of infamous desperadoes that infest rome at present, closed around the doomed caesar. then metellus cimber knelt down and begged that his brother might be recalled from banishment, but caesar rebuked him for his fawning conduct, and refused to grant his petition. immediately, at cimber's request, first brutus and then cassias begged for the return of the banished publius; but caesar still refused. he said he could not be moved; that he was as fixed as the north star, and proceeded to speak in the most complimentary terms of the firmness of that star and its steady character. then he said he was like it, and he believed he was the only man in the country that was; therefore, since he was "constant" that cimber should be banished, he was also "constant" that he should stay banished, and he'd be hanged if he didn't keep him so! instantly seizing upon this shallow pretext for a fight, casca sprang at caesar and struck him with a dirk, caesar grabbing him by the arm with his right hand, and launching a blow straight from the shoulder with his left, that sent the reptile bleeding to the earth. he then backed up against pompey's statue, and squared himself to receive his assailants. cassias and cimber and cinna rushed, upon him with their daggers drawn, and the former succeeded in inflicting a wound upon his body; but before he could strike again, and before either of the others could strike at all, caesar stretched the three miscreants at his feet with as many blows of his powerful fist. by this time the senate was in an indescribable uproar; the throng of citizens is the lobbies had blockaded the doors in their frantic efforts to escape from the building, the sergeant-at-arms and his assistants were struggling with the assassins, venerable senators had cast aside their encumbering robes, and were leaping over benches and flying down the aisles in wild confusion toward the shelter of the committee-rooms, and a thousand voices were shouting "po-lice! po-lice!" in discordant tones that rose above the frightful din like shrieking winds above the roaring of a tempest. and amid it all great caesar stood with his back against the statue, like a lion at bay, and fought his assailants weaponless and hand to hand, with the defiant bearing and the unwavering courage which he had shown before on many a bloody field. billy trebonius and caius legarius struck him with their daggers and fell, as their brother-conspirators before them had fallen. but at last, when caesar saw his old friend brutus step forward armed with a murderous knife, it is said he seemed utterly overpowered with grief and amazement, and, dropping his invincible left arm by his side, he hid his face in the folds of his mantle and received the treacherous blow without an effort to stay the hand that gave it. he only said, "et tu, brute?" and fell lifeless on the marble pavement. we learn that the coat deceased had on when he was killed was the same one he wore in his tent on the afternoon of the day he overcame the nervii, and that when it was removed from the corpse it was found to be cut and gashed in no less than seven different places. there was nothing in the pockets. it will be exhibited at the coroner's inquest, and will be damning proof of the fact of the killing. these latter facts may be relied on, as we get them from mark antony, whose position enables him to learn every item of news connected with the one subject of absorbing interest of-to-day. later: while the coroner was summoning a jury, mark antony and other friends of the late caesar got hold of the body, and lugged it off to the forum, and at last accounts antony and brutus were making speeches over it and raising such a row among the people that, as we go to press, the chief of police is satisfied there is going to be a riot, and is taking measures accordingly. the widow's protest one of the saddest things that ever came under my notice (said the banker's clerk) was there in corning during the war. dan murphy enlisted as a private, and fought very bravely. the boys all liked him, and when a wound by and by weakened him down till carrying a musket was too heavy work for him, they clubbed together and fixed him up as a sutler. he made money then, and sent it always to his wife to bank for him. she was a washer and ironer, and knew enough by hard experience to keep money when she got it. she didn't waste a penny. on the contrary, she began to get miserly as her bank-account grew. she grieved to part with a cent, poor creature, for twice in her hard-working life she had known what it was to be hungry, cold, friendless, sick, and without a dollar in the world, and she had a haunting dread of suffering so again. well, at last dan died; and the boys, in testimony of their esteem and respect for him, telegraphed to mrs. murphy to know if she would like to have him embalmed and sent home; when you know the usual custom was to dump a poor devil like him into a shallow hole, and then inform his friends what had become of him. mrs. murphy jumped to the conclusion that it would only cost two or three dollars to embalm her dead husband, and so she telegraphed "yes." it was at the "wake" that the bill for embalming arrived and was presented to the widow. she uttered a wild, sad wail that pierced every heart, and said, "sivinty-foive dollars for stooffin' dan, blister their sowls! did thim divils suppose i was goin' to stairt a museim, that i'd be dalin' in such expinsive curiassities !" the banker's clerk said there was not a dry eye in the house. the scriptural panoramist--[written about .] "there was a fellow traveling around in that country," said mr. nickerson, "with a moral-religious show--a sort of scriptural panorama --and he hired a wooden-headed old slab to play the piano for him. after the first night's performance the showman says: "'my friend, you seem to know pretty much all the tunes there are, and you worry along first rate. but then, didn't you notice that sometimes last night the piece you happened to be playing was a little rough on the proprieties, so to speak--didn't seem to jibe with the general gait of the picture that was passing at the time, as it were--was a little foreign to the subject, you know--as if you didn't either trump or follow suit, you understand?' "'well, no,' the fellow said; 'he hadn't noticed, but it might be; he had played along just as it came handy.' "so they put it up that the simple old dummy was to keep his eye on the panorama after that, and as soon as a stunning picture was reeled out he was to fit it to a dot with a piece of music that would help the audience to get the idea of the subject, and warm them up like a camp-meeting revival. that sort of thing would corral their sympathies, the showman said. "there was a big audience that night-mostly middle-aged and old people who belong to the church, and took a strong interest in bible matters, and the balance were pretty much young bucks and heifers--they always come out strong on panoramas, you know, because it gives them a chance to taste one another's complexions in the dark. "well, the showman began to swell himself up for his lecture, and the old mud-jobber tackled the piano and ran his fingers up and down once or twice to see that she was all right, and the fellows behind the curtain commenced to grind out the panorama. the showman balanced his weight on his right foot, and propped his hands over his hips, and flung his eyes over his shoulder at the scenery, and said: "'ladies and gentlemen, the painting now before you illustrates the beautiful and touching parable of the prodigal son. observe the happy expression just breaking over the features of the poor, suffering youth --so worn and weary with his long march; note also the ecstasy beaming from the uplifted countenance of the aged father, and the joy that sparkles in the eyes of the excited group of youths and maidens, and seems ready to burst into the welcoming chorus from their lips. the lesson, my friends, is as solemn and instructive as the story is tender and beautiful.' "the mud-jobber was all ready, and when the second speech was finished, struck up: "oh, we'll all get blind drunk when johnny comes marching home! "some of the people giggled, and some groaned a little. the showman couldn't say a word; he looked at the pianist sharp, but he was all lovely and serene--he didn't know there was anything out of gear. "the panorama moved on, and the showman drummed up his grit and started in fresh. "'ladies and gentlemen, the fine picture now unfolding itself to your gaze exhibits one of the most notable events in bible history--our saviour and his disciples upon the sea of galilee. how grand, how awe-inspiring are the reflections which the subject invokes! what sublimity of faith is revealed to us in this lesson from the sacred writings! the saviour rebukes the angry waves, and walks securely upon the bosom of the deep!' "all around the house they were whispering, 'oh, how lovely, how beautiful!' and the orchestra let himself out again: "a life on the ocean wave, and a home on the rolling deep! "there was a good deal of honest snickering turned on this time, and considerable groaning, and one or two old deacons got up and went out. the showman grated his teeth, and cursed the piano man to himself; but the fellow sat there like a knot on a log, and seemed to think he was doing first-rate. "after things got quiet the showman thought he would make one more stagger at it, anyway, though his confidence was beginning to get mighty shaky. the supes started the panorama grinding along again, and he says: "'ladies and gentlemen, this exquisite painting represents the raising of lazarus from the dead by our saviour. the subject has been handled with marvelous skill by the artist, and such touching sweetness and tenderness of expression has he thrown into it that i have known peculiarly sensitive persons to be even affected to tears by looking at it. observe the half-confused, half-inquiring look upon the countenance of the awakened lazarus. observe, also, the attitude and expression of the saviour, who takes him gently by the sleeve of his shroud with one hand, while he points with the other toward the distant city.' "before anybody could get off an opinion in the case the innocent old ass at the piano struck up: "come rise up, william ri-i-ley, and go along with me! "whe-ew! all the solemn old flats got up in a huff to go, and everybody else laughed till the windows rattled. "the showman went down and grabbed the orchestra and shook him up and says: "'that lets you out, you know, you chowder-headed old clam. go to the doorkeeper and get your money, and cut your stick--vamose the ranch! ladies and gentlemen, circumstances over which i have no control compel me prematurely to dismiss the house.'" curing a cold--[written about ] it is a good thing, perhaps, to write for the amusement of the public, but it is a far higher and nobler thing to write for their instruction, their profit, their actual and tangible benefit. the latter is the sole object of this article. if it prove the means of restoring to health one solitary sufferer among my race, of lighting up once more the fire of hope and joy in his faded eyes, or bringing back to his dead heart again the quick, generous impulses of other days, i shall be amply rewarded for my labor; my soul will be permeated with the sacred delight a christian. feels when he has done a good, unselfish deed. having led a pure and blameless life, i am justified in believing that no man who knows me will reject the suggestions i am about to make, out of fear that i am trying to deceive him. let the public do itself the honor to read my experience in doctoring a cold, as herein set forth, and then follow in my footsteps. when the white house was burned in virginia city, i lost my home, my happiness, my constitution, and my trunk. the loss of the two first named articles was a matter of no great consequence, since a home without a mother, or a sister, or a distant young female relative in it, to remind you, by putting your soiled linen out of sight and taking your boots down off the mantelpiece, that there are those who think about you and care for you, is easily obtained. and i cared nothing for the loss of my happiness, because, not being a poet, it could not be possible that melancholy would abide with me long. but to lose a good constitution and a better trunk were serious misfortunes. on the day of the fire my constitution succumbed to a severe cold, caused by undue exertion in getting ready to do something. i suffered to no purpose, too, because the plan i was figuring at for the extinguishing of the fire was so elaborate that i never got it completed until the middle of the following week. the first time i began to sneeze, a friend told me to go and bathe my feet in hot water and go to bed. i did so. shortly afterward, another friend advised me to get up and take a cold shower-bath. i did that also. within the hour, another friend assured me that it was policy to "feed a cold and starve a fever." i had both. so i thought it best to fill myself up for the cold, and then keep dark and let the fever starve awhile. in a case of, this kind, i seldom do things by halves; i ate pretty heartily; i conferred my custom upon a stranger who had just opened his restaurant that morning; he waited near me in respectful silence until i had finished feeding my cold, when he inquired if the people about virginia city were much afflicted with colds? i told him i thought they were. he then went out and took in his sign. i started down toward the office, and on the way encountered another bosom friend, who told me that a quart of salt-water, taken warm, would come as near curing a cold as anything in the world. i hardly thought i had room for it, but i tried it anyhow. the result was surprising. i believed i had thrown up my immortal soul. now, as i am giving my experience only for the benefit of those who are troubled with the distemper i am writing about, i feel that they will see the propriety of my cautioning them against following such portions of it as proved inefficient with me, and acting upon this conviction, i warn them against warm salt-water. it may be a good enough remedy, but i think it is too severe. if i had another cold in the head, and there were no course left me but to take either an earthquake or a quart of warm saltwater, i would take my chances on the earthquake. after the storm which had been raging in my stomach had subsided, and no more good samaritans happening along, i went on borrowing handkerchiefs again and blowing them to atoms, as had been my custom in the early stages of my cold, until i came across a lady who had just arrived from over the plains, and who said she had lived in a part of the country where doctors were scarce, and had from necessity acquired considerable skill in the treatment of simple "family complaints." i knew she must have had much experience, for she appeared to be a hundred and fifty years old. she mixed a decoction composed of molasses, aquafortis, turpentine, and various other drugs, and instructed me to take a wine-glass full of it every fifteen minutes. i never took but one dose; that was enough; it robbed me of all moral principle, and awoke every unworthy impulse of my nature. under its malign influence my brain conceived miracles of meanness, but my hands were too feeble to execute them; at that time, had it not been that my strength had surrendered to a succession of assaults from infallible remedies for my cold, i am satisfied that i would have tried to rob the graveyard. like most other people, i often feel mean, and act accordingly; but until i took that medicine i had never reveled in such supernatural depravity, and felt proud of it. at the end of two days i was ready to go to doctoring again. i took a few more unfailing remedies, and finally drove my cold from my head to my lungs. i got to coughing incessantly, and my voice fell below zero; i conversed in a thundering bass, two octaves below my natural tone; i could only compass my regular nightly repose by coughing myself down to a state of utter exhaustion, and then the moment i began to talk in my sleep, my discordant voice woke me up again. my case grew more and more serious every day. a plain gin was recommended; i took it. then gin and molasses; i took that also. then gin and onions; i added the onions, and took all three. i detected no particular result, however, except that i had acquired a breath like a buzzard's. i found i had to travel for my health. i went to lake bigler with my reportorial comrade, wilson. it is gratifying to me to reflect that we traveled in considerable style; we went in the pioneer coach, and my friend took all his baggage with him, consisting of two excellent silk handkerchiefs and a daguerreotype of his grandmother. we sailed and hunted and fished and danced all day, and i doctored my cough all night. by managing in this way, i made out to improve every hour in the twenty-four. but my disease continued to grow worse. a sheet-bath was recommended. i had never refused a remedy yet, and it seemed poor policy to commence then; therefore i determined to take a sheet-bath, notwithstanding i had no idea what sort of arrangement it was. it was administered at midnight, and the weather was very frosty. my breast and back were bared, and a sheet (there appeared to be a thousand yards of it) soaked in ice-water, was wound around me until i resembled a swab for a columbiad. it is a cruel expedient. when the chilly rag touches one's warm flesh, it makes him start with sudden violence, and gasp for breath just as men do in the death-agony. it froze the marrow in my bones and stopped the beating of my heart. i thought my time had come. young wilson said the circumstance reminded him of an anecdote about a negro who was being baptized, and who slipped from the parson's grasp, and came near being drowned. he floundered around, though, and finally rose up out of the water considerably strangled and furiously angry, and started ashore at once, spouting water like a whale, and remarking, with great asperity, that "one o' dese days some gen'l'man's nigger gwyne to get killed wid jis' such damn foolishness as dis!" never take a sheet-bath-never. next to meeting a lady acquaintance who, for reasons best known to herself, don't see you when she looks at you, and don't know you when she does see you, it is the most uncomfortable thing in the world. but, as i was saying, when the sheet-bath failed to cure my cough, a lady friend recommended the application of a mustard plaster to my breast. i believe that would have cured me effectually, if it had not been for young wilson. when i went to bed, i put my mustard plaster --which was a very gorgeous one, eighteen inches square--where i could reach it when i was ready for it. but young wilson got hungry in the night, and here is food for the imagination. after sojourning a week at lake bigler, i went to steamboat springs, and, besides the steam-baths, i took a lot of the vilest medicines that were ever concocted. they would have cured me, but i had to go back to virginia city, where, notwithstanding the variety of new remedies i absorbed every day, i managed to aggravate my disease by carelessness and undue exposure. i finally concluded to visit san francisco, and the, first day i got there a lady at the hotel told me to drink a quart of whisky every twenty-four hours, and a friend up-town recommended precisely the same course. each advised me to take a quart; that made half a gallon. i did it, and still live. now, with the kindest motives in the world, i offer for the consideration of consumptive patients the variegated course of treatment i have lately gone through. let them try it; if it don't cure, it can't more than kill them. a curious pleasure excursion --[published at the time of the "comet scare" in the summer of ] [we have received the following advertisement, but, inasmuch as it concerns a matter of deep and general interest, we feel fully justified in inserting it in our reading-columns. we are confident that our conduct in this regard needs only explanation, not apology.--ed., n. y. herald.] advertisement this is to inform the public that in connection with mr. barnum i have leased the comet for a term, of years; and i desire also to solicit the public patronage in favor of a beneficial enterprise which we have in view. we propose to fit up comfortable, and even luxurious, accommodations in the comet for as many persons as will honor us with their patronage, and make an extended excursion among the heavenly bodies. we shall prepare , , state-rooms in the tail of the comet (with hot and cold water, gas, looking-glass, parachute, umbrella, etc., in each), and shall construct more if we meet with a sufficiently generous encouragement. we shall have billiard-rooms, card-rooms, music-rooms, bowling-alleys and many spacious theaters and free libraries; and on the main deck we propose to have a driving park, with upward of , miles of roadway in it. we shall publish daily newspapers also. departure of the comet the comet will leave new york at p.m. on the th inst., and therefore it will be desirable that the passengers be on board by eight at the latest, to avoid confusion in getting under way. it is not known whether passports will be necessary or not, but it is deemed best that passengers provide them, and so guard against all contingencies. no dogs will be allowed on board. this rule has been made in deference to the existing state of feeling regarding these animals, and will be strictly adhered to. the safety of the passengers will in all ways be jealously looked to. a substantial iron railing will be put up all around the comet, and no one will be allowed to go to the edge and look over unless accompanied by either my partner or myself. the postal service will be of the completest character. of course the telegraph, and the telegraph only, will be employed; consequently friends occupying state-rooms , , and even , , miles apart will be able to send a message and receive a reply inside of eleven days. night messages will be half-rate. the whole of this vast postal system will be under the personal superintendence of mr. hale of maine. meals served at all hours. meals served in staterooms charged extra. hostility is not apprehended from any great planet, but we have thought it best to err on the safe side, and therefore have provided a proper number of mortars, siege-guns, and boarding-pikes. history shows that small, isolated communities, such as the people of remote islands, are prone to be hostile to strangers, and so the same may be the case with the inhabitants of stars of the tenth or twentieth magnitude. we shall in no case wantonly offend the people of any star, but shall treat all alike with urbanity and kindliness, never conducting ourselves toward an asteroid after a fashion which we could not venture to assume toward jupiter or saturn. i repeat that we shall not wantonly offend any star; but at the same time we shall promptly resent any injury that may be done us, or any insolence offered us, by parties or governments residing in any star in the firmament. although averse to the shedding of blood, we shall still hold this course rigidly and fearlessly, not only toward single stars, but toward constellations. we shall hope to leave a good impression of america behind us in every nation we visit, from venus to uranus. and, at all events, if we cannot inspire love we shall at least compel respect for our country wherever we go. we shall take with us, free of charge, a great force of missionaries, and shed the true light upon all the celestial orbs which, physically aglow, are yet morally in darkness. sunday-schools will be established wherever practicable. compulsory education will also be introduced. the comet will visit mars first, and proceed to mercury, jupiter, venus, and saturn. parties connected with the government of the district of columbia and with the former city government of new york, who may desire to inspect the rings, will be allowed time and every facility. every star of prominent magnitude will be visited, and time allowed for excursions to points of interest inland. the dog star has been stricken from the program. much time will be spent in the great bear, and, indeed, in every constellation of importance. so, also, with the sun and moon and the milky pay, otherwise the gulf stream of the skies. clothing suitable for wear in the sun should be provided. our program has been so arranged that we shall seldom go more than , , of miles at a time without stopping at some star. this will necessarily make the stoppages frequent and preserve the interest of the tourist. baggage checked through to any point on the route. parties desiring to make only a part of the proposed tour, and thus save expense, may stop over at any star they choose and wait for the return voyage. after visiting all the most celebrated stars and constellations in our system and personally, inspecting the remotest sparks that even the most powerful telescope can now detect in the firmament, we shall proceed with good heart upon a stupendous voyage of discovery among the countless whirling worlds that make turmoil in the mighty wastes of space that stretch their solemn solitudes, their unimaginable vastness billions upon billions of miles away beyond the farthest verge of telescopic vision, till by comparison the little sparkling vault we used to gaze at on earth shall seem like a remembered phosphorescent flash of spangles which some tropical voyager's prow stirred into life for a single instant, and which ten thousand miles of phosphorescent seas and tedious lapse of time had since diminished to an incident utterly trivial in his recollection. children occupying seats at the first table will be charged full fare. first-class fare from the earth to uranus, including visits to the sun and moon and all the principal planets on the route, will be charged at the low rate of $ for every , , miles of actual travel. a great reduction will be made where parties wish to make the round trip. this comet is new and in thorough repair and is now on her first voyage. she is confessedly the fastest on the line. she makes , , miles a day, with her present facilities; but, with a picked american crew and good weather, we are confident we can get , , out of her. still, we shall never push her to a dangerous speed, and we shall rigidly prohibit racing with other comets. passengers desiring to diverge at any point or return will be transferred to other comets. we make close connections at all principal points with all reliable lines. safety can be depended upon. it is not to be denied that the heavens are infested with old ramshackle comets that have not been inspected or overhauled in , years, and which ought long ago to have been destroyed or turned into hail-barges, but with these we have no connection whatever. steerage passengers not allowed abaft the main hatch. complimentary round-trip tickets have been tendered to general butler, mr. shepherd, mr. richardson, and other eminent gentlemen, whose public services have entitled them to the rest and relaxation of a voyage of this kind. parties desiring to make the round trip will have extra accommodation. the entire voyage will be completed, and the passengers landed in new york again, on the th of december, . this is, at least, forty years quicker than any other comet can do it in. nearly all the back-pay members contemplate making the round trip with us in case their constituents will allow them a holiday. every harmless amusement will be allowed on board, but no pools permitted on the run of the comet --no gambling of any kind. all fixed stars will be respected by us, but such stars as seem, to need fixing we shall fix. if it makes trouble, we shall be sorry, but firm. mr. coggia having leased his comet to us, she will no longer be called by his name, but by my partner's. n. b.--passengers by paying double fare will be entitled to a share in all the new stars, suns, moons, comets, meteors, and magazines of thunder and lightning we may discover. patent-medicine people will take notice that we carry bulletin-boards and a paint-brush along for use in the constellations, and are open to terms. cremationists are reminded that we are going straight to--some hot places--and are open to terms. to other parties our enterprise is a pleasure excursion, but individually we mean business. we shall fly our comet for all it is worth. for further particulars, or for freight or passage, apply on board, or to my partner, but not to me, since i do not take charge of the comet until she is under way. it is necessary, at a time like this, that my mind should not be burdened with small business details. mark twain. running for governor--[written about .] a few months ago i was nominated for governor of the great state of new york, to run against mr. john t. smith and mr. blank j. blank on an independent ticket. i somehow felt that i had one prominent advantage over these gentlemen, and that was--good character. it was easy to see by the newspapers that if ever they had known what it was to bear a good name, that time had gone by. it was plain that in these latter years they had become familiar with all manner of shameful crimes. but at the very moment that i was exalting my advantage and joying in it in secret, there was a muddy undercurrent of discomfort "riling" the deeps of my happiness, and that was--the having to hear my name bandied about in familiar connection with those of such people. i grew more and more disturbed. finally i wrote my grandmother about it. her answer came quick and sharp. she said: you have never done one single thing in all your life to be ashamed of--not one. look at the newspapers--look at them and comprehend what sort of characters messrs. smith and blank are, and then see if you are willing to lower yourself to their level and enter a public canvass with them. it was my very thought! i did not sleep a single moment that night. but, after all, i could not recede. i was fully committed, and must go on with the fight. as i was looking listlessly over the papers at breakfast i came across this paragraph, and i may truly say i never was so confounded before. perjury.--perhaps, now that mr. mark twain is before the people as a candidate for governor, he will condescend to explain how he came to be convicted of perjury by thirty-four witnesses in wakawak, cochin china, in , the intent of which perjury being to rob a poor native widow and her helpless family of a meager plantain-patch, their only stay and support in their bereavement and desolation. mr. twain owes it to himself, as well as to the great people whose suffrages he asks, to clear this matter up. will he do it? i thought i should burst with amazement! such a cruel, heartless charge! i never had seen cochin china! i never had heard of wakawak! i didn't know a plantain-patch from a kangaroo! i did not know what to do. i was crazed and helpless. i let the day slip away without doing anything at all. the next morning the same paper had this--nothing more: significant.--mr. twain, it will be observed, is suggestively silent about the cochin china perjury. [mem.--during the rest of the campaign this paper never referred to me in any other way than as "the infamous perjurer twain."] next came the gazette, with this: wanted to know.--will the new candidate for governor deign to explain to certain of his fellow-citizens (who are suffering to vote for him!) the little circumstance of his cabin-mates in montana losing small valuables from time to time, until at last, these things having been invariably found on mr. twain's person or in his "trunk" (newspaper he rolled his traps in), they felt compelled to give him a friendly admonition for his own good, and so tarred and feathered him, and rode him on a rail; and then advised him to leave a permanent vacuum in the place he usually occupied in the camp. will he do this? could anything be more deliberately malicious than that? for i never was in montana in my life. [after this, this journal customarily spoke of me as, "twain, the montana thief."] i got to picking up papers apprehensively--much as one would lift a desired blanket which he had some idea might have a rattlesnake under it. one day this met my eye: the lie nailed.--by the sworn affidavits of michael o'flanagan, esq., of the five points, and mr. snub rafferty and mr. catty mulligan, of water street, it is established that mr. mark twain's vile statement that the lamented grandfather of our noble standard-bearer, blank j. blank, was hanged for highway robbery, is a brutal and gratuitous lie, without a shadow of foundation in fact. it is disheartening to virtuous men to see such shameful means resorted to to achieve political success as the attacking of the dead in their graves, and defiling their honored names with slander. when we think of the anguish this miserable falsehood must cause the innocent relatives and friends of the deceased, we are almost driven to incite an outraged and insulted public to summary and unlawful vengeance upon the traducer. but no! let us leave him to the agony of a lacerated conscience (though if passion should get the better of the public, and in its blind fury they should do the traducer bodily injury, it is but too obvious that no jury could convict and no court punish the perpetrators of the deed). the ingenious closing sentence had the effect of moving me out of bed with despatch that night, and out at the back door also, while the "outraged and insulted public" surged in the front way, breaking furniture and windows in their righteous indignation as they came, and taking off such property as they could carry when they went. and yet i can lay my hand upon the book and say that i never slandered mr. blank's grandfather. more: i had never even heard of him or mentioned him up to that day and date. [i will state, in passing, that the journal above quoted from always referred to me afterward as "twain, the body-snatcher."] the next newspaper article that attracted my attention was the following: a sweet candidate.--mr. mark twain, who was to make such a blighting speech at the mass-meeting of the independents last night, didn't come to time! a telegram from his physician stated that he had been knocked down by a runaway team, and his leg broken in two places--sufferer lying in great agony, and so forth, and so forth, and a lot more bosh of the same sort. and the independents tried hard to swallow the wretched subterfuge, and pretend that they did not know what was the real reason of the absence of the abandoned creature whom they denominate their standard-bearer. a certain man was seen to reel into mr. twain's hotel last night in a state of beastly intoxication. it is the imperative duty of the independents to prove that this besotted brute was not mark twain himself. we have them at last! this is a case that admits of no shirking. the voice of the people demands in thunder tones, "who was that man?" it was incredible, absolutely incredible, for a moment, that it was really my name that was coupled with this disgraceful suspicion. three long years had passed over my head since i had tasted ale, beer, wine or liquor or any kind. [it shows what effect the times were having on me when i say that i saw myself, confidently dubbed "mr. delirium tremens twain" in the next issue of that journal without a pang--notwithstanding i knew that with monotonous fidelity the paper would go on calling me so to the very end.] by this time anonymous letters were getting to be an important part of my mail matter. this form was common: how about that old woman you kiked of your premises which was beging. pol. pry. and this: there is things which you have done which is unbeknowens to anybody but me. you better trot out a few dots, to yours truly, or you'll hear through the papers from handy andy. this is about the idea. i could continue them till the reader was surfeited, if desirable. shortly the principal republican journal "convicted" me of wholesale bribery, and the leading democratic paper "nailed" an aggravated case of blackmailing to me. [in this way i acquired two additional names: "twain the filthy corruptionist" and "twain the loathsome embracer."] by this time there had grown to be such a clamor for an "answer" to all the dreadful charges that were laid to me that the editors and leaders of my party said it would be political ruin for me to remain silent any longer. as if to make their appeal the more imperative, the following appeared in one of the papers the very next day: behold the man!--the independent candidate still maintains silence. because he dare not speak. every accusation against him has been amply proved, and they have been indorsed and reindorsed by his own eloquent silence, till at this day he stands forever convicted. look upon your candidate, independents! look upon the infamous perjurer! the montana thief! the body-snatcher! contemplate your incarnate delirium tremens! your filthy corruptionist! your loathsome embracer! gaze upon him--ponder him well--and then say if you can give your honest votes to a creature who has earned this dismal array of titles by his hideous crimes, and dares not open his mouth in denial of any one of them! there was no possible way of getting out of it, and so, in deep humiliation, i set about preparing to "answer" a mass of baseless charges and mean and wicked falsehoods. but i never finished the task, for the very next morning a paper came out with a new horror, a fresh malignity, and seriously charged me with burning a lunatic asylum with all its inmates, because it obstructed the view from my house. this threw me into a sort of panic. then came the charge of poisoning my uncle to get his property, with an imperative demand that the grave should be opened. this drove me to the verge of distraction. on top of this i was accused of employing toothless and incompetent old relatives to prepare the food for the foundling' hospital when i warden. i was wavering--wavering. and at last, as a due and fitting climax to the shameless persecution that party rancor had inflicted upon me, nine little toddling children, of all shades of color and degrees of raggedness, were taught to rush onto the platform at a public meeting, and clasp me around the legs and call me pa! i gave it up. i hauled down my colors and surrendered. i was not equal to the requirements of a gubernatorial campaign in the state of new york, and so i sent in my withdrawal from the candidacy, and in bitterness of spirit signed it, "truly yours, once a decent man, but now "mark twain, lp., m.t., b.s., d.t., f.c., and l.e." a mysterious visit the first notice that was taken of me when i "settled down" recently was by a gentleman who said he was an assessor, and connected with the u. s. internal revenue department. i said i had never heard of his branch of business before, but i was very glad to see him all the same. would he sit down? he sat down. i did not know anything particular to say, and yet i felt that people who have arrived at the dignity of keeping house must be conversational, must be easy and sociable in company. so, in default of anything else to say, i asked him if he was opening his shop in our neighborhood. he said he was. [i did not wish to appear ignorant, but i had hoped he would mention what he had for sale.] i ventured to ask him "how was trade?" and he said "so-so." i then said we would drop in, and if we liked his house as well as any other, we would give him our custom. he said he thought we would like his establishment well enough to confine ourselves to it--said he never saw anybody who would go off and hunt up another man in his line after trading with him once. that sounded pretty complacent, but barring that natural expression of villainy which we all have, the man looked honest enough. i do not know how it came about exactly, but gradually we appeared to melt down and run together, conversationally speaking, and then everything went along as comfortably as clockwork. we talked, and talked, and talked--at least i did; and we laughed, and laughed, and laughed--at least he did. but all the time i had my presence of mind about me--i had my native shrewdness turned on "full head," as the engineers say. i was determined to find out all about his business in spite of his obscure answers--and i was determined i would have it out of him without his suspecting what i was at. i meant to trap him with a deep, deep ruse. i would tell him all about my own business, and he would naturally so warm to me during this seductive burst of confidence that he would forget himself, and tell me all about his affairs before he suspected what i was about. i thought to myself, my son, you little know what an old fox you are dealing with. i said: "now you never would guess what i made lecturing this winter and last spring?" "no--don't believe i could, to save me. let me see--let me see. about two thousand dollars, maybe? but no; no, sir, i know you couldn't have made that much. say seventeen hundred, maybe?" "ha! ha! i knew you couldn't. my lecturing receipts for last spring and this winter were fourteen thousand seven hundred and fifty dollars. what do you think of that?" "why, it is amazing-perfectly amazing. i will make a note of it. and you say even this wasn't all?" "all! why bless you, there was my income from the daily warwhoop for four months--about--about--well, what should you say to about eight thousand dollars, for instance?" "say! why, i should say i should like to see myself rolling in just such another ocean of affluence. eight thousand! i'll make a note of it. why man!--and on top of all this am i to understand that you had still more income?" "ha! ha! ha! why, you're only in the suburbs of it, so to speak. there's my book, the innocents abroad price $ . to $ , according to the binding. listen to me. look me in the eye. during the last four months and a half, saying nothing of sales before that, but just simply during the four months and a half, we've sold ninety-five thousand copies of that book. ninety-five thousand! think of it. average four dollars a copy, say. it's nearly four hundred thousand dollars, my son. i get half." "the suffering moses! i'll set that down. fourteen-seven-fifty --eight--two hundred. total, say--well, upon my word, the grand total is about two hundred and thirteen or fourteen thousand dollars! is that possible?" "possible! if there's any mistake it's the other way. two hundred and fourteen thousand, cash, is my income for this year if i know how to cipher." then the gentleman got up to go. it came over me most uncomfortably that maybe i had made my revelations for nothing, besides being flattered into stretching them considerably by the stranger's astonished exclamations. but no; at the last moment the gentleman handed me a large envelope, and said it contained his advertisement; and that i would find out all about his business in it; and that he would be happy to have my custom-would, in fact, be proud to have the custom of a man of such prodigious income; and that he used to think there were several wealthy men in the city, but when they came to trade with him he discovered that they barely had enough to live on; and that, in truth, it had been such a weary, weary age since he had seen a rich man face to face, and talked to him, and touched him with his hands, that he could hardly refrain from embracing me--in fact, would esteem it a great favor if i would let him embrace me. this so pleased me that i did not try to resist, but allowed this simple-hearted stranger to throw his arms about me and weep a few tranquilizing tears down the back of my neck. then he went his way. as soon as he was gone i opened his advertisement. i studied it attentively for four minutes. i then called up the cook, and said: "hold me while i faint! let marie turn the griddle-cakes." by and by, when i came to, i sent down to the rum-mill on the corner and hired an artist by the week to sit up nights and curse that stranger, and give me a lift occasionally in the daytime when i came to a hard place. ah, what a miscreant he was! his "advertisement" was nothing in the world but a wicked tax-return--a string of impertinent questions about my private affairs, occupying the best part of four fools-cap pages of fine print-questions, i may remark, gotten up with such marvelous ingenuity that the oldest man in the world couldn't understand what the most of them were driving at--questions, too, that were calculated to make a man report about four times his actual income to keep from swearing to a falsehood. i looked for a loophole, but there did not appear to be any. inquiry no. covered my case as generously and as amply as an umbrella could cover an ant-hill: what were your profits, during the past year, from any trade, business, or vocation, wherever carried on? and that inquiry was backed up by thirteen others of an equally searching nature, the most modest of which required information as to whether i had committed any burglary or highway robbery, or, by any arson or other secret source of emolument had acquired property which was not enumerated in my statement of income as set opposite to inquiry no. . it was plain that that stranger had enabled me to make a goose of myself. it was very, very plain; and so i went out and hired another artist. by working on my vanity, the stranger had seduced me into declaring an income of two hundred and fourteen thousand dollars. by law, one thousand dollars of this was exempt from income tax--the only relief i could see, and it was only a drop in the ocean. at the legal five per cent., i must pay to the government the sum of ten thousand six hundred and fifty dollars, income tax! [i may remark, in this place, that i did not do it.] i am acquainted with a very opulent man, whose house is a palace, whose table is regal, whose outlays are enormous, yet a man who has no income, as i have often noticed by the revenue returns; and to him i went for advice in my distress. he took my dreadful exhibition of receipts, he put on his glasses, he took his pen, and presto!--i was a pauper! it was the neatest thing that ever was. he did it simply by deftly manipulating the bill of "deductions." he set down my "state, national, and municipal taxes" at so much; my "losses by shipwreck; fire, etc.," at so much; my "losses on sales of real estate"--on "live stock sold"--on "payments for rent of homestead"--on "repairs, improvements, interest"--on "previously taxed salary as an officer of the united states army, navy, revenue service," and other things. he got astonishing "deductions" out of each and every one of these matters--each and every one of them. and when he was done he handed me the paper, and i saw at a glance that during the year my income, in the way of profits, had been one thousand two hundred and fifty dollars and forty cents. "now," said he, "the thousand dollars is exempt by law. what you want to do is to go and swear this document in and pay tax on the two hundred and fifty dollars." [while he was making this speech his little boy willie lifted a two-dollar greenback out of his vest pocket and vanished with it, and i would wager; anything that if my stranger were to call on that little boy to-morrow he would make a false return of his income.] "do you," said i, "do you always work up the 'deductions' after this fashion in your own case, sir?" "well, i should say so! if it weren't for those eleven saving clauses under the head of 'deductions' i should be beggared every year to support this hateful and wicked, this extortionate and tyrannical government." this gentleman stands away up among the very best of the solid men of the city--the men of moral weight, of commercial integrity, of unimpeachable, social spotlessness--and so i bowed to his example. i went down to the revenue office, and under the accusing eyes of my old visitor i stood up and swore to lie after lie, fraud after fraud, villainy after villainy, till my soul was coated inches and inches thick with perjury, and my self-respect gone for ever and ever. but what of it? it is nothing more than thousands of the richest and proudest, and most respected, honored, and courted men in america do every year. and so i don't care. i am not ashamed. i shall simply, for the present, talk little and eschew fire-proof gloves, lest i fall into certain dreadful habits irrevocably. sketches new and old by mark twain part . the undertaker's chat "now that corpse," said the undertaker, patting the folded hands of deceased approvingly, was a brick-every way you took him he was a brick. he was so real accommodating, and so modest-like and simple in his last moments. friends wanted metallic burial-case--nothing else would do. i couldn't get it. there warn't going to be time--anybody could see that. "corpse said never mind, shake him up some kind of a box he could stretch out in comfortable, he warn't particular 'bout the general style of it. said he went more on room than style, anyway in a last final container. "friends wanted a silver door-plate on the coffin, signifying who he was and wher' he was from. now you know a fellow couldn't roust out such a gaily thing as that in a little country-town like this. what did corpse say? "corpse said, whitewash his old canoe and dob his address and general destination onto it with a blacking-brush and a stencil-plate, 'long with a verse from some likely hymn or other, and pint him for the tomb, and mark him c. o. d., and just let him flicker. he warn't distressed any more than you be--on the contrary, just as ca,'m and collected as a hearse-horse; said he judged that wher' he was going to a body would find it considerable better to attract attention by a picturesque moral character than a natty burial-case with a swell door-plate on it. "splendid man, he was. i'd druther do for a corpse like that 'n any i've tackled in seven year. there's some satisfaction in buryin' a man like that. you feel that what you're doing is appreciated. lord bless you, so's he got planted before he sp'iled, he was perfectly satisfied; said his relations meant well, perfectly well, but all them preparations was bound to delay the thing more or less, and he didn't wish to be kept layin' around. you never see such a clear head as what he had--and so ca,'m and so cool. jist a hunk of brains--that is what he was. perfectly awful. it was a ripping distance from one end of that man's head to t'other. often and over again he's had brain-fever a-raging in one place, and the rest of the pile didn't know anything about it--didn't affect it any more than an injun insurrection in arizona affects the atlantic states. "well, the relations they wanted a big funeral, but corpse said he was down on flummery--didn,'t want any procession--fill the hearse full of mourners, and get out a stern line and tow him behind. he was the most down on style of any remains i ever struck. a beautiful, simpleminded creature it was what he was, you can depend on that. he was just set on having things the way he wanted them, and he took a solid comfort in laying his little plans. he had me measure him and take a whole raft of directions; then he had the minister stand up behind along box with a table--cloth over it, to represent the coffin, and read his funeral sermon, saying 'angcore, angcore!' at the good places, and making him scratch out every bit of brag about him, and all the hifalutin; and then he made them trot out the choir, so's he could help them pick out the tunes for the occasion, and he got them to sing 'pop goes the weasel,' because he'd always liked that tune when he was downhearted, and solemn music made him sad; and when they sung that with tears in their eyes (because they all loved him), and his relations grieving around, he just laid there as happy as a bug, and trying to beat time and showing all over how much he enjoyed it; and presently he got worked up and excited, and tried to join in, for, mind you, he was pretty proud of his abilities in the singing line; but the first time he opened his mouth and was just going to spread himself his breath took a walk. "i never see a man snuffed out so sudden. ah, it was a great loss--a, powerful loss to this poor little one-horse town. well, well, well, i hain't got time to be palavering along here--got to nail on the lid and mosey along with him; and if you'll just give me a lift we'll skeet him into the hearse and meander along. relations bound to have it so--don't pay no attention to dying injunctions, minute a corpse's gone; but, if i had my way, if i didn't respect his last wishes and tow him behind the hearse i'll be cuss'd. i consider that whatever a corpse wants done for his comfort is little enough matter, and a man hain't got no right to deceive him or take advantage of him; and whatever a corpse trusts me to do i'm a-going to do, you know, even if it's to stuff him and paint him yaller and keep him for a keepsake--you hear me!" he cracked his whip and went lumbering away with his ancient ruin of a hearse, and i continued my walk with a valuable lesson learned--that a healthy and wholesome cheerfulness is not necessarily impossible to any occupation. the lesson is likely to be lasting, for it will take many months to obliterate the memory of the remarks and circumstances that impressed it. concerning chambermaids against all chambermaids, of whatsoever age or nationality, i launch the curse of bachelordom! because: they always put the pillows at the opposite end of the bed from the gas-burner, so that while you read and smoke before sleeping (as is the ancient and honored custom of bachelors), you have to hold your book aloft, in an uncomfortable position, to keep the light from dazzling your eyes. when they find the pillows removed to the other end of the bed in the morning, they receive not the suggestion in a friendly spirit; but, glorying in their absolute sovereignty, and unpitying your helplessness, they make the bed just as it was originally, and gloat in secret over the pang their tyranny will cause you. always after that, when they find you have transposed the pillows, they undo your work, and thus defy and seek to embitter the life that god has given you. if they cannot get the light in an inconvenient position any other way, they move the bed. if you pull your trunk out six inches from the wall, so that the lid will stay up when you open it, they always shove that trunk back again. they do it on purpose. if you want the spittoon in a certain spot, where it will be handy, they don't, and so they move it. they always put your other boots into inaccessible places. they chiefly enjoy depositing them as far under the bed as the wall will permit. it is because this compels you to get down in an undignified attitude and make wild sweeps for them in the dark with the bootjack, and swear. they always put the matchbox in some other place. they hunt up a new place for it every day, and put up a bottle, or other perishable glass thing, where the box stood before. this is to cause you to break that glass thing, groping in the dark, and get yourself into trouble. they are for ever and ever moving the furniture. when you come in in the night you can calculate on finding the bureau where the wardrobe was in the morning. and when you go out in the morning, if you leave the slop-bucket by the door and rocking-chair by the window, when you come in at midnight or thereabout, you will fall over that rocking-chair, and you will proceed toward the window and sit down in that slop-tub. this will disgust you. they like that. no matter where you put anything, they are not going to let it stay there. they will take it and move it the first chance they get. it is their nature. and, besides, it gives them pleasure to be mean and contrary this way. they would die if they couldn't be villains. they always save up all the old scraps of printed rubbish you throw on the floor, and stack them up carefully on the table, and start the fire with your valuable manuscripts. if there is any one particular old scrap that you are more down on than any other, and which you are gradually wearing your life out trying to get rid of, you may take all the pains you possibly can in that direction, but it won't be of any use, because they will always fetch that old scrap back and put it in the same old place again every time. it does them good. and they use up more hair-oil than any six men. if charged with purloining the same, they lie about it. what do they care about a hereafter? absolutely nothing. if you leave the key in the door for convenience' sake, they will carry it down to the office and give it to the clerk. they do this under the vile pretense of trying to protect your property from thieves; but actually they do it because they want to make you tramp back down-stairs after it when you come home tired, or put you to the trouble of sending a waiter for it, which waiter will expect you to pay him something. in which case i suppose the degraded creatures divide. they keep always trying to make your bed before you get up, thus destroying your rest and inflicting agony upon you; but after you get up, they don't come any more till next day. they do all the mean things they can think of, and they do them just out of pure cussedness, and nothing else. chambermaids are dead to every human instinct. if i can get a bill through the legislature abolishing chambermaids, i mean to do it. aurelia's unfortunate young man--[written about .] the facts in the following case came to me by letter from a young lady who lives in the beautiful city of san jose; she is perfectly unknown to me, and simply signs herself "aurelia maria," which may possibly be a fictitious name. but no matter, the poor girl is almost heartbroken by the misfortunes she has undergone, and so confused by the conflicting counsels of misguided friends and insidious enemies that she does not know what course to pursue in order to extricate herself from the web of difficulties in which she seems almost hopelessly involved. in this dilemma she turns to me for help, and supplicates for my guidance and instruction with a moving eloquence that would touch the heart of a statue. hear her sad story: she says that when she was sixteen years old she met and loved, with all the devotion of a passionate nature, a young man from new jersey, named williamson breckinridge caruthers, who was some six years her senior. they were engaged, with the free consent of their friends and relatives, and for a time it seemed as if their career was destined to, be characterized by an immunity from sorrow beyond the usual lot of humanity. but at last the tide of fortune turned; young caruthers became infect with smallpox of the most virulent type, and when he recovered from his illness his face was pitted like a waffle-mold, and his comeliness gone forever. aurelia thought to break off the engagement at first, but pity for her unfortunate lover caused her to postpone the marriage-day for a season, and give him another trial. the very day before the wedding was to have taken place, breckinridge, while absorbed in watching the flight of a balloon, walked into a well and fractured one of his legs, and it had to be taken off above the knee. again aurelia was moved to break the engagement, but again love triumphed, and she set the day forward and gave him another chance to reform. and again misfortune overtook the unhappy youth. he lost one arm by the premature discharge of a fourth of july cannon, and within three months he got the other pulled out by a carding-machine. aurelia's heart was almost crushed by these latter calamities. she could not but be deeply grieved to see her lover passing from her by piecemeal, feeling, as she did, that he could not last forever under this disastrous process of reduction, yet knowing of no way to stop its dreadful career, and in her tearful despair she almost regretted, like brokers who hold on and lose, that she had not taken him at first, before he had suffered such an alarming depreciation. still, her brave soul bore her up, and she resolved to bear with her friend's unnatural disposition yet a little longer. again the wedding-day approached, and again disappointment overshadowed it; caruthers fell ill with the erysipelas, and lost the use of one of his eyes entirely. the friends and relatives of the bride, considering that she had already put up with more than could reasonably be expected of her, now came forward and insisted that the match should be broken off; but after wavering awhile, aurelia, with a generous spirit which did her credit, said she had reflected calmly upon the matter, and could not discover that breckinridge was to blame. so she extended the time once more, and he broke his other leg. it was a sad day for the poor girl when, she saw the surgeons reverently bearing away the sack whose uses she had learned by previous experience, and her heart told her the bitter truth that some more of her lover was gone. she felt that the field of her affections was growing more and more circumscribed every day, but once more she frowned down her relatives and renewed her betrothal. shortly before the time set for the nuptials another disaster occurred. there was but one man scalped by the owens river indians last year. that man was williamson breckinridge caruthers of new jersey. he was hurrying home with happiness in his heart, when he lost his hair forever, and in that hour of bitterness he almost cursed the mistaken mercy that had spared his head. at last aurelia is in serious perplexity as to what she ought to do. she still loves her breckinridge, she writes, with truly womanly feeling--she still loves what is left of him but her parents are bitterly opposed to the match, because he has no property and is disabled from working, and she has not sufficient means to support both comfortably. "now, what should she do?" she asked with painful and anxious solicitude. it is a delicate question; it is one which involves the lifelong happiness of a woman, and that of nearly two-thirds of a man, and i feel that it would be assuming too great a responsibility to do more than make a mere suggestion in the case. how would it do to build to him? if aurelia can afford the expense, let her furnish her mutilated lover with wooden arms and wooden legs, and a glass eye and a wig, and give him another show; give him ninety days, without grace, and if he does not break his neck in the mean time, marry him and take the chances. it does not seem to me that there is much risk, anyway, aurelia, because if he sticks to his singular propensity for damaging himself every time he sees a good opportunity, his next experiment is bound to finish him, and then you are safe, married or single. if married, the wooden legs and such other valuables as he may possess revert to the widow, and you see you sustain no actual loss save the cherished fragment of a noble but most unfortunate husband, who honestly strove to do right, but whose extraordinary instincts were against him. try it, maria. i have thought the matter over carefully and well, and it is the only chance i see for you. it would have been a happy conceit on the part of caruthers if he had started with his neck and broken that first; but since he has seen fit to choose a different policy and string himself out as long as possible, i do not think we ought to upbraid him for it if he has enjoyed it. we must do the best we can under the circumstances, and try not to feel exasperated at him. "after" jenkins a grand affair of a ball--the pioneers'--came off at the occidental some time ago. the following notes of the costumes worn by the belles of the occasion may not be uninteresting to the general reader, and jerkins may get an idea therefrom: mrs. w. m. was attired in an elegant 'pate de foie gras,' made expressly for her, and was greatly admired. miss s. had her hair done up. she was the center of attraction for the envy of all the ladies. mrs. g. w. was tastefully dressed in a 'tout ensemble,' and was greeted with deafening applause wherever she went. mrs. c. n. was superbly arrayed in white kid gloves. her modest and engaging manner accorded well with the unpretending simplicity of her costume and caused her to be regarded with absorbing interest by every one. the charming miss m. m. b. appeared in a thrilling waterfall, whose exceeding grace and volume compelled the homage of pioneers and emigrants alike. how beautiful she was! the queenly mrs. l. r. was attractively attired in her new and beautiful false teeth, and the 'bon jour' effect they naturally produced was heightened by her enchanting and well-sustained smile. miss r. p., with that repugnance to ostentation in dress which is so peculiar to her, was attired in a simple white lace collar, fastened with a neat pearl-button solitaire. the fine contrast between the sparkling vivacity of her natural optic, and the steadfast attentiveness of her placid glass eye, was the subject of general and enthusiastic remark. miss c. l. b. had her fine nose elegantly enameled, and the easy grace with which she blew it from time to time marked her as a cultivated and accomplished woman of the world; its exquisitely modulated tone excited the admiration of all who had the happiness to hear it. about barbers all things change except barbers, the ways of barbers, and the surroundings of barbers. these never change. what one experiences in a barber's shop the first time he enters one is what he always experiences in barbers' shops afterward till the end of his days. i got shaved this morning as usual. a man approached the door from jones street as i approached it from main--a thing that always happens. i hurried up, but it was of no use; he entered the door one little step ahead of me, and i followed in on his heels and saw him take the only vacant chair, the one presided over by the best barber. it always happens so. i sat down, hoping that i might fall heir to the chair belonging to the better of the remaining two barbers, for he had already begun combing his man's hair, while his comrade was not yet quite done rubbing up and oiling his customer's locks. i watched the probabilities with strong interest. when i saw that no. was gaining on no. my interest grew to solicitude. when no. stopped a moment to make change on a bath ticket for a new-comer, and lost ground in the race, my solicitude rose to anxiety. when no. caught up again, and both he and his comrade were pulling the towels away and brushing the powder from their customers' cheeks, and it was about an even thing which one would say "next!" first, my very breath stood still with the suspense. but when at the culminating moment no. stopped to pass a comb a couple of times through his customer's eyebrows, i saw that he had lost the race by a single instant, and i rose indignant and quitted the shop, to keep from falling into the hands of no. ; for i have none of that enviable firmness that enables a man to look calmly into the eyes of a waiting barber and tell him he will wait for his fellow-barber's chair. i stayed out fifteen minutes, and then went back, hoping for better luck. of course all the chairs were occupied now, and four men sat waiting, silent, unsociable, distraught, and looking bored, as men always do who are waiting their turn in a barber's shop. i sat down in one of the iron-armed compartments of an old sofa, and put in the time far a while reading the framed advertisements of all sorts of quack nostrums for dyeing and coloring the hair. then i read the greasy names on the private bayrum bottles; read the names and noted the numbers on the private shaving-cups in the pigeonholes; studied the stained and damaged cheap prints on the walls, of battles, early presidents, and voluptuous recumbent sultanas, and the tiresome and everlasting young girl putting her grandfather's spectacles on; execrated in my heart the cheerful canary and the distracting parrot that few barbers' shops are without. finally, i searched out the least dilapidated of last year's illustrated papers that littered the foul center-table, and conned their unjustifiable misrepresentations of old forgotten events. at last my turn came. a voice said "next!" and i surrendered to--no. , of course. it always happens so. i said meekly that i was in a hurry, and it affected him as strongly as if he had never heard it. he shoved up my head, and put a napkin under it. he plowed his fingers into my collar and fixed a towel there. he explored my hair with his claws and suggested that it needed trimming. i said i did not want it trimmed. he explored again and said it was pretty long for the present style--better have a little taken off; it needed it behind especially. i said i had had it cut only a week before. he yearned over it reflectively a moment, and then asked with a disparaging manner, who cut it? i came back at him promptly with a "you did!" i had him there. then he fell to stirring up his lather and regarding himself in the glass, stopping now and then to get close and examine his chin critically or inspect a pimple. then he lathered one side of my face thoroughly, and was about to lather the other, when a dog-fight attracted his attention, and he ran to the window and stayed and saw it out, losing two shillings on the result in bets with the other barbers, a thing which gave me great satisfaction. he finished lathering, and then began to rub in the suds with his hand. he now began to sharpen his razor on an old suspender, and was delayed a good deal on account of a controversy about a cheap masquerade ball he had figured at the night before, in red cambric and bogus ermine, as some kind of a king. he was so gratified with being chaffed about some damsel whom he had smitten with his charms that he used every means to continue the controversy by pretending to be annoyed at the chaffings of his fellows. this matter begot more surveyings of himself in the glass, and he put down his razor and brushed his hair with elaborate care, plastering an inverted arch of it down on his forehead, accomplishing an accurate "part" behind, and brushing the two wings forward over his ears with nice exactness. in the mean time the lather was drying on my face, and apparently eating into my vitals. now he began to shave, digging his fingers into my countenance to stretch the skin and bundling and tumbling my head this way and that as convenience in shaving demanded. as long as he was on the tough sides of my face i did not suffer; but when he began to rake, and rip, and tug at my chin, the tears came. he now made a handle of my nose, to assist him shaving the corners of my upper lip, and it was by this bit of circumstantial evidence that i discovered that a part of his duties in the shop was to clean the kerosene-lamps. i had often wondered in an indolent way whether the barbers did that, or whether it was the boss. about this time i was amusing myself trying to guess where he would be most likely to cut me this time, but he got ahead of me, and sliced me on the end of the chin before i had got my mind made up. he immediately sharpened his razor--he might have done it before. i do not like a close shave, and would not let him go over me a second time. i tried to get him to put up his razor, dreading that he would make for the side of my chin, my pet tender spot, a place which a razor cannot touch twice without making trouble; but he said he only wanted to just smooth off one little roughness, and in the same moment he slipped his razor along the forbidden ground, and the dreaded pimple-signs of a close shave rose up smarting and answered to the call. now he soaked his towel in bay rum, and slapped it all over my face nastily; slapped it over as if a human being ever yet washed his face in that way. then he dried it by slapping with the dry part of the towel, as if a human being ever dried his face in such a fashion; but a barber seldom rubs you like a christian. next he poked bay ruin into the cut place with his towel, then choked the wound with powdered starch, then soaked it with bay rum again, and would have gone on soaking and powdering it forevermore, no doubt, if i had not rebelled and begged off. he powdered my whole face now, straightened me up, and began to plow my hair thoughtfully with his hands. then he suggested a shampoo, and said my hair needed it badly, very badly. i observed that i shampooed it myself very thoroughly in the bath yesterday. i "had him" again. he next recommended some of "smith's hair glorifier," and offered to sell me a bottle. i declined. he praised the new perfume, "jones's delight of the toilet," and proposed to sell me some of that. i declined again. he tendered me a tooth-wash atrocity of his own invention, and when i declined offered to trade knives with me. he returned to business after the miscarriage of this last enterprise, sprinkled me all over, legs and all, greased my hair in defiance of my protest against it, rubbed and scrubbed a good deal of it out by the roots, and combed and brushed the rest, parting it behind, and plastering the eternal inverted arch of hair down on my forehead, and then, while combing my scant eyebrows and defiling them with pomade, strung out an account of the achievements of a six-ounce black-and-tan terrier of his till i heard the whistles blow for noon, and knew i was five minutes too late for the train. then he snatched away the towel, brushed it lightly about my face, passed his comb through my eyebrows once more, and gaily sang out "next!" this barber fell down and died of apoplexy two hours later. i am waiting over a day for my revenge--i am going to attend his funeral. "party cries" in ireland belfast is a peculiarly religious community. this may be said of the whole of the north of ireland. about one-half of the people are protestants and the other half catholics. each party does all it can to make its own doctrines popular and draw the affections of the irreligious toward them. one hears constantly of the most touching instances of this zeal. a week ago a vast concourse of catholics assembled at armagh to dedicate a new cathedral; and when they started home again the roadways were lined with groups of meek and lowly protestants who stoned them till all the region round about was marked with blood. i thought that only catholics argued in that way, but it seems to be a mistake. every man in the community is a missionary and carries a brick to admonish the erring with. the law has tried to break this up, but not with perfect success. it has decreed that irritating "party cries" shall not be indulged in, and that persons uttering them shall be fined forty shillings and costs. and so, in the police court reports every day, one sees these fines recorded. last week a girl of twelve years old was fined the usual forty shillings and costs for proclaiming in the public streets that she was "a protestant." the usual cry is, "to hell with the pope!" or "to hell with the protestants!" according to the utterer's system of salvation. one of belfast's local jokes was very good. it referred to the uniform and inevitable fine of forty shillings and costs for uttering a party cry--and it is no economical fine for a poor man, either, by the way. they say that a policeman found a drunken man lying on the ground, up a dark alley, entertaining himself with shouting, "to hell with!" "to hell with!" the officer smelt a fine--informers get half. "what's that you say?" "to hell with!" "to hell with who? to hell with what?" "ah, bedad, ye can finish it yourself--it's too expansive for me!" i think the seditious disposition, restrained by the economical instinct, is finely put in that. the facts concerning the recent resignation washington, december, . i have resigned. the government appears to go on much the same, but there is a spoke out of its wheel, nevertheless. i was clerk of the senate committee on conchology, and i have thrown up the position. i could see the plainest disposition on the part of the other members of the government to debar me from having any voice in the counsels of the nation, and so i could no longer hold office and retain my self-respect. if i were to detail all the outrages that were heaped upon me during the six days that i was connected with the government in an official capacity, the narrative would fill a volume. they appointed me clerk of that committee on conchology and then allowed me no amanuensis to play billiards with. i would have borne that, lonesome as it was, if i had met with that courtesy from the other members of the cabinet which was my due. but i did not. whenever i observed that the head of a department was pursuing a wrong course, i laid down everything and went and tried to set him right, as it was my duty to do; and i never was thanked for it in a single instance. i went, with the best intentions in the world, to the secretary of the navy, and said: "sir, i cannot see that admiral farragut is doing anything but skirmishing around there in europe, having a sort of picnic. now, that may be all very well, but it does not exhibit itself to me in that light. if there is no fighting for him to do, let him come home. there is no use in a man having a whole fleet for a pleasure excursion. it is too expensive. mind, i do not object to pleasure excursions for the naval officers--pleasure excursions that are in reason--pleasure excursions that are economical. now, they might go down the mississippi on a raft--" you ought to have heard him storm! one would have supposed i had committed a crime of some kind. but i didn't mind. i said it was cheap, and full of republican simplicity, and perfectly safe. i said that, for a tranquil pleasure excursion, there was nothing equal to a raft. then the secretary of the navy asked me who i was; and when i told him i was connected with the government, he wanted to know in what capacity. i said that, without remarking upon the singularity of such a question, coming, as it did, from a member of that same government, i would inform him that i was clerk of the senate committee on conchology. then there was a fine storm! he finished by ordering me to leave the premises, and give my attention strictly to my own business in future. my first impulse was to get him removed. however, that would harm others besides himself, and do me no real good, and so i let him stay. i went next to the secretary of war, who was not inclined to see me at all until he learned that i was connected with the government. if i had not been on important business, i suppose i could not have got in. i asked him for alight (he was smoking at the time), and then i told him i had no fault to find with his defending the parole stipulations of general lee and his comrades in arms, but that i could not approve of his method of fighting the indians on the plains. i said he fought too scattering. he ought to get the indians more together--get them together in some convenient place, where he could have provisions enough for both parties, and then have a general massacre. i said there was nothing so convincing to an indian as a general massacre. if he could not approve of the massacre, i said the next surest thing for an indian was soap and education. soap and education are not as sudden as a massacre, but they are more deadly in the long run; because a half-massacred indian may recover, but if you educate him and wash him, it is bound to finish him some time or other. it undermines his constitution; it strikes at the foundation of his being. "sir," i said, "the time has come when blood-curdling cruelty has become necessary. inflict soap and a spelling-book on every indian that ravages the plains, and let them die!" the secretary of war asked me if i was a member of the cabinet, and i said i was. he inquired what position i held, and i said i was clerk of the senate committee on conchology. i was then ordered under arrest for contempt of court, and restrained of my liberty for the best part of the day. i almost resolved to be silent thenceforward, and let the government get along the best way it could. but duty called, and i obeyed. i called on the secretary of the treasury. he said: "what will you have?" the question threw me off my guard. i said, "rum punch." he said: "if you have got any business here, sir, state it--and in as few words as possible." i then said that i was sorry he had seen fit to change the subject so abruptly, because such conduct was very offensive to me; but under the circumstances i would overlook the matter and come to the point. i now went into an earnest expostulation with him upon the extravagant length of his report. i said it was expensive, unnecessary, and awkwardly constructed; there were no descriptive passages in it, no poetry, no sentiment no heroes, no plot, no pictures--not even wood-cuts. nobody would read it, that was a clear case. i urged him not to ruin his reputation by getting out a thing like that. if he ever hoped to succeed in literature he must throw more variety into his writings. he must beware of dry detail. i said that the main popularity of the almanac was derived from its poetry and conundrums, and that a few conundrums distributed around through his treasury report would help the sale of it more than all the internal revenue he could put into it. i said these things in the kindest spirit, and yet the secretary of the treasury fell into a violent passion. he even said i was an ass. he abused me in the most vindictive manner, and said that if i came there again meddling with his business he would throw me out of the window. i said i would take my hat and go, if i could not be treated with the respect due to my office, and i did go. it was just like a new author. they always think they know more than anybody else when they are getting out their first book. nobody can tell them anything. during the whole time that i was connected with the government it seemed as if i could not do anything in an official capacity without getting myself into trouble. and yet i did nothing, attempted nothing, but what i conceived to be for the good of my country. the sting of my wrongs may have driven me to unjust and harmful conclusions, but it surely seemed to me that the secretary of state, the secretary of war, the secretary of the treasury, and others of my confreres had conspired from the very beginning to drive me from the administration. i never attended but one cabinet meeting while i was connected with the government. that was sufficient for me. the servant at the white house door did not seem disposed to make way for me until i asked if the other members of the cabinet had arrived. he said they had, and i entered. they were all there; but nobody offered me a seat. they stared at me as if i had been an intruder. the president said: "well, sir, who are you?" i handed him my card, and he read: "the hon. mark twain, clerk of the senate committee on conchology." then he looked at me from head to foot, as if he had never heard of me before. the secretary of the treasury said: "this is the meddlesome ass that came to recommend me to put poetry and conundrums in my report, as if it were an almanac." the secretary of war said: "it is the same visionary that came to me yesterday with a scheme to educate a portion of the indians to death, and massacre the balance." the secretary of the navy said: "i recognize this youth as the person who has been interfering with my business time and again during the week. he is distressed about admiral farragut's using a whole fleet for a pleasure excursion, as he terms it. his proposition about some insane pleasure excursion on a raft is too absurd to repeat." i said: "gentlemen, i perceive here a disposition to throw discredit upon every act of my official career; i perceive, also, a disposition to debar me from all voice in the counsels of the nation. no notice whatever was sent to me to-day. it was only by the merest chance that i learned that there was going to be a cabinet meeting. but let these things pass. all i wish to know is, is this a cabinet meeting or is it not?" the president said it was. "then," i said, "let us proceed to business at once, and not fritter away valuable time in unbecoming fault-findings with each other's official conduct." the secretary of state now spoke up, in his benignant way, and said, "young man, you are laboring under a mistake. the clerks of the congressional committees are not members of the cabinet. neither are the doorkeepers of the capitol, strange as it may seem. therefore, much as we could desire your more than human wisdom in our deliberations, we cannot lawfully avail ourselves of it. the counsels of the nation must proceed without you; if disaster follows, as follow full well it may, be it balm to your sorrowing spirit that by deed and voice you did what in you lay to avert it. you have my blessing. farewell." these gentle words soothed my troubled breast, and i went away. but the servants of a nation can know no peace. i had hardly reached my den in the capitol, and disposed my feet on the table like a representative, when one of the senators on the conchological committee came in in a passion and said: "where have you been all day?" i observed that, if that was anybody's affair but my own, i had been to a cabinet meeting. "to a cabinet meeting? i would like to know what business you had at a cabinet meeting?" i said i went there to consult--allowing for the sake of argument that he was in any wise concerned in the matter. he grew insolent then, and ended by saying he had wanted me for three days past to copy a report on bomb-shells, egg-shells, clamshells, and i don't know what all, connected with conchology, and nobody had been able to find me. this was too much. this was the feather that broke the clerical camel's back. i said, "sir, do you suppose that i am going to work for six dollars a day? if that is the idea, let me recommend the senate committee on conchology to hire somebody else. i am the slave of no faction! take back your degrading commission. give me liberty, or give me death!" from that hour i was no longer connected with the government. snubbed by the department, snubbed by the cabinet, snubbed at last by the chairman of a committee i was endeavoring to adorn, i yielded to persecution, cast far from me the perils and seductions of my great office, and forsook my bleeding country in the hour of her peril. but i had done the state some service, and i sent in my bill: the united states of america in account with the hon. clerk of the senate committee on conchology, dr. to consultation with secretary of war ............ $ to consultation with secretary of navy ........... $ to consultation with secretary of the treasury ... $ cabinet consultation ...................no charge. to mileage to and from jerusalem, via egypt, algiers, gibraltar, and cadiz, , miles, at c. a mile ............. $ , to salary as clerk of senate committee on conchology, six days, at $ per day ........... $ total .......................... $ , --[territorial delegates charge mileage both ways, although they never go back when they get here once. why my mileage is denied me is more than i can understand.] not an item of this bill has been paid, except that trifle of thirty-six dollars for clerkship salary. the secretary of the treasury, pursuing me to the last, drew his pen through all the other items, and simply marked in the margin "not allowed." so, the dread alternative is embraced at last. repudiation has begun! the nation is lost. i am done with official life for the present. let those clerks who are willing to be imposed on remain. i know numbers of them in the departments who are never informed when there is to be a cabinet meeting, whose advice is never asked about war, or finance, or commerce, by the heads of the nation, any more than if they were not connected with the government, and who actually stay in their offices day after day and work! they know their importance to the nation, and they unconsciously show it in their bearing, and the way they order their sustenance at the restaurant--but they work. i know one who has to paste all sorts of little scraps from the newspapers into a scrapbook--sometimes as many as eight or ten scraps a day. he doesn't do it well, but he does it as well as he can. it is very fatiguing. it is exhausting to the intellect. yet he only gets eighteen hundred dollars a year. with a brain like his, that young man could amass thousands and thousands of dollars in some other pursuit, if he chose to do it. but no--his heart is with his country, and he will serve her as long as she has got a scrapbook left. and i know clerks that don't know how to write very well, but such knowledge as they possess they nobly lay at the feet of their country, and toil on and suffer for twenty-five hundred dollars a year. what they write has to be written over again by other clerks sometimes; but when a man has done his best for his country, should his country complain? then there are clerks that have no clerkships, and are waiting, and waiting, and waiting for a vacancy--waiting patiently for a chance to help their country out--and while they, are waiting, they only get barely two thousand dollars a year for it. it is sad it is very, very sad. when a member of congress has a friend who is gifted, but has no employment wherein his great powers may be brought to bear, he confers him upon his country, and gives him a clerkship in a department. and there that man has to slave his life out, fighting documents for the benefit of a nation that never thinks of him, never sympathizes with him--and all for two thousand or three thousand dollars a year. when i shall have completed my list of all the clerks in the several departments, with my statement of what they have to do, and what they get for it, you will see that there are not half enough clerks, and that what there are do not get half enough pay. history repeats itself the following i find in a sandwich island paper which some friend has sent me from that tranquil far-off retreat. the coincidence between my own experience and that here set down by the late mr. benton is so remarkable that i cannot forbear publishing and commenting upon the paragraph. the sandwich island paper says: how touching is this tribute of the late hon. t. h. benton to his mother's influence:--'my mother asked me never to use tobacco; i have never touched it from that time to the present day. she asked me not to gamble, and i have never gambled. i cannot tell who is losing in games that are being played. she admonished me, too, against liquor-drinking, and whatever capacity for endurance i have at present, and whatever usefulness i may have attained through life, i attribute to having complied with her pious and correct wishes. when i was seven years of age she asked me not to drink, and then i made a resolution of total abstinence; and that i have adhered to it through all time i owe to my mother.' i never saw anything so curious. it is almost an exact epitome of my own moral career--after simply substituting a grandmother for a mother. how well i remember my grandmother's asking me not to use tobacco, good old soul! she said, "you're at it again, are you, you whelp? now don't ever let me catch you chewing tobacco before breakfast again, or i lay i'll blacksnake you within an inch of your life!" i have never touched it at that hour of the morning from that time to the present day. she asked me not to gamble. she whispered and said, "put up those wicked cards this minute!--two pair and a jack, you numskull, and the other fellow's got a flush!" i never have gambled from that day to this--never once--without a "cold deck" in my pocket. i cannot even tell who is going to lose in games that are being played unless i deal myself. when i was two years of age she asked me not to drink, and then i made a resolution of total abstinence. that i have adhered to it and enjoyed the beneficent effects of it through all time, i owe to my grandmother. i have never drunk a drop from that day to this of any kind of water. honored as a curiosity if you get into conversation with a stranger in honolulu, and experience that natural desire to know what sort of ground you are treading on by finding out what manner of man your stranger is, strike out boldly and address him as "captain." watch him narrowly, and if you see by his countenance that you are on the wrong track, ask him where he preaches. it is a safe bet that he is either a missionary or captain of a whaler. i became personally acquainted with seventy-two captains and ninety-six missionaries. the captains and ministers form one-half of the population; the third fourth is composed of common kanakas and mercantile foreigners and their families; and the final fourth is made up of high officers of the hawaiian government. and there are just about cats enough for three apiece all around. a solemn stranger met me in the suburbs one day, and said: "good morning, your reverence. preach in the stone church yonder, no doubt!" "no, i don't. i'm not a preacher." "really, i beg your pardon, captain. i trust you had a good season. how much oil--" "oil! why, what do you take me for? i'm not a whaler." "oh! i beg a thousand pardons, your excellency. major-general in the household troops, no doubt? minister of the interior, likely? secretary of war? first gentleman of the bedchamber? commissioner of the royal--" "stuff, man! i'm not connected in any way with the government." "bless my life! then who the mischief are you? what the mischief are you? and how the mischief did you get here? and where in thunder did you come from?" "i'm only a private personage--an unassuming stranger--lately arrived from america." "no! not a missionary! not a whaler! not a member of his majesty's government! not even a secretary of the navy! ah! heaven! it is too blissful to be true, alas! i do but dream. and yet that noble, honest countenance--those oblique, ingenuous eyes--that massive head, incapable of--of anything; your hand; give me your hand, bright waif. excuse these tears. for sixteen weary years i have yearned for a moment like this, and--" here his feelings were too much for him, and he swooned away. i pitied this poor creature from the bottom of my heart. i was deeply moved. i shed a few tears on him, and kissed him for his mother. i then took what small change he had, and "shoved." sketches new and old by mark twain part . the siamese twins--[written about .] i do not wish to write of the personal habits of these strange creatures solely, but also of certain curious details of various kinds concerning them, which, belonging only to their private life, have never crept into print. knowing the twins intimately, i feel that i am peculiarly well qualified for the task i have taken upon myself. the siamese twins are naturally tender and affectionate indisposition, and have clung to each other with singular fidelity throughout a long and eventful life. even as children they were inseparable companions; and it was noticed that they always seemed to prefer each other's society to that of any other persons. they nearly always played together; and, so accustomed was their mother to this peculiarity, that, whenever both of them chanced to be lost, she usually only hunted for one of them --satisfied that when she found that one she would find his brother somewhere in the immediate neighborhood. and yet these creatures were ignorant and unlettered-barbarians themselves and the offspring of barbarians, who knew not the light of philosophy and science. what a withering rebuke is this to our boasted civilization, with its quarrelings, its wranglings, and its separations of brothers! as men, the twins have not always lived in perfect accord; but still there has always been a bond between them which made them unwilling to go away from each other and dwell apart. they have even occupied the same house, as a general thing, and it is believed that they have never failed to even sleep together on any night since they were born. how surely do the habits of a lifetime become second nature to us! the twins always go to bed at the same time; but chang usually gets up about an hour before his brother. by an understanding between themselves, chang does all the indoor work and eng runs all the errands. this is because eng likes to go out; chang's habits are sedentary. however, chang always goes along. eng is a baptist, but chang is a roman catholic; still, to please his brother, chang consented to be baptized at the same time that eng was, on condition that it should not "count." during the war they were strong partisans, and both fought gallantly all through the great struggle--eng on the union side and chang on the confederate. they took each other prisoners at seven oaks, but the proofs of capture were so evenly balanced in favor of each, that a general army court had to be assembled to determine which one was properly the captor and which the captive. the jury was unable to agree for a long time; but the vexed question was finally decided by agreeing to consider them both prisoners, and then exchanging them. at one time chang was convicted of disobedience of orders, and sentenced to ten days in the guard-house, but eng, in spite of all arguments, felt obliged to share his imprisonment, notwithstanding he himself was entirely innocent; and so, to save the blameless brother from suffering, they had to discharge both from custody--the just reward of faithfulness. upon one occasion the brothers fell out about something, and chang knocked eng down, and then tripped and fell on him, whereupon both clinched and began to beat and gouge each other without mercy. the bystanders interfered, and tried to separate them, but they could not do it, and so allowed them to fight it out. in the end both were disabled, and were carried to the hospital on one and the same shutter. their ancient habit of going always together had its drawbacks when they reached man's estate, and entered upon the luxury of courting. both fell in love with the same girl. each tried to steal clandestine interviews with her, but at the critical moment the other would always turn up. by and by eng saw, with distraction, that chang had won the girl's affections; and, from that day forth, he had to bear with the agony of being a witness to all their dainty billing and cooing. but with a magnanimity that did him infinite credit, he succumbed to his fate, and gave countenance and encouragement to a state of things that bade fair to sunder his generous heart-strings. he sat from seven every evening until two in the morning, listening to the fond foolishness of the two lovers, and to the concussion of hundreds of squandered kisses--for the privilege of sharing only one of which he would have given his right hand. but he sat patiently, and waited, and gaped, and yawned, and stretched, and longed for two o'clock to come. and he took long walks with the lovers on moonlight evenings--sometimes traversing ten miles, notwithstanding he was usually suffering from rheumatism. he is an inveterate smoker; but he could not smoke on these occasions, because the young lady was painfully sensitive to the smell of tobacco. eng cordially wanted them married, and done with it; but although chang often asked the momentous question, the young lady could not gather sufficient courage to answer it while eng was by. however, on one occasion, after having walked some sixteen miles, and sat up till nearly daylight, eng dropped asleep, from sheer exhaustion, and then the question was asked and answered. the lovers were married. all acquainted with the circumstance applauded the noble brother-in-law. his unwavering faithfulness was the theme of every tongue. he had stayed by them all through their long and arduous courtship; and when at last they were married, he lifted his hands above their heads, and said with impressive unction, "bless ye, my children, i will never desert ye!" and he kept his word. fidelity like this is all too rare in this cold world. by and by eng fell in love with his sister-in-law's sister, and married her, and since that day they have all lived together, night and day, in an exceeding sociability which is touching and beautiful to behold, and is a scathing rebuke to our boasted civilization. the sympathy existing between these two brothers is so close and so refined that the feelings, the impulses, the emotions of the one are instantly experienced by the other. when one is sick, the other is sick; when one feels pain, the other feels it; when one is angered, the other's temper takes fire. we have already seen with what happy facility they both fell in love with the same girl. now chang is bitterly opposed to all forms of intemperance, on principle; but eng is the reverse--for, while these men's feelings and emotions are so closely wedded, their reasoning faculties are unfettered; their thoughts are free. chang belongs to the good templars, and is a hard--working, enthusiastic supporter of all temperance reforms. but, to his bitter distress, every now and then eng gets drunk, and, of course, that makes chang drunk too. this unfortunate thing has been a great sorrow to chang, for it almost destroys his usefulness in his favorite field of effort. as sure as he is to head a great temperance procession eng ranges up alongside of him, prompt to the minute, and drunk as a lord; but yet no more dismally and hopelessly drunk than his brother, who has not tasted a drop. and so the two begin to hoot and yell, and throw mud and bricks at the good templars; and, of course, they break up the procession. it would be manifestly wrong to punish chang for what eng does, and, therefore, the good templars accept the untoward situation, and suffer in silence and sorrow. they have officially and deliberately examined into the matter, and find chang blameless. they have taken the two brothers and filled chang full of warm water and sugar and eng full of whisky, and in twenty-five minutes it was not possible to tell which was the drunkest. both were as drunk as loons--and on hot whisky punches, by the smell of their breath. yet all the while chang's moral principles were unsullied, his conscience clear; and so all just men were forced to confess that he was not morally, but only physically, drunk. by every right and by every moral evidence the man was strictly sober; and, therefore, it caused his friends all the more anguish to see him shake hands with the pump and try to wind his watch with his night-key. there is a moral in these solemn warnings--or, at least, a warning in these solemn morals; one or the other. no matter, it is somehow. let us heed it; let us profit by it. i could say more of an instructive nature about these interesting beings, but let what i have written suffice. having forgotten to mention it sooner, i will remark in conclusion that the ages of the siamese twins are respectively fifty-one and fifty-three years. speech at the scottish banquet in london--[written about .] on the anniversary festival of the scottish corporation of london on monday evening, in response to the toast of "the ladies," mark twain replied. the following is his speech as reported in the london observer: i am proud, indeed, of the distinction of being chosen to respond to this especial toast, to 'the ladies,' or to women if you please, for that is the preferable term, perhaps; it is certainly the older, and therefore the more entitled to reverence [laughter.] i have noticed that the bible, with that plain, blunt honesty which is such a conspicuous characteristic of the scriptures, is always particular to never refer to even the illustrious mother of all mankind herself as a 'lady,' but speaks of her as a woman, [laughter.] it is odd, but you will find it is so. i am peculiarly proud of this honor, because i think that the toast to women is one which, by right and by every rule of gallantry, should take precedence of all others--of the army, of the navy, of even royalty itself perhaps, though the latter is not necessary in this day and in this land, for the reason that, tacitly, you do drink a broad general health to all good women when you drink the health of the queen of england and the princess of wales. [loud cheers.] i have in mind a poem just now which is familiar to you all, familiar to everybody. and what an inspiration that was (and how instantly the present toast recalls the verses to all our minds) when the most noble, the most gracious, the purest, and sweetest of all poets says: "woman! o woman!--er-- wom--" [laughter.] however, you remember the lines; and you remember how feelingly, how daintily, how almost imperceptibly the verses raise up before you, feature by feature, the ideal of a true and perfect woman; and how, as you contemplate the finished marvel, your homage grows into worship of the intellect that could create so fair a thing out of mere breath, mere words. and you call to mind now, as i speak, how the poet, with stern fidelity to the history of all humanity, delivers this beautiful child of his heart and his brain over to the trials and sorrows that must come to all, sooner or later, that abide in the earth, and how the pathetic story culminates in that apostrophe--so wild, so regretful, so full of mournful retrospection. the lines run thus: "alas!--alas!--a--alas! ----alas!--------alas!" --and so on. [laughter.] i do not remember the rest; but, taken together, it seems to me that poem is the noblest tribute to woman that human genius has ever brought forth--[laughter]--and i feel that if i were to talk hours i could not do my great theme completer or more graceful justice than i have now done in simply quoting that poet's matchless words. [renewed laughter.] the phases of the womanly nature are infinite in their variety. take any type of woman, and you shall find in it something to respect, something to admire, something to love. and you shall find the whole joining you heart and hand. who was more patriotic than joan of arc? who was braver? who has given us a grander instance of self-sacrificing devotion? ah! you remember, you remember well, what a throb of pain, what a great tidal wave of grief swept over us all when joan of arc fell at waterloo. [much laughter.] who does not sorrow for the loss of sappho, the sweet singer of israel? [laughter.] who among us does not miss the gentle ministrations, the softening influences, the humble piety of lucretia borgia? [laughter.] who can join in the heartless libel that says woman is extravagant in dress when he can look back and call to mind our simple and lowly mother eve arrayed in her modification of the highland costume. [roars of laughter.] sir, women have been soldiers, women have been painters, women have been poets. as long as language lives the name of cleopatra will live. and, not because she conquered george iii. [laughter]--but because she wrote those divine lines: "let dogs delight to bark and bite, for god hath made them so." [more laughter.] the story of the world is adorned with the names of illustrious ones of our own sex--some of them sons of st. andrew, too --scott, bruce, burns, the warrior wallace, ben nevis--[laughter]--the gifted ben lomond, and the great new scotchman, ben disraeli. [great laughter.] out of the great plains of history tower whole mountain ranges of sublime women--the queen of sheba, josephine, semiramis, sairey gamp; the list is endless--[laughter]--but i will not call the mighty roll, the names rise up in your own memories at the mere suggestion, luminous with the glory of deeds that cannot die, hallowed by the loving worship of the good and the true of all epochs and all climes. [cheers.] suffice it for our pride and our honor that we in our day have added to it such names as those of grace darling and florence nightingale. [cheers.] woman is all that she should be-gentle, patient, long suffering, trustful, unselfish, full of generous impulses. it is her blessed mission to comfort the sorrowing, plead for the erring, encourage the faint of purpose, succor the distressed, uplift the fallen, befriend the friendless in a word, afford the healing of her sympathies and a home in her heart for all the bruised and persecuted children of misfortune that knock at its hospitable door. [cheers.] and when i say, god bless her, there is none among us who has known the ennobling affection of a wife, or the steadfast devotion of a mother, but in his heart will say, amen! [loud and prolonged cheering.] --[mr. benjamin disraeli, at that time prime minister of england, had just been elected lord rector of glasgow university, and had made a speech which gave rise to a world of discussion.] a ghost story i took a large room, far up broadway, in a huge old building whose upper stories had been wholly unoccupied for years until i came. the place had long been given up to dust and cobwebs, to solitude and silence. i seemed groping among the tombs and invading the privacy of the dead, that first night i climbed up to my quarters. for the first time in my life a superstitious dread came over me; and as i turned a dark angle of the stairway and an invisible cobweb swung its slazy woof in my face and clung there, i shuddered as one who had encountered a phantom. i was glad enough when i reached my room and locked out the mold and the darkness. a cheery fire was burning in the grate, and i sat down before it with a comforting sense of relief. for two hours i sat there, thinking of bygone times; recalling old scenes, and summoning half-forgotten faces out of the mists of the past; listening, in fancy, to voices that long ago grew silent for all time, and to once familiar songs that nobody sings now. and as my reverie softened down to a sadder and sadder pathos, the shrieking of the winds outside softened to a wail, the angry beating of the rain against the panes diminished to a tranquil patter, and one by one the noises in the street subsided, until the hurrying footsteps of the last belated straggler died away in the distance and left no sound behind. the fire had burned low. a sense of loneliness crept over me. i arose and undressed, moving on tiptoe about the room, doing stealthily what i had to do, as if i were environed by sleeping enemies whose slumbers it would be fatal to break. i covered up in bed, and lay listening to the rain and wind and the faint creaking of distant shutters, till they lulled me to sleep. i slept profoundly, but how long i do not know. all at once i found myself awake, and filled with a shuddering expectancy. all was still. all but my own heart--i could hear it beat. presently the bedclothes began to slip away slowly toward the foot of the bed, as if some one were pulling them! i could not stir; i could not speak. still the blankets slipped deliberately away, till my breast was uncovered. then with a great effort i seized them and drew them over my head. i waited, listened, waited. once more that steady pull began, and once more i lay torpid a century of dragging seconds till my breast was naked again. at last i roused my energies and snatched the covers back to their place and held them with a strong grip. i waited. by and by i felt a faint tug, and took a fresh grip. the tug strengthened to a steady strain--it grew stronger and stronger. my hold parted, and for the third time the blankets slid away. i groaned. an answering groan came from the foot of the bed! beaded drops of sweat stood upon my forehead. i was more dead than alive. presently i heard a heavy footstep in my room--the step of an elephant, it seemed to me--it was not like anything human. but it was moving from me--there was relief in that. i heard it approach the door --pass out without moving bolt or lock--and wander away among the dismal corridors, straining the floors and joists till they creaked again as it passed--and then silence reigned once more. when my excitement had calmed, i said to myself, "this is a dream--simply a hideous dream." and so i lay thinking it over until i convinced myself that it was a dream, and then a comforting laugh relaxed my lips and i was happy again. i got up and struck a light; and when i found that the locks and bolts were just as i had left them, another soothing laugh welled in my heart and rippled from my lips. i took my pipe and lit it, and was just sitting down before the fire, when-down went the pipe out of my nerveless fingers, the blood forsook my cheeks, and my placid breathing was cut short with a gasp! in the ashes on the hearth, side by side with my own bare footprint, was another, so vast that in comparison mine was but an infant's! then i had had a visitor, and the elephant tread was explained. i put out the light and returned to bed, palsied with fear. i lay a long time, peering into the darkness, and listening.--then i heard a grating noise overhead, like the dragging of a heavy body across the floor; then the throwing down of the body, and the shaking of my windows in response to the concussion. in distant parts of the building i heard the muffled slamming of doors. i heard, at intervals, stealthy footsteps creeping in and out among the corridors, and up and down the stairs. sometimes these noises approached my door, hesitated, and went away again. i heard the clanking of chains faintly, in remote passages, and listened while the clanking grew nearer--while it wearily climbed the stairways, marking each move by the loose surplus of chain that fell with an accented rattle upon each succeeding step as the goblin that bore it advanced. i heard muttered sentences; half-uttered screams that seemed smothered violently; and the swish of invisible garments, the rush of invisible wings. then i became conscious that my chamber was invaded--that i was not alone. i heard sighs and breathings about my bed, and mysterious whisperings. three little spheres of soft phosphorescent light appeared on the ceiling directly over my head, clung and glowed there a moment, and then dropped --two of them upon my face and one upon the pillow. they, spattered, liquidly, and felt warm. intuition told me they had--turned to gouts of blood as they fell--i needed no light to satisfy myself of that. then i saw pallid faces, dimly luminous, and white uplifted hands, floating bodiless in the air--floating a moment and then disappearing. the whispering ceased, and the voices and the sounds, anal a solemn stillness followed. i waited and listened. i felt that i must have light or die. i was weak with fear. i slowly raised myself toward a sitting posture, and my face came in contact with a clammy hand! all strength went from me apparently, and i fell back like a stricken invalid. then i heard the rustle of a garment it seemed to pass to the door and go out. when everything was still once more, i crept out of bed, sick and feeble, and lit the gas with a hand that trembled as if it were aged with a hundred years. the light brought some little cheer to my spirits. i sat down and fell into a dreamy contemplation of that great footprint in the ashes. by and by its outlines began to waver and grow dim. i glanced up and the broad gas-flame was slowly wilting away. in the same moment i heard that elephantine tread again. i noted its approach, nearer and nearer, along the musty halls, and dimmer and dimmer the light waned. the tread reached my very door and paused--the light had dwindled to a sickly blue, and all things about me lay in a spectral twilight. the door did not open, and yet i felt a faint gust of air fan my cheek, and presently was conscious of a huge, cloudy presence before me. i watched it with fascinated eyes. a pale glow stole over the thing; gradually its cloudy folds took shape--an arm appeared, then legs, then a body, and last a great sad face looked out of the vapor. stripped of its filmy housings, naked, muscular and comely, the majestic cardiff giant loomed above me! all my misery vanished--for a child might know that no harm could come with that benignant countenance. my cheerful spirits returned at once, and in sympathy with them the gas flamed up brightly again. never a lonely outcast was so glad to welcome company as i was to greet the friendly giant. i said: "why, is it nobody but you? do you know, i have been scared to death for the last two or three hours? i am most honestly glad to see you. i wish i had a chair--here, here, don't try to sit down in that thing--" but it was too late. he was in it before i could stop him and down he went--i never saw a chair shivered so in my life. "stop, stop, you'll ruin ev--" too late again. there was another crash, and another chair was resolved into its original elements. "confound it, haven't you got any judgment at' all? do you want to ruin all the furniture on the place? here, here, you petrified fool--" but it was no use. before i could arrest him he had sat down on the bed, and it was a melancholy ruin. "now what sort of a way is that to do? first you come lumbering about the place bringing a legion of vagabond goblins along with you to worry me to death, and then when i overlook an indelicacy of costume which would not be tolerated anywhere by cultivated people except in a respectable theater, and not even there if the nudity were of your sex, you repay me by wrecking all the furniture you can find to sit down on. and why will you? you damage yourself as much as you do me. you have broken off the end of your spinal column, and littered up the floor with chips of your hams till the place looks like a marble yard. you ought to be ashamed of yourself--you are big enough to know better." "well, i will not break any more furniture. but what am i to do? i have not had a chance to sit down for a century." and the tears came into his eyes. "poor devil," i said, "i should not have been so harsh with you. and you are an orphan, too, no doubt. but sit down on the floor here--nothing else can stand your weight--and besides, we cannot be sociable with you away up there above me; i want you down where i can perch on this high counting-house stool and gossip with you face to face." so he sat down on the floor, and lit a pipe which i gave him, threw one of my red blankets over his shoulders, inverted my sitz-bath on his head, helmet fashion, and made himself picturesque and comfortable. then he crossed his ankles, while i renewed the fire, and exposed the flat, honeycombed bottoms of his prodigious feet to the grateful warmth. "what is the matter with the bottom of your feet and the back of your legs, that they are gouged up so?" "infernal chilblains--i caught them clear up to the back of my head, roosting out there under newell's farm. but i love the place; i love it as one loves his old home. there is no peace for me like the peace i feel when i am there." we talked along for half an hour, and then i noticed that he looked tired, and spoke of it. "tired?" he said. "well, i should think so. and now i will tell you all about it, since you have treated me so well. i am the spirit of the petrified man that lies across the street there in the museum. i am the ghost of the cardiff giant. i can have no rest, no peace, till they have given that poor body burial again. now what was the most natural thing for me to do, to make men satisfy this wish? terrify them into it! haunt the place where the body lay! so i haunted the museum night after night. i even got other spirits to help me. but it did no good, for nobody ever came to the museum at midnight. then it occurred to me to come over the way and haunt this place a little. i felt that if i ever got a hearing i must succeed, for i had the most efficient company that perdition could furnish. night after night we have shivered around through these mildewed halls, dragging chains, groaning, whispering, tramping up and down stairs, till, to tell you the truth, i am almost worn out. but when i saw a light in your room to-night i roused my energies again and went at it with a deal of the old freshness. but i am tired out--entirely fagged out. give me, i beseech you, give me some hope!" i lit off my perch in a burst of excitement, and exclaimed: "this transcends everything! everything that ever did occur! why you poor blundering old fossil, you have had all your trouble for nothing --you have been haunting a plaster cast of yourself--the real cardiff giant is in albany!--[a fact. the original fraud was ingeniously and fraudfully duplicated, and exhibited in new york as the "only genuine" cardiff giant (to the unspeakable disgust of the owners of the real colossus) at the very same time that the latter was drawing crowds at a museum is albany,]--confound it, don't you know your own remains?" i never saw such an eloquent look of shame, of pitiable humiliation, overspread a countenance before. the petrified man rose slowly to his feet, and said: "honestly, is that true?" "as true as i am sitting here." he took the pipe from his mouth and laid it on the mantel, then stood irresolute a moment (unconsciously, from old habit, thrusting his hands where his pantaloons pockets should have been, and meditatively dropping his chin on his breast); and finally said: "well-i never felt so absurd before. the petrified man has sold everybody else, and now the mean fraud has ended by selling its own ghost! my son, if there is any charity left in your heart for a poor friendless phantom like me, don't let this get out. think how you would feel if you had made such an ass of yourself." i heard his stately tramp die away, step by step down the stairs and out into the deserted street, and felt sorry that he was gone, poor fellow --and sorrier still that he had carried off my red blanket and my bath-tub. the capitoline venus chapter i [scene-an artist's studio in rome.] "oh, george, i do love you!" "bless your dear heart, mary, i know that--why is your father so obdurate?" "george, he means well, but art is folly to him--he only understands groceries. he thinks you would starve me." "confound his wisdom--it savors of inspiration. why am i not a money-making bowelless grocer, instead of a divinely gifted sculptor with nothing to eat?" "do not despond, georgy, dear--all his prejudices will fade away as soon as you shall have acquired fifty thousand dol--" "fifty thousand demons! child, i am in arrears for my board!" chapter ii [scene-a dwelling in rome.] "my dear sir, it is useless to talk. i haven't anything against you, but i can't let my daughter marry a hash of love, art, and starvation--i believe you have nothing else to offer." "sir, i am poor, i grant you. but is fame nothing? the hon. bellamy foodle of arkansas says that my new statue of america, is a clever piece of sculpture, and he is satisfied that my name will one day be famous." "bosh! what does that arkansas ass know about it? fame's nothing--the market price of your marble scarecrow is the thing to look at. it took you six months to chisel it, and you can't sell it for a hundred dollars. no, sir! show me fifty thousand dollars and you can have my daughter --otherwise she marries young simper. you have just six months to raise the money in. good morning, sir." "alas! woe is me!" chapter iii [ scene-the studio.] "oh, john, friend of my boyhood, i am the unhappiest of men." "you're a simpleton!" "i have nothing left to love but my poor statue of america--and see, even she has no sympathy for me in her cold marble countenance--so beautiful and so heartless!" "you're a dummy!" "oh, john!" oh, fudge! didn't you say you had six months to raise the money in?" "don't deride my agony, john. if i had six centuries what good would it do? how could it help a poor wretch without name, capital, or friends?" "idiot! coward! baby! six months to raise the money in--and five will do!" "are you insane?" "six months--an abundance. leave it to me. i'll raise it." "what do you mean, john? how on earth can you raise such a monstrous sum for me?" "will you let that be my business, and not meddle? will you leave the thing in my hands? will you swear to submit to whatever i do? will you pledge me to find no fault with my actions?" "i am dizzy--bewildered--but i swear." john took up a hammer and deliberately smashed the nose of america! he made another pass and two of her fingers fell to the floor--another, and part of an ear came away--another, and a row of toes was mangled and dismembered--another, and the left leg, from the knee down, lay a fragmentary ruin! john put on his hat and departed. george gazed speechless upon the battered and grotesque nightmare before him for the space of thirty seconds, and then wilted to the floor and went into convulsions. john returned presently with a carriage, got the broken-hearted artist and the broken-legged statue aboard, and drove off, whistling low and tranquilly. he left the artist at his lodgings, and drove off and disappeared down the via quirinalis with the statue. chapter iv [scene--the studio.] "the six months will be up at two o'clock to-day! oh, agony! my life is blighted. i would that i were dead. i had no supper yesterday. i have had no breakfast to-day. i dare not enter an eating-house. and hungry? --don't mention it! my bootmaker duns me to death--my tailor duns me --my landlord haunts me. i am miserable. i haven't seen john since that awful day. she smiles on me tenderly when we meet in the great thoroughfares, but her old flint of a father makes her look in the other direction in short order. now who is knocking at that door? who is come to persecute me? that malignant villain the bootmaker, i'll warrant. come in!" "ah, happiness attend your highness--heaven be propitious to your grace! i have brought my lord's new boots--ah, say nothing about the pay, there is no hurry, none in the world. shall be proud if my noble lord will continue to honor me with his custom--ah, adieu!" "brought the boots himself! don't wait his pay! takes his leave with a bow and a scrape fit to honor majesty withal! desires a continuance of my custom! is the world coming to an end? of all the--come in!" "pardon, signore, but i have brought your new suit of clothes for--" "come in!" "a thousand pardons for this intrusion, your worship. but i have prepared the beautiful suite of rooms below for you--this wretched den is but ill suited to--" "come in!" "i have called to say that your credit at our bank, some time since unfortunately interrupted, is entirely and most satisfactorily restored, and we shall be most happy if you will draw upon us for any--" "come in!" "my noble boy, she is yours! she'll be here in a moment! take her --marry her--love her--be happy!--god bless you both! hip, hip, hur--" "come in!!!!!" "oh, george, my own darling, we are saved!" "oh, mary, my own darling, we are saved--but i'll swear i don't know why nor how!" chapter v [scene-a roman cafe.] one of a group of american gentlemen reads and translates from the weekly edition of 'il slangwhanger di roma' as follows: wonderful discovery--some six months ago signor john smitthe, an american gentleman now some years a resident of rome, purchased for a trifle a small piece of ground in the campagna, just beyond the tomb of the scipio family, from the owner, a bankrupt relative of the princess borghese. mr. smitthe afterward went to the minister of the public records and had the piece of ground transferred to a poor american artist named george arnold, explaining that he did it as payment and satisfaction for pecuniary damage accidentally done by him long since upon property belonging to signor arnold, and further observed that he would make additional satisfaction by improving the ground for signor a., at his own charge and cost. four weeks ago, while making some necessary excavations upon the property, signor smitthe unearthed the most remarkable ancient statue that has ever bees added to the opulent art treasures of rome. it was an exquisite figure of a woman, and though sadly stained by the soil and the mold of ages, no eye can look unmoved upon its ravishing beauty. the nose, the left leg from the knee down, an ear, and also the toes of the right foot and two fingers of one of the hands were gone, but otherwise the noble figure was in a remarkable state of preservation. the government at once took military possession of the statue, and appointed a commission of art-critics, antiquaries, and cardinal princes of the church to assess its value and determine the remuneration that must go to the owner of the ground in which it was found. the whole affair was kept a profound secret until last night. in the mean time the commission sat with closed doors and deliberated. last night they decided unanimously that the statue is a venus, and the work of some unknown but sublimely gifted artist of the third century before christ. they consider it the most faultless work of art the world has any knowledge of. at midnight they held a final conference and, decided that the venus was worth the enormous sum of ten million francs! in accordance with roman law and roman usage, the government being half-owner in all works of art found in the campagna, the state has naught to do but pay five million francs to mr. arnold and take permanent possession of the beautiful statue. this morning the venus will be removed to the capitol, there to remain, and at noon the commission will wait upon signor arnold with his holiness the pope's order upon the treasury for the princely sum of five million francs is gold! chorus of voices.--"luck! it's no name for it!" another voice.--"gentlemen, i propose that we immediately form an american joint-stock company for the purchase of lands and excavations of statues here, with proper connections in wall street to bull and bear the stock." all.--"agreed." chapter vi [scene--the roman capitol ten years later.] "dearest mary, this is the most celebrated statue in the world. this is the renowned 'capitoline venus' you've heard so much about. here she is with her little blemishes 'restored' (that is, patched) by the most noted roman artists--and the mere fact that they did the humble patching of so noble a creation will make their names illustrious while the world stands. how strange it seems this place! the day before i last stood here, ten happy years ago, i wasn't a rich man bless your soul, i hadn't a cent. and yet i had a good deal to do with making rome mistress of this grandest work of ancient art the world contains." "the worshiped, the illustrious capitoline venus--and what a sum she is valued at! ten millions of francs!" "yes--now she is." "and oh, georgy, how divinely beautiful she is!" "ah, yes but nothing to what she was before that blessed john smith broke her leg and battered her nose. ingenious smith!--gifted smith!--noble smith! author of all our bliss! hark! do you know what that wheeze means? mary, that cub has got the whooping-cough. will you never learn to take care of the children!" the end the capitoline venus is still in the capitol at rome, and is still the most charming and most illustrious work of ancient art the world can boast of. but if ever it shall be your fortune to stand before it and go into the customary ecstasies over it, don't permit this true and secret history of its origin to mar your bliss--and when you read about a gigantic petrified man being dug up near syracuse, in the state of new york, or near any other place, keep your own counsel--and if the barnum that buried him there offers to sell to you at an enormous sum, don't you buy. send him to the pope! [note.--the above sketch was written at the time the famous swindle of the "petrified giant" was the sensation of the day in the united states] speech on accident insurance delivered in hartford, at a dinner to cornelius walford, of london gentlemen: i am glad, indeed, to assist in welcoming the distinguished guest of this occasion to a city whose fame as an insurance center has extended to all lands, and given us the name of being a quadruple band of brothers working sweetly hand in hand--the colt's arms company making the destruction of our race easy and convenient, our life insurance citizens paying for the victims when they pass away, mr. batterson perpetuating their memory with his stately monuments, and our fire-insurance comrades taking care of their hereafter. i am glad to assist in welcoming our guest first, because he is an englishman, and i owe a heavy debt of hospitality to certain of his fellow-countrymen; and secondly, because he is in sympathy with insurance and has been the means of making may other men cast their sympathies in the same direction. certainly there is no nobler field for human effort than the insurance line of business--especially accident insurance. ever since i have been a director in an accident-insurance company i have felt that i am a better man. life has seemed more precious. accidents have assumed a kindlier aspect. distressing special providences have lost half their horror. i look upon a cripple now with affectionate interest--as an advertisement. i do not seem to care for poetry any more. i do not care for politics--even agriculture does not excite me. but to me now there is a charm about a railway collision that is unspeakable. there is nothing more beneficent than accident insurance. i have seen an entire family lifted out of poverty and into affluence by the simple boon of a broken leg. i have had people come to me on crutches, with tears in their eyes, to bless this beneficent institution. in all my experience of life, i have seen nothing so seraphic as the look that comes into a freshly mutilated man's face when he feels in his vest pocket with his remaining hand and finds his accident ticket all right. and i have seen nothing so sad as the look that came into another splintered customer's face when he found he couldn't collect on a wooden leg. i will remark here, by way of advertisement, that that noble charity which we have named the hartford accident insurance company--[the speaker is a director of the company named.]--is an institution which is peculiarly to be depended upon. a man is bound to prosper who gives it his custom. no man can take out a policy in it and not get crippled before the year is out. now there was one indigent man who had been disappointed so often with other companies that he had grown disheartened, his appetite left him, he ceased to smile--life was but a weariness. three weeks ago i got him to insure with us, and now he is the brightest, happiest spirit in this land has a good steady income and a stylish suit of new bandages every day, and travels around on a shutter. i will say, in conclusion, that my share of the welcome to our guest is none the less hearty because i talk so much nonsense, and i know that i can say the same for the rest of the speakers. john chinaman in new york as i passed along by one of those monster american tea stores in new york, i found a chinaman sitting before it acting in the capacity of a sign. everybody that passed by gave him a steady stare as long as their heads would twist over their shoulders without dislocating their necks, and a group had stopped to stare deliberately. is it not a shame that we, who prate so much about civilization and humanity, are content to degrade a fellow-being to such an office as this? is it not time for reflection when we find ourselves willing to see in such a being matter for frivolous curiosity instead of regret and grave reflection? here was a poor creature whom hard fortune had exiled from his natural home beyond the seas, and whose troubles ought to have touched these idle strangers that thronged about him; but did it? apparently not. men calling themselves the superior race, the race of culture and of gentle blood, scanned his quaint chinese hat, with peaked roof and ball on top, and his long queue dangling down his back; his short silken blouse, curiously frogged and figured (and, like the rest of his raiment, rusty, dilapidated, and awkwardly put on); his blue cotton, tight-legged pants, tied close around the ankles; and his clumsy blunt-toed shoes with thick cork soles; and having so scanned him from head to foot, cracked some unseemly joke about his outlandish attire or his melancholy face, and passed on. in my heart i pitied the friendless mongol. i wondered what was passing behind his sad face, and what distant scene his vacant eye was dreaming of. were his thoughts with his heart, ten thousand miles away, beyond the billowy wastes of the pacific? among the ricefields and the plumy palms of china? under the shadows of remembered mountain peaks, or in groves of bloomy shrubs and strange forest trees unknown to climes like ours? and now and then, rippling among his visions and his dreams, did he hear familiar laughter and half-forgotten voices, and did he catch fitful glimpses of the friendly faces of a bygone time? a cruel fate it is, i said, that is befallen this bronzed wanderer. in order that the group of idlers might be touched at least by the words of the poor fellow, since the appeal of his pauper dress and his dreary exile was lost upon them, i touched him on the shoulder and said: "cheer up--don't be downhearted. it is not america that treats you in this way, it is merely one citizen, whose greed of gain has eaten the humanity out of his heart. america has a broader hospitality for the exiled and oppressed. america and americans are always ready to help the unfortunate. money shall be raised--you shall go back to china you shall see your friends again. what wages do they pay you here?" "divil a cint but four dollars a week and find meself; but it's aisy, barrin' the troublesome furrin clothes that's so expinsive." the exile remains at his post. the new york tea merchants who need picturesque signs are not likely to run out of chinamen. how i edited an agricultural paper--[written abort .] i did not take temporary editorship of an agricultural paper without misgivings. neither would a landsman take command of a ship without misgivings. but i was in circumstances that made the salary an object. the regular editor of the paper was going off for a holiday, and i accepted the terms he offered, and took his place. the sensation of being at work again was luxurious, and i wrought all the week with unflagging pleasure. we went to press, and i waited a day with some solicitude to see whether my effort was going to attract any notice. as i left the office, toward sundown, a group of men and boys at the foot of the stairs dispersed with one impulse, and gave me passageway, and i heard one or two of them say: "that's him!" i was naturally pleased by this incident. the next morning i found a similar group at the foot of the stairs, and scattering couples and individuals standing here and there in the street and over the way, watching me with interest. the group separated and fell back as i approached, and i heard a man say, "look at his eye!" i pretended not to observe the notice i was attracting, but secretly i was pleased with it, and was purposing to write an account of it to my aunt. i went up the short flight of stairs, and heard cheery voices and a ringing laugh as i drew near the door, which i opened, and caught a glimpse of two young rural-looking men, whose faces blanched and lengthened when they saw me, and then they both plunged through the window with a great crash. i was surprised. in about half an hour an old gentleman, with a flowing beard and a fine but rather austere face, entered, and sat down at my invitation. he seemed to have something on his mind. he took off his hat and set it on the floor, and got out of it a red silk handkerchief and a copy of our paper. he put the paper on his lap, and while he polished his spectacles with his handkerchief he said, "are you the new editor?" i said i was. "have you ever edited an agricultural paper before?" "no," i said; "this is my first attempt." "very likely. have you had any experience in agriculture practically?" "no; i believe i have not." "some instinct told me so," said the old gentleman, putting on his spectacles, and looking over them at me with asperity, while he folded his paper into a convenient shape. "i wish to read you what must have made me have that instinct. it was this editorial. listen, and see if it was you that wrote it: "'turnips should never be pulled, it injures them. it is much better to send a boy up and let him shake the tree.' "now, what do you think of that? for i really suppose you wrote it?" "think of it? why, i think it is good. i think it is sense. i have no doubt that every year millions and millions of bushels of turnips are spoiled in this township alone by being pulled in a half-ripe condition, when, if they had sent a boy up to shake the tree--" "shake your grandmother! turnips don't grow on trees!" "oh, they don't, don't they? well, who said they did? the language was intended to be figurative, wholly figurative. anybody that knows anything will know that i meant that the boy should shake the vine." then this old person got up and tore his paper all into small shreds, and stamped on them, and broke several things with his cane, and said i did not know as much as a cow; and then went--out and banged the door after him, and, in short, acted in such a way that i fancied he was displeased about something. but not knowing what the trouble was, i could not be any help to him. pretty soon after this a long, cadaverous creature, with lanky locks hanging down to his shoulders, and a week's stubble bristling from the hills and valleys of his face, darted within the door, and halted, motionless, with finger on lip, and head and body bent in listening attitude. no sound was heard. still he listened. no sound. then he turned the key in the door, and came elaborately tiptoeing toward me till he was within long reaching distance of me, when he stopped and, after scanning my face with intense interest for a while, drew a folded copy of our paper from his bosom, and said: "there, you wrote that. read it to me--quick! relieve me. i suffer." i read as follows; and as the sentences fell from my lips i could see the relief come, i could see the drawn muscles relax, and the anxiety go out of the face, and rest and peace steal over the features like the merciful moonlight over a desolate landscape: the guano is a fine bird, but great care is necessary in rearing it. it should not be imported earlier than june or later than september. in the winter it should be kept in a warm place, where it can hatch out its young. it is evident that we are to have a backward season for grain. therefore it will be well for the farmer to begin setting out his corn-stalks and planting his buckwheat cakes in july instead of august. concerning the pumpkin. this berry is a favorite with the natives of the interior of new england, who prefer it to the gooseberry for the making of fruit-cake, and who likewise give it the preference over the raspberry for feeding cows, as being more filling and fully as satisfying. the pumpkin is the only esculent of the orange family that will thrive in the north, except the gourd and one or two varieties of the squash. but the custom of planting it in the front yard with the shrubbery is fast going out of vogue, for it is now generally conceded that, the pumpkin as a shade tree is a failure. now, as the warm weather approaches, and the ganders begin to spawn-- the excited listener sprang toward me to shake hands, and said: "there, there--that will do. i know i am all right now, because you have read it just as i did, word, for word. but, stranger, when i first read it this morning, i said to myself, i never, never believed it before, notwithstanding my friends kept me under watch so strict, but now i believe i am crazy; and with that i fetched a howl that you might have heard two miles, and started out to kill somebody--because, you know, i knew it would come to that sooner or later, and so i might as well begin. i read one of them paragraphs over again, so as to be certain, and then i burned my house down and started. i have crippled several people, and have got one fellow up a tree, where i can get him if i want him. but i thought i would call in here as i passed along and make the thing perfectly certain; and now it is certain, and i tell you it is lucky for the chap that is in the tree. i should have killed him sure, as i went back. good-by, sir, good-by; you have taken a great load off my mind. my reason has stood the strain of one of your agricultural articles, and i know that nothing can ever unseat it now. good-by, sir." i felt a little uncomfortable about the cripplings and arsons this person had been entertaining himself with, for i could not help feeling remotely accessory to them. but these thoughts were quickly banished, for the regular editor walked in! [i thought to myself, now if you had gone to egypt as i recommended you to, i might have had a chance to get my hand in; but you wouldn't do it, and here you are. i sort of expected you.] the editor was looking sad and perplexed and dejected. he surveyed the wreck which that old rioter and those two young farmers had made, and then said "this is a sad business--a very sad business. there is the mucilage-bottle broken, and six panes of glass, and a spittoon, and two candlesticks. but that is not the worst. the reputation of the paper is injured--and permanently, i fear. true, there never was such a call for the paper before, and it never sold such a large edition or soared to such celebrity; but does one want to be famous for lunacy, and prosper upon the infirmities of his mind? my friend, as i am an honest man, the street out here is full of people, and others are roosting on the fences, waiting to get a glimpse of you, because they think you are crazy. and well they might after reading your editorials. they are a disgrace to journalism. why, what put it into your head that you could edit a paper of this nature? you do not seem to know the first rudiments of agriculture. you speak of a furrow and a harrow as being the same thing; you talk of the moulting season for cows; and you recommend the domestication of the pole-cat on account of its playfulness and its excellence as a ratter! your remark that clams will lie quiet if music be played to them was superfluous--entirely superfluous. nothing disturbs clams. clams always lie quiet. clams care nothing whatever about music. ah, heavens and earth, friend! if you had made the acquiring of ignorance the study of your life, you could not have graduated with higher honor than you could to-day. i never saw anything like it. your observation that the horse-chestnut as an article of commerce is steadily gaining in favor is simply calculated to destroy this journal. i want you to throw up your situation and go. i want no more holiday--i could not enjoy it if i had it. certainly not with you in my chair. i would always stand in dread of what you might be going to recommend next. it makes me lose all patience every time i think of your discussing oyster-beds under the head of 'landscape gardening.' i want you to go. nothing on earth could persuade me to take another holiday. oh! why didn't you tell me you didn't know anything about agriculture?" "tell you, you corn-stalk, you cabbage, you son of a cauliflower? it's the first time i ever heard such an unfeeling remark. i tell you i have been in the editorial business going on fourteen years, and it is the first time i ever heard of a man's having to know anything in order to edit a newspaper. you turnip! who write the dramatic critiques for the second-rate papers? why, a parcel of promoted shoemakers and apprentice apothecaries, who know just as much about good acting as i do about good farming and no more. who review the books? people who never wrote one. who do up the heavy leaders on finance? parties who have had the largest opportunities for knowing nothing about it. who criticize the indian campaigns? gentlemen who do not know a war-whoop from a wigwam, and who never have had to run a foot-race with a tomahawk, or pluck arrows out of the several members of their families to build the evening camp-fire with. who write the temperance appeals, and clamor about the flowing bowl? folks who will never draw another sober breath till they do it in the grave. who edit the agricultural papers, you--yam? men, as a general thing, who fail in the poetry line, yellow-colored novel line, sensation, drama line, city-editor line, and finally fall back on agriculture as a temporary reprieve from the poorhouse. you try to tell me anything about the newspaper business! sir, i have been through it from alpha to omaha, and i tell you that the less a man knows the bigger the noise he makes and the higher the salary he commands. heaven knows if i had but been ignorant instead of cultivated, and impudent instead of diffident, i could have made a name for myself in this cold, selfish world. i take my leave, sir. since i have been treated as you have treated me, i am perfectly willing to go. but i have done my duty. i have fulfilled my contract as far as i was permitted to do it. i said i could make your paper of interest to all classes--and i have. i said i could run your circulation up to twenty thousand copies, and if i had had two more weeks i'd have done it. and i'd have given you the best class of readers that ever an agricultural paper had--not a farmer in it, nor a solitary individual who could tell a watermelon-tree from a peach-vine to save his life. you are the loser by this rupture, not me, pie-plant. adios." i then left. the petrified man now, to show how really hard it is to foist a moral or a truth upon an unsuspecting public through a burlesque without entirely and absurdly missing one's mark, i will here set down two experiences of my own in this thing. in the fall of , in nevada and california, the people got to running wild about extraordinary petrifactions and other natural marvels. one could scarcely pick up a paper without finding in it one or two glorified discoveries of this kind. the mania was becoming a little ridiculous. i was a brand-new local editor in virginia city, and i felt called upon to destroy this growing evil; we all have our benignant, fatherly moods at one time or another, i suppose. i chose to kill the petrifaction mania with a delicate, a very delicate satire. but maybe it was altogether too delicate, for nobody ever perceived the satire part of it at all. i put my scheme in the shape of the discovery of a remarkably petrified man. i had had a temporary falling out with mr.----, the new coroner and justice of the peace of humboldt, and thought i might as well touch him up a little at the same time and make him ridiculous, and thus combine pleasure with business. so i told, in patient, belief-compelling detail, all about the finding of a petrified-man at gravelly ford (exactly a hundred and twenty miles, over a breakneck mountain trail from where ---- lived); how all the savants of the immediate neighborhood had been to examine it (it was notorious that there was not a living creature within fifty miles of there, except a few starving indians; some crippled grasshoppers, and four or five buzzards out of meat and too feeble to get away); how those savants all pronounced the petrified man to have been in a state of complete petrifaction for over ten generations; and then, with a seriousness that i ought to have been ashamed to assume, i stated that as soon as mr.----heard the news he summoned a jury, mounted his mule, and posted off, with noble reverence for official duty, on that awful five days' journey, through alkali, sage brush, peril of body, and imminent starvation, to hold an inquest on this man that had been dead and turned to everlasting stone for more than three hundred years! and then, my hand being "in," so to speak, i went on, with the same unflinching gravity, to state that the jury returned a verdict that deceased came to his death from protracted exposure. this only moved me to higher flights of imagination, and i said that the jury, with that charity so characteristic of pioneers, then dug a grave, and were about to give the petrified man christian burial, when they found that for ages a limestone sediment had been trickling down the face of the stone against which he was sitting, and this stuff had run under him and cemented him fast to the "bed-rock"; that the jury (they were all silver-miners) canvassed the difficulty a moment, and then got out their powder and fuse, and proceeded to drill a hole under him, in order to blast him from his position, when mr.----, "with that delicacy so characteristic of him, forbade them, observing that it would be little less than sacrilege to do such a thing." from beginning to end the "petrified man" squib was a string of roaring absurdities, albeit they were told with an unfair pretense of truth that even imposed upon me to some extent, and i was in some danger of believing in my own fraud. but i really had no desire to deceive anybody, and no expectation of doing it. i depended on the way the petrified man was sitting to explain to the public that he was a swindle. yet i purposely mixed that up with other things, hoping to make it obscure--and i did. i would describe the position of one foot, and then say his right thumb was against the side of his nose; then talk about his other foot, and presently come back and say the fingers of his right hand were spread apart; then talk about the back of his head a little, and return and say the left thumb was hooked into the right little finger; then ramble off about something else, and by and by drift back again and remark that the fingers of the left hand were spread like those of the right. but i was too ingenious. i mixed it up rather too much; and so all that description of the attitude, as a key to the humbuggery of the article, was entirely lost, for nobody but me ever discovered and comprehended the peculiar and suggestive position of the petrified man's hands. as a satire on the petrifaction mania, or anything else, my petrified man was a disheartening failure; for everybody received him in innocent good faith, and i was stunned to see the creature i had begotten to pull down the wonder-business with, and bring derision upon it, calmly exalted to the grand chief place in the list of the genuine marvels our nevada had produced. i was so disappointed at the curious miscarriage of my scheme, that at first i was angry, and did not like to think about it; but by and by, when the exchanges began to come in with the petrified man copied and guilelessly glorified, i began to feel a soothing secret satisfaction; and as my gentleman's field of travels broadened, and by the exchanges i saw that he steadily and implacably penetrated territory after territory, state after state, and land after land, till he swept the great globe and culminated in sublime and unimpeached legitimacy in the august london lancet, my cup was full, and i said i was glad i had done it. i think that for about eleven months, as nearly as i can remember, mr.----'s daily mail-bag continued to be swollen by the addition of half a bushel of newspapers hailing from many climes with the petrified man in them, marked around with a prominent belt of ink. i sent them to him. i did it for spite, not for fun. he used to shovel them into his back yard and curse. and every day during all those months the miners, his constituents (for miners never quit joking a person when they get started), would call on him and ask if he could tell them where they could get hold of a paper with the petrified man in it. he could have accommodated a continent with them. i hated-----in those days, and these things pacified me and pleased me. i could not have gotten more real comfort out of him without killing him. my bloody massacre the other burlesque i have referred to was my fine satire upon the financial expedients of "cooking dividends," a thing which became shamefully frequent on the pacific coast for a while. once more, in my self-complacent simplicity i felt that the time had arrived for me to rise up and be a reformer. i put this reformatory satire, in the shape of a fearful "massacre at empire city." the san francisco papers were making a great outcry about the iniquity of the daney silver-mining company, whose directors had declared a "cooked" or false dividend, for the purpose of increasing the value of their stock, so that they could sell out at a comfortable figure, and then scramble from under the tumbling concern. and while abusing the daney, those papers did not forget to urge the public to get rid of all their silver stocks and invest in, sound and safe san francisco stocks, such as the spring valley water company, etc. but right at this unfortunate juncture, behold the spring valley cooked a dividend too! and so, under the insidious mask of an invented "bloody massacre," i stole upon the public unawares with my scathing satire upon the dividend cooking system. in about half a column of imaginary human carnage i told how a citizen hard murdered his wife and nine children, and then committed suicide. and i said slyly, at the bottom, that the sudden madness of which this melancholy massacre was the result had been brought about by his having allowed himself to be persuaded by the california papers to sell his sound and lucrative nevada silver stocks, and buy into spring valley just in time to get cooked along with that company's fancy dividend, and sink every cent he had in the world. ah, it was a deep, deep satire, and most ingeniously contrived. but i made the horrible details so carefully and conscientiously interesting that the public devoured them greedily, and wholly overlooked the following distinctly stated facts, to wit: the murderer was perfectly well known to every creature in the land as a bachelor, and consequently he could not murder his wife and nine children; he murdered them "in his splendid dressed-stone mansion just in the edge of the great pine forest between empire city and dutch nick's," when even the very pickled oysters that came on our tables knew that there was not a "dressed-stone mansion" in all nevada territory; also that, so far from there being a "great pine forest between empire city and dutch nick's," there wasn't a solitary tree within fifteen miles of either place; and, finally, it was patent and notorious that empire city and dutch nick's were one and the same place, and contained only six houses anyhow, and consequently there could be no forest between them; and on top of all these absurdities i stated that this diabolical murderer, after inflicting a wound upon himself that the reader ought to have seen would kill an elephant in the twinkling of an eye, jumped on his horse and rode four miles, waving his wife's reeking scalp in the air, and thus performing entered carson city with tremendous eclat, and dropped dead in front of the chief saloon, the envy and admiration of all beholders. well, in all my life i never saw anything like the sensation that little satire created. it was the talk of the town, it was the talk of the territory. most of the citizens dropped gently into it at breakfast, and they never finished their meal. there was something about those minutely faithful details that was a sufficing substitute for food. few people that were able to read took food that morning. dan and i (dan was my reportorial associate) took our seats on either side of our customary table in the "eagle restaurant," and, as i unfolded the shred they used to call a napkin in that establishment, i saw at the next table two stalwart innocents with that sort of vegetable dandruff sprinkled about their clothing which was the sign and evidence that they were in from the truckee with a load of hay. the one facing me had the morning paper folded to a long, narrow strip, and i knew, without any telling, that that strip represented the column that contained my pleasant financial satire. from the way he was excitedly mumbling, i saw that the heedless son of a hay-mow was skipping with all his might, in order to get to the bloody details as quickly as possible; and so he was missing the guide-boards i had set up to warn him that the whole thing was a fraud. presently his eyes spread wide open, just as his jaws swung asunder to take in a potato approaching it on a fork; the potato halted, the face lit up redly, and the whole man was on fire with excitement. then he broke into a disjointed checking off of the particulars--his potato cooling in mid-air meantime, and his mouth making a reach for it occasionally; but always bringing up suddenly against a new and still more direful performance of my hero. at last he looked his stunned and rigid comrade impressively in the face, and said, with an expression of concentrated awe: "jim, he b'iled his baby, and he took the old 'oman's skelp. cuss'd if i want any breakfast!" and he laid his lingering potato reverently down, and he and his friend departed from the restaurant empty but satisfied. he never got down to where the satire part of it began. nobody ever did. they found the thrilling particulars sufficient. to drop in with a poor little moral at the fag-end of such a gorgeous massacre was like following the expiring sun with a candle and hope to attract the world's attention to it. the idea that anybody could ever take my massacre for a genuine occurrence never once suggested itself to me, hedged about as it was by all those telltale absurdities and impossibilities concerning the "great pine forest," the "dressed-stone mansion," etc. but i found out then, and never have forgotten since, that we never read the dull explanatory surroundings of marvelously exciting things when we have no occasion to suppose that some irresponsible scribbler is trying to defraud us; we skip all that, and hasten to revel in the blood-curdling particulars and be happy. wolfville nights by alfred henry lewis author of "wolfville", "wolfville days", "peggy o'nea", &c. , contents. chapter dedication some cowboy facts i. the dismissal of silver phil ii. colonel sterett's panther hunt iii. how faro nell dealt bank iv. how the raven died v. the queerness of dave tutt vi. with the apache's compliments vii. the mills of savage gods viii. tom and jerry; wheelers ix. the influence of faro nell x. the ghost of the bar-b- xi. tucson jennie's correction xii. bill connors of the osages xiii. when tutt first saw tucson xiv. the troubles of dan boggs xv. bowlegs and major ben xvi. toad allen's elopement xvii. the clients of aaron green xviii. colonel sterett's marvels xix. the luck of hardrobe xx. long ago on the rio grande xxi. colonel coyote clubbs to william greene sterett this volume is inscribed. new york city, august , my dear sterett:-- in offering this book to you i might have advantage of the occasion to express my friendship and declare how high i hold you as a journalist and a man. or i might speak of those years at washington when in the gallery we worked shoulder to shoulder; i might recall to you the wit of hannum, or remind you of the darkling barrett, the mighty decker, the excellent cohen, the vivid brown, the imaginative miller, the volatile angus, the epigrammatic merrick, the quietly satirical splain, rouzer the earnest, boynton the energetic, carson the eminent, and dunnell, famous for a bitter, frank integrity. i might remember that day when the gifted fanciulli, with no more delicate inspiration than crackers, onions, and cheese, and no more splendid conservatory than shoemaker's, wrote, played and consecrated to you his famous "lone star march" wherewith he so disquieted the public present of the next concert in the white house grounds. or i might hark back to the campaign of ' , when together we struggled against national politics as evinced in the city of new york; i might repaint that election night when, with one hundred thousand whirling dervishes of democracy in madison square, dancing dances, and singing songs of victory, we undertook through the hubbub to send from the "twenty-third street telegraph office" half-hourly bulletins to our papers in the west; how you, accompanied of the dignified richard bright, went often to the fifth avenue hotel; and how at last you dictated your bulletins--a sort of triumphant blank verse, they were--as homeric of spirit as lofty of phrase--to me, who caught them as they came from your lips, losing none of their fire, and so flashed them all burning into texas, far away. but of what avail would be such recount? distance separates us and time has come between. those are the old years, these are the new, with newer years beyond. life like a sea is filling from rivers of experience. forgetfulness rises as a tide and creeps upward to drown within us those stories of the days that were. and because this is true, it comes to me that you as a memory must stand tallest in the midst of my regard. for of you i find within me no forgetfulness. i have met others; they came, they tarried, they departed. they came again; and on this second encounter the recollection of their existences smote upon me as a surprise. i had forgotten them as though they had not been. but such is not your tale. drawn on the plates of memory, as with a tool of diamond, i carry you both in broadest outline and in each least of shade; and there hangs no picture in the gallery of hours gone, to which i turn with more of pleasure and of good. nor am i alone in my recollection. do i pass through the fifth avenue hotel on my way to the hoffman, that vandyked dispenser leans pleasantly across his counter, to ask with deepest interest: "do you hear from the old man now?" or am i belated in shanley's, a beaming ring of waiters--if it be not an hour overrun of custom--will half-circle my table, and the boldest, "pat," will question timidly, yet with a kindly galway warmth: "how's the old man?" old man! that is your title: at once dignified and affectionate; and by it you come often to be referred to along broadway these ten years after its conference. and when the latest word is uttered what is there more to fame! i shall hold myself fortunate, indeed, if, departing, i'm remembered by half so many half so long. but wherefore extend ourselves regretfully? we may meet again; the game is not played out. pending such bright chance, i dedicate this book to you. it is the most of honour that lies in my lean power. and in so doing, i am almost moved to say, as said goldsmith of johnson in his offering of _she stoops to conquer_: "by inscribing this slight performance to you, i do not mean to so much compliment you as myself. it may do me some honour to inform the public that i have lived many years in intimacy with you. it may serve the interests of mankind also to inform them that the greatest wit may be found in a character without impairing the most unaffected piety." i repeat, i am all but moved to write these lines of you. it would tell my case at least; and while description might limp in so far as you lack somewhat of that snuffle of "true piety" so often engaging the johnsonian nose, you make up the defect with possession of a wider philosophy, a better humour and a brighter, quicker wit than visited or dwelt beneath the candle-scorched wig of our old bully lexicographer. alfred henry lewis. some cowboy facts. there are certain truths of a botanical character that are not generally known. each year the trees in their occupation creep further west. there are regions in missouri--not bottom lands--which sixty years ago were bald and bare of trees. today they are heavy with timber. westward, beyond the trees, lie the prairies, and beyond the prairies, the plains; the first are green with long grasses, the latter bare, brown and with a crisp, scorched, sparse vesture of vegetation scarce worth the name. as the trees march slowly westward in conquest of the prairies, so also do the prairies, in their verdant turn, become aggressors and push westward upon the plains. these last stretches, extending to the base of that bluff and sudden bulwark, the rocky mountains, can go no further. the rockies hold the plains at bay and break, as it were, the teeth of the desert. as a result of this warfare of vegetations, the plains are to first disappear in favour of the prairies; and the prairies to give way before the trees. these mutations all wait on rain; and as the rain belt goes ever and ever westward, a strip of plains each year surrenders its aridity, and the prairies and then the trees press on and take new ground. these facts should contain some virtue of interest; the more since with the changes chronicled, come also changes in the character of both the inhabitants and the employments of these regions. with a civilised people extending themselves over new lands, cattle form ever the advance guard. then come the farms. this is the procession of a civilised, peaceful invasion; thus is the column marshalled. first, the pastoral; next, the agricultural; third and last, the manufacturing;--and per consequence, the big cities, where the treasure chests of a race are kept. blood and bone and muscle and heart are to the front; and the money that steadies and stays and protects and repays them and their efforts, to the rear. forty years ago about all that took place west of the mississipi of a money-making character was born of cattle. the cattle were worked in huge herds and, like the buffalo supplanted by them, roamed in unnumbered thousands. in a pre-railroad period, cattle were killed for their hides and tallow, and smart yankee coasters went constantly to such ports as galveston for these cargoes. the beef was left to the coyotes. cattle find a natural theatre of existence on the plains. there, likewise, flourishes the pastoral man. but cattle herding, confined to the plains, gives way before the westward creep of agriculture. each year beholds more western acres broken by the plough; each year witnesses a diminution of the cattle ranges and cattle herding. this need ring no bell of alarm concerning a future barren of a beef supply. more cattle are the product of the farm-regions than of the ranges. that ground, once range and now farm, raises more cattle now than then. texas is a great cattle state. ohio, indiana, illinois, iowa, and missouri are first states of agriculture. the area of texas is about even with the collected area of the other five. yet one finds double the number of cattle in ohio, indiana, illinois, iowa, and missouri than in texas, to say nothing of tenfold the sheep and hogs. no; one may be calm; one is not to fall a prey to any hunger of beef. while the farms in their westward pushing do not diminish the cattle, they reduce the cattleman and pinch off much that is romantic and picturesque. between the farm and the wire fence, the cowboy, as once he flourished, has been modified, subdued, and made partially to disappear. in the good old days of the jones and plummer trail there were no wire fences, and the sullen farmer had not yet arrived. your cowboy at that time was a person of thrill and consequence. he wore a broad-brimmed stetson hat, and all about it a rattlesnake skin by way of band, retaining head and rattles. this was to be potent against headaches--a malady, by the way, which swept down no cowboy save in hours emergent of a spree. in such case the snake cure didn't cure. the hat was retained in defiance of winds, by a leathern cord caught about the back of the head, not under the chin. this cord was beautiful with a garniture of three or four perforated poker chips, red, yellow, and blue. there are sundry angles of costume where the dandyism of a cowboy of spirit and conceit may acquit itself; these are hatband, spurs, saddle, and leggins. i've seen hatbands made of braided gold and silver filigree; they were from santa fe, and always in the form of a rattlesnake, with rubies or emeralds or diamonds for eyes. such gauds would cost from four hundred to two thousand dollars. also, i've encountered a saddle which depleted its proud owner a round twenty-five hundred dollars. it was of finest spanish leather, stamped and spattered with gold bosses. there was gold-capping on the saddle horn, and again on the circle of the cantle. it was a dream of a saddle, made at paso del norte; and the owner had it cinched upon a bronco dear at twenty dollars. one couldn't have sold the pony for a stack of white chips in any faro game of that neighbourhood (las vegas) and they were all crooked games at that. your cowboy dandy frequently wears wrought steel spurs, inlaid with silver and gold; price, anything you please. if he flourish a true brummel of the plains his leggins will be fronted from instep to belt with the thick pelt, hair outside, of a newfoundland dog. these "chapps," are meant to protect the cowboy from rain and cold, as well as plum bushes, wire fences and other obstacles inimical, and against which he may lunge while riding headlong in the dark. the hair of the newfoundland, thick and long and laid the right way, defies the rains; and your cowboy loathes water. save in those four cardinals of vanity enumerated, your cowboy wears nothing from weakness; the rest of his outfit is legitimate. the long sharp heels of his boots are there to dig into the ground and hold fast to his mother earth while roping on foot. his gay pony when "roped" of a frosty morning would skate him all across and about the plains if it were not for these heels. the buckskin gloves tied in one of the saddle strings are used when roping, and to keep the half-inch manila lariat--or mayhap it's horsehair or rawhide pleated--from burning his hands. the red silken sash one was wont aforetime to see knotted about his waist, was used to hogtie and hold down the big cattle when roped and thrown. the sash--strong, soft and close--could be tied more tightly, quickly, surely than anything besides. in these days, with wire pastures and branding pens and the fine certainty of modern round-ups and a consequent paucity of mavericks, big cattle are seldom roped; wherefor the sash has been much cast aside. the saddle-bags or "war-bags,"--also covered of dogskin to match the leggins, and worn behind, not forward of the rider--are the cowboy's official wardrobe wherein he carries his second suit of underclothes, and his other shirt. his handkerchief, red cotton, is loosely knotted about the cowboy's neck, knot to the rear. he wipes the sweat from his brow therewith on those hot texas days when in a branding pen he "flanks" calves or feeds the fires or handles the irons or stands off the horned indignation of the cows, resentful because of burned and bawling offspring. it would take two hundred thousand words to tell in half fashion the story of the cowboy. his religion of fatalism, his courage, his rides at full swing in midnight darkness to head and turn and hold a herd stampeded, when a slip on the storm-soaked grass by his unshod pony, or a misplaced prairie-dog hole, means a tumble, and a tumble means that a hundred and fifty thousand dollars worth of cattle, with hoofs like chopping knives, will run over him and make him look and feel and become as dead as a cancelled postage stamp; his troubles, his joys, his soberness in camp, his drunkenness in town, and his feuds and occasional "gun plays" are not to be disposed of in a preface. one cannot in such cramped space so much as hit the high places in a cowboy career. at work on the range and about his camp--for, bar accidents, wherever you find a cowboy you will find a camp--the cowboy is a youth of sober quiet dignity. there is a deal of deep politeness and nothing of epithet, insult or horseplay where everybody wears a gun. there are no folk inquisitive on the ranges. no one asks your name. if driven by stress of conversation to something akin to it the cowboy will say: "what may i call you, sir?" and he's as careful to add the "sir," as he is to expect it in return. you are at liberty to select what name you prefer. where you hail from? where going? why? are queries never put. to look at the brand on your pony--you, a stranger--is a dangerous vulgarity to which no gentleman of the panhandle or any other region of pure southwestern politeness would stoop. and if you wish to arouse an instant combination of hate, suspicion and contempt in the bosom of a cowboy you have but to stretch forth your artless eastern hand and ask: "let me look at your gun." cowboys on the range or in the town are excessively clannish. they never desert each other, but stay and fight and die and storm a jail and shoot a sheriff if needs press, to rescue a comrade made captive in their company. also they care for each other when sick or injured, and set one another's bones when broken in the falls and tumbles of their craft. on the range the cowboy is quiet, just and peaceable. there are neither women nor cards nor rum about the cow camps. the ranches and the boys themselves banish the two latter; and the first won't come. women, cards and whiskey, the three war causes of the west, are confined to the towns. those occasions when cattle are shipped and the beef-herds, per consequence, driven to the shipping point become the only times when the cowboy sees the town. in such hours he blooms and lives fully up to his opportunity. he has travelled perhaps two hundred miles and has been twenty days on the trail, for cattle may only be driven about ten miles a day; he has been up day and night and slept half the time in the saddle; he has made himself hoarse singing "sam bass" and "the dying ranger" to keep the cattle quiet and stave off stampedes; he has ridden ten ponies to shadows in his twenty days of driving, wherefore, and naturally, your cowboy feels like relaxing. there would be as many as ten men with each beef-herd; and the herd would include about five thousand head. there would be six "riders," divided into three watches to stand night guard over the herd and drive it through the day; there would be two "hoss hustlers," to hold the eighty or ninety ponies, turn and turn about, and carry them along with the herd; there would be the cook, with four mules and the chuck wagon; and lastly there would be the herd-boss, a cow expert he, and at the head of the business. once the herd is off his hands and his mind at the end of the drive, the cowboy unbuckles and reposes himself from his labours. he becomes deeply and famously drunk. hungering for the excitement of play he collides amiably with faro and monte and what other deadfalls are rife of the place. never does he win; for the games aren't arranged that way. but he enjoys himself; and his losses do not prey on him. sated with faro bank and monte--they can't be called games of chance, the only games of chance occurring when cowboys engage with each other at billiards or pool--sated, i say, with faro and mexican monte, and exuberant of rum, which last has regular quick renewal, our cowboy will stagger to his pony, swing into the saddle, and with gladsome whoops and an occasional outburst from his six shooter directed toward the heavens, charge up and down the street. this last amusement appeals mightily to cowboys too drunk to walk. for, be it known, a gentleman may ride long after he may not walk. if a theatre be in action and mayhap a troop of "red stocking blondes," elevating the drama therein, the cowboy is sure to attend. also he will arrive with his lariat wound about his body under his coat; and his place will be the front row. at some engaging crisis, such as the "march of the amazons," having first privily unwound and organised his lariat to that end, he will arise and "rope" an amazon. this will produce bad language from the manager of the show, and compel the lady to sit upon the stage to the detriment of her wardrobe if no worse, and all to keep from being pulled across the footlights. yet the exercise gives the cowboy deepest pleasure. having thus distinguished the lady of his admiration, later he will meet her and escort her to the local dancehall. there, mingling with their frank companions, the two will drink, and loosen the boards of the floor with the strenuous dances of our frontier till daylight does appear. for the matter of a week, or perchance two--it depends on how fast his money melts--in these fashions will our gentleman of cows engage his hours and expand himself. he will make a deal of noise, drink a deal of whiskey, acquire a deal of what he terms "action"; but he harms nobody, and, in a town toughened to his racket and which needs and gets his money, disturbs nobody. "let him whoop it up; he's paying for it, ain't he?" will be the prompt local retort to any inquiry as to why he is thus permitted to disport. so long as the cowboy observes the etiquette of the town, he will not be molested or "called down" by marshal or sheriff or citizen. there are four things your cowboy must not do. he must not insult a woman; he must not shoot his pistol in a store or bar-room; he must not ride his pony into those places of resort; and as a last proposal he must not ride his pony on the sidewalks. shooting or riding into bar-rooms is reckoned as dangerous; riding on the sidewalk comes more under the head of insult, and is popularly regarded as a taunting defiance of the town marshal. on such occasions the marshal never fails to respond, and the cowboy is called upon to surrender. if he complies, which to the credit of his horse-sense he commonly does, he is led into brief captivity to be made loose when cooled. does he resist arrest, there is an explosive rattle of six shooters, a mad scattering of the careful citizenry out of lines of fire, and a cowboy or marshal is added to the host beyond. at the close of the festival, if the marshal still lives he is congratulated; if the cowboy survives he is lynched; if both fall, they are buried with the honours of frontier war; while whatever the event, the communal ripple is but slight and only of the moment, following which the currents of western existence sweep easily and calmly onward as before. a. h. l. wolfville nights chapter i. the dismissal of silver phil. "his name, complete, is 'silver city philip.' in them social observances of the southwest wherein haste is a feacher an' brev'ty the bull's eye aimed at, said cognomen gets shortened to 'silver phil.'" the old cattleman looked thoughtfully into his glass, as if by that method he collected the scattered elements of a story. there was a pause; then he lifted the glass to his lips as one who being now evenly equipped of information, proposed that it arrive hand in hand with the inspiration which should build a tale from it. "shore, this silver phil is dead now; an' i never yet crosses up with the gent who's that sooperfluous as to express regrets. it's dan boggs who dismisses silver phil; dan does it in efforts he puts forth to faithfully represent the right. "doc peets allers allows this silver phil is a 'degen'rate;' leastwise that's the word peets uses. an' while i freely concedes i ain't none too cl'ar as to jest what a degen'rate is, i stands ready to back peets' deescription to win. peets is, bar colonel william greene sterett, the best eddicated sharp in arizona; also the wariest as to expressin' views. tharfore when peets puts it up, onflinchin', that this yere silver phil's a degen'rate, you-all can spread your blankets an' go to sleep on it that a degen'rate he is. "silver phil is a little, dark, ignorant, tousled-ha'red party, none too neat in costume. he's as black an' small an' evil-seemin' as a mexican; still, you sees at a glance he ain't no greaser neither. an' with all this yere surface wickedness, silver phil has a quick, hyster'cal way like a woman or a bird; an' that's ever a grin on his face. you can smell 'bad' off silver phil, like smoke in a house, an' folks who's on the level--an' most folks is--conceives a notion ag'in him the moment him an' they meets up. "the first time i observes silver phil, he's walkin' down the licker room of the red light. as he goes by the bar, black jack--who's rearrangin' the nosepaint on the shelf so it shows to advantage--gets careless an' drops a bottle. "'crash!' it goes onto the floor. "with the sound, an' the onexpected suddenness of it stampedin' his nerves, that a-way, silver phil leaps into the air like a cat; an' when he 'lights, he's frontin' black jack an' a gun in each hand. "'which i won't be took!' says silver phil, all flustered. "his eyes is gleamin' an' his face is palin' an' his ugly grin gets even uglier than before. but like a flash, he sees thar's nothin' to go in the air about--nothin' that means him; an' he puts up his hardware an' composes himse'f. "'you-all conducts yourse'f like a sport who has something on his mind,' says texas thompson, who's thar present at the time, an' can't refrain from commentin' on the start that bottle-smashin' gives silver phil. "this silver phil makes no response, but sort o' grins plenty ghastly, while his breath comes quick. "still, while you-all notes easy that this person's scared, it's plain he's a killer jest the same. it's frequent that a-way. i'm never much afraid of one of your cold game gents like cherokee hall; you can gamble the limit they'll never put a six-shooter in play till it's shorely come their turn. but timid, feverish, locoed people, whose jedgment is bad an' who's prone to feel themse'fs in peril; they're the kind who kills. for myse'f i shuns all sech. i won't say them erratic, quick-to-kill sports don't have courage; only it strikes me--an' i've rode up on a heap of 'em--it's more like a fear-bit f'rocity than sand. "take enright or peets or cherokee or tutt or jack moore or boggs or texas thompson; you're plumb safe with sech gents--all or any. an' yet thar ain't the first glimmer of bein' gun-shy about one of 'em; they're as clean strain as the eternal granite, an' no more likely to hide out from danger than a hill. an' while they differs from each other, yet they're all different from sech folks as silver phil. boggs, goin' to war, is full of good-humoured grandeur, gala and confident, ready to start or stop like a good hoss. cherokee hall is quiet an' wordless; he gets pale, but sharp an' deadly; an' his notion is to fight for a finish. peets is haughty an' sooperior on the few o'casions when he onbends in battle, an' comports himse'f like a gent who fights downhill; the same, ondoubted, bein' doo to them book advantages of peets which elevates him an' lifts him above the common herd a whole lot. enright who's oldest is of course slowest to embark in blood, an' pulls his weepons--when he does pull 'em--with sorrowful resignation. "'which i'm shorely saddest when i shoots,' says enright to me, as he reloads his gun one time. "these yere humane sentiments, however, don't deter him from shootin' soon an' aimin' low, which latter habits makes wolfville's honoured chief a highly desp'rate game to get ag'inst. "jack moore, bein' as i explains former, the execyootive of the stranglers, an' responsible for law an' order, has a heap of shootin' shoved onto him from time to time. jack allers transacts these fireworks with a ca'm, offishul front, the same bein' devoid, equal, of anger or regrets. tutt, partic'lar after he weds tucson jennie, an' more partic'lar still when he reaps new honours as the originator of that blessed infant enright peets tutt, carries on what shootin' comes his way in a manner a lot dignified an' lofty; while texas thompson--who's mebby morbid about his wife down in laredo demandin' she be divorced that time--although he picks up his hand in a fracas, ready an' irritable an' with no delays, after all is that well-balanced he's bound to be each time plumb right. "which, you observes, son, from these yere settin's forth, that thar's a mighty sight of difference between gents like them pards of mine an' degen'rates of the tribe of silver phil. it's the difference between right an' wrong; one works from a impulse of pure jestice, the other is moved of a sperit of crime; an' thar you be. "silver phil, we learns later--an' it shore jestifies peets in his theories about him bein' a degen'rate--has been in plenty of blood. but allers like a cat; savage, gore-thirsty, yet shy, prideless, an' ready to fly. it seems he begins to be homicidal in a humble way by downin' a trooper over near fort cummings. that's four years before he visits us. he's been blazin' away intermittent ever since, and allers crooel, crafty an' safe. it's got to be a shore thing or silver phil quits an' goes into the water like a mink. "this yere ondersized miscreant ain't ha'nted about wolfville more'n four days before he shows how onnecessary he is to our success. which he works a ha'r copper on cherokee hall. what's a ha'r copper? i'll onfold, short and terse, what silver phil does, an' then you saveys. cherokee's dealin' his game--farobank she is; an' if all them national banks conducts themse'fs as squar' as that enterprise of cherokee's, the fields of finance would be as safely honest as a church. cherokee's turnin' his game one evenin'; faro nell on the lookout stool where she belongs. silver phil drifts up to the lay-out, an' camps over back of the king-end. he gets chips, an' goes to takin' chances alternate on the king, queen, jack, ten; all side an' side they be. cherokee bein' squar' himse'f ain't over-prone to expect a devious play in others. he don't notice this silver phil none speshul, an' shoves the kyards. "silver phil wins three or four bets; it's nell that catches on to his racket, an' signs up to cherokee onder the table with her little foot. one glance an' cherokee is loaded with information. this silver phil, it seems, in a sperit of avarice, equips himse'f with a copper--little wooden checker, is what this copper is--one he's done filched from cherokee the day prior. he's fastened a long black hoss-ha'r to it, an' he ties the other end of the hoss-ha'r to his belt in front. this ha'r is long enough as he's planted at the table that a-way, so it reaches nice to them four nearest kyards,--the king, queen, jack, ten. an' said ha'r is plumb invisible except to eyes as sharp as faro nell's. the deceitful silver phil will have a stack on one of 'em, coppered with this yere ha'r copper. he watches the box. as the turns is made, if the kyards come his way, well an' good. silver phil does nothin' but garners in results. when the kyards start to show ag'in him, however, that's different. in sech events silver phil draws in his breath, sort o' takin' in on the hoss-ha'r, an' the copper comes off the bet. when the turn is made, thar's silver phil's bet--by virchoo of said fraud--open an' triumphant an' waitin' to be paid. "cherokee gets posted quick an with a look. as sharp as winkin' cherokee has a nine-inch bowie in his hand an' with one slash cuts the hoss-ha'r clost up by silver phil's belt. "'that's a yoonique invention!" observes cherokee, an' he's sarcastic while he menaces with the knife at silver phil; 'that contraption is shorely plenty sagacious! but it don't go here. shove in your chips.' silver phil obeys: an' he shows furtive, ugly, an' alarmed, an' all of 'em at once. he don't say a word. 'now pull your freight,' concloods cherokee. 'if you ever drifts within ten foot of a game of mine ag'in i'll throw this knife plumb through you--through an' through.' an' cherokee, by way of lustration lets fly the knife across the bar-room. it comes like a flash. "'chuck!' "thar's a picture paper pasted onto the wooden wall of the red light, displayin' the liniaments of some party. that bowie pierces the picture--a shot in the cross it is--an' all with sech fervour that the p'int of the blade shows a inch an' a half on the other side of that individyool board. "'the next time i throws a knife in your presence,' remarks cherokee to silver phil, an' cherokee's as cold an' p'isonous as a rattlesnake, 'it'll be la'nched at you.' "silver phil don't say nothin' in retort. he's aware by the lib'ral way cherokee sep'rates himse'f from the bowie that said weepon can't constitoote cherokee's entire armament. an' as silver phil don't pack the sperit to face no sech flashlight warrior, he acts on cherokee's hint to _vamos_, an fades into the street. shore, cherokee don't cash the felon's chips none; he confiscates 'em. cherokee ain't quite so tenderly romantic as to make good to a detected robber. moreover, he lets this silver phil go onharmed when by every roole his skelp is forfeit. it turns out good for the camp, however, as this yere experience proves so depressin' to silver phil he removes his blankets to red dog. thar among them purblind tarrapins, its inhabitants, it's likely he gets prosperous an' ondetected action on that little old ha'r copper of his. "it's not only my beliefs, but likewise the opinions of sech joodicial sports as enright, peets, an' colonel sterett, that this maverick, silver phil, is all sorts of a crim'nal. an' i wouldn't wonder if he's a pure rustler that a-way; as ready to stand up a stage as snake a play at farobank. this idee settles down on the wolfville intell'gence on the heels of a vicissitoode wherein dan boggs performs, an' which gets pulled off over in the bird cage op'ry house. jack moore ain't thar none that time. usual, jack is a constant deevotee of the dramy. jack's not only a first-nighter, he comes mighty clost to bein' a every-nighter. but this partic'lar evenin' when boggs performs, jack's rummagin' about some'ers else. "if jack's thar, it's even money he'd a-had that second shot instead of boggs; in which event, the results might have been something graver than this yere minoote wound which boggs confers. i'm confident jack would have cut in with the second shot for sech is his offishul system. jack more'n once proclaims his position. "'by every roole of law,' says jack at epocks when he declar's himse'f, 'an' on all o'casions, i, as kettle-tender to the stranglers, is entitled to the first shot. when i uses the term 'o'casion,' i would be onderstood as alloodin' to affairs of a simply social kind, an' not to robberies, hold-ups, hoss-larcenies, an' other an' sim'lar transactions in spec'latif crime when every gent defends his own. speakin' social, however, i reasserts that by every roole of guidance, i'm entitled to the first shot. which a doo regyard for these plain rights of mine would go far to freein' wolfville upper circles of the bullets which occurs from time to time, an' which even the most onconventional admits is shore a draw-back. all i can add as a closer,' concloods jack, 'is that i'll make haste to open on any sport who transgresses these fiats an' goes to shootin' first. moreover, it's likely that said offender finds that when i'm started once, what i misses in the orig'nal deal i'll make up in the draw, an' i tharfore trusts that none will prove so sooicidal as to put me to the test.' "this bird cage op'ry house evenin', however, jack is absent a heap. dan boggs is present, an' is leanin' back appreciatin' the show an' the valley tan plenty impartial. dan likes both an' is doin' 'em even jestice. over opp'site to dan is a drunken passel of sports from red dog, said wretched hamlet bein' behind wolfville in that as in all things else an' not ownin' no op'ry house. "as the evenin' proceeds--it's about sixth drink time--a casyooal gun goes off over among the red dog outfit, an' the lead tharfrom bores a hole in the wall clost to dan's y'ear. nacherally dan don't like it. the show sort o' comes to a balk, an' takin' advantages of the lull dan arises in a listless way an' addresses the red dogs. "'i merely desires to inquire,' says dan 'whether that shot is inadvertent; or is it a mark of innocent joobilation an' approval of the show; or is it meant personal to me?' "'you can bet your moccasins!' shouts one of the red dog delegation, 'thar's no good fellowship with that gun-play. that shot's formal an' serious an' goes as it lays.' "'my mind bein' now cl'ar on the subject of motive,' says dan; 'the proper course is plain.'" with this retort dan slams away gen'ral--shoots into the flock like--at the picnickers from red dog, an' a party who's plenty drunk an' has his feet piled up on a table goes shy his off big toe. "as i remarks yeretofore it's as well jack moore ain't thar. jack would have corralled something more momentous than a toe. which jack would have been shootin' in his capac'ty as marshal, an' couldn't onder sech circumstances have stooped to toes. but it's different with dan. he is present private an' only idlin' 'round; an' he ain't driven to take high ground. more partic'lar since dan's playin' a return game in the nacher of reproofs an' merely to resent the onlicensed liberties which red dog takes with him, dan, as i says, is free to accept toes if he so decides. "when dan busts this yere inebriate, the victim lams loose a yell ag'inst which a coyote would protest. that sot thinks he's shore killed. what with the scare an' the pain an' the nosepaint, an' regyardin' of himse'f as right then flutterin' about the rim of eternity, he gets seized with remorse an' allows he's out to confess his sins before he quits. as thar's no sky pilot to confide in, this drunkard figgers that peets 'll do, an' with that he onloads on peets how, bein' as he is a stage book-keep over in red dog, he's in cahoots with a outfit of route agents an' gives 'em the word when it's worth while to stand-up the stage. an' among other crim'nal pards of his this terrified person names that outlaw silver phil. shore, when he rounds to an' learns it ain't nothin' but a toe, this party's chagrined to death. "this yere confidin' sport's arrested an' taken some'ers--prescott mebby--to be tried in a shore-enough co't for the robberies; the red dog stranglers not bein' game to butt in an' hang him a lot themse'fs. they surrenders him to the marshal who rides over for him; an' they would have turned out silver phil, too, only that small black outcast don't wait, but goes squanderin' off to onknown climes the moment he hears the news. he's vamoosed red dog before this penitent bookkeep ceases yelpin' an' sobbin' over his absent toe. "it ain't no time, however, before we hears further of silver phil; that is, by way of roomer. it looks like a couple of big cow outfits some'ers in the san simon country--they're the 'three-d' an' the 'k-in-a-box' brands--takes first to stealin' each, other's cattle, an', final, goes to war. each side retains bands of murderers an' proceeds buoyantly to lay for one another. which silver phil enlists with the 'three-d' an' sneaks an' prowls an' bushwhacks an' shoots himse'f into more or less bloody an' ignoble prom'nence. at last the main war-chiefs of the territory declar's themse'fs in on the riot an' chases both sides into the hills; an' among other excellent deeds they makes captive silver phil. "it's a great error they don't string this silver phil instanter. but no; after the procrastinatin' fashion of real law, they permits the villain--who's no more use on the surface of arizona that a-way than one of them hydrophoby polecats whose bite is death--to get a law sharp to plead an' call for a show-down before a jedge an' jury. it takes days to try silver phil, an' marshals an' sheriff gents is two weeks squanderin' about gettin' witnesses; an' all to as much trouble an' loss of time an' dinero as would suffice to round-up the cattle of cochise county. enright an' the stranglers would have turned the trick in twenty minutes an' never left the new york store ontil with silver phil an' a lariat they reepairs to the windmill to put the finishin' touches on their lucoobrations. "still, dooms slow an' shiftless as they shore be, at the wind-up silver phil's found guilty, an' is put in nom'nation by the presidin' alcade to be hanged; the time bein' set in a crazy-hoss fashion for a month away. as silver phil--which he's that bad an' hard he comes mighty clost to bein; game--is leavin' the co't-room with the marshal who's ridin' herd on him, he says: "'i ain't payin' much attention at the time,'--silver phil's talkin' to that marshal gent,--'bein' i'm thinkin' of something else, but do i onderstand that old grey sport on the bench to say you-all is to hang me next month?' "'that's whatever!' assents this marshal gent, 'an' you can gamble a bloo stack that hangin' you is a bet we ain't none likely to overlook. which we're out to put our whole grateful souls into the dooty.' "'now i thinks of it,' observes silver phil, 'i'm some averse to bein' hanged. i reckons, speakin' free an' free as between fellow sports, that in order for that execootion to be a blindin' success i'll have to be thar personal?' "'it's one of the mighty few o'casions,' responds the marshal, 'when your absence would shorely dash an' damp the gen'ral joy. as you says, you'll have to be thar a heap personal when said hangin' occurs.' "'i'm mighty sorry,' says silver phil, 'that you-all lays out your game in a fashion that so much depends on me. the more so, since the longer i considers this racket, the less likely it is i'll be thar. it's almost a cinch, with the plans i has, that i'll shore be some'ers else.' "they corrals silver phil in the one big upper room of a two-story 'doby, an' counts off a couple of dep'ty marshals to gyard him. these gyards, comin' squar' down to cases, ain't no improvement, moral, on silver phil himse'f; an' since they're twice his age--silver phil not bein' more'n twenty--it's safe as a play to say that both of 'em oughter have been hanged a heap before ever silver phil is born. these two hold-ups, however, turns dep'ty marshals in their old age, an' is put in to stand watch an' watch an' see that silver phil don't work loose from his hobbles an' go pirootin' off ag'in into parts onknown. silver phil is loaded with fetters,--handcuffs an' laig-locks both--an' these hold-up sentries is armed to the limit. "it's the idee of doc peets later, when he hears the details, that if the gyards that time treats silver phil with kindness, the little felon most likely would have remained to be hanged. but they don't: they abooses silver phil; cussin' him out an' herdin' him about like he's cattle. they're a evil-tempered couple, them dep'ties, an' they don't give silver phil no sort o' peace. "'as i su'gests yeretofore,' says doc peets, when he considers the case, 'this silver phil is a degen'rate. he's like a anamile. he don't entertain no reg'lar scheme to work free when he waxes sardonic with the marshal; that's only a bluff. later, when them gyards takes to maltreatin' him an' battin' him about, it wakes up the venom in him, an' his cunnin' gets aroused along with his appetite for revenge.' "this silver phil, who's lean an' slim like i explains at the jump, has hands no bigger than a cat's paws. it ain't no time when he discovers that by cuttin' himse'f a bit on the irons, he can shuck the handcuffs whenever he's disposed. even then, he don't outline no campaign for liberty; jest sort o' roominates an' waits. "it's one partic'lar mornin', some two weeks after silver phil's sentenced that a-way. the marshal gent himse'f ain't about, bein' on some dooty over to tucson. silver phil is upsta'rs on the top floor of the 'doby with his gyards. which he's hotter than a wildcat; the gyards an' him has been havin' a cussin' match, an' as silver phil outplays 'em talkin', one of 'em's done whacked him over the skelp with his gun. the blood's tricklin' down silver phil's fore'erd as he sits glowerin'. "one of the gyards is loadin' a ten-gauge greener--a whole mouthful of buckshot in each shell. he's grinnin' at silver phil as he shoves the shells in the gun an' slams her shet. "'which i'm loadin' that weepon for you,' says the gyard, contemplatin' silver phil derisive. "'you be, be you!' replies silver phil, his eyes burnin' with rage. 'which you better look out a whole lot; you-all may get it yourse'f.' "the gyard laughs ugly an' exasperatin' an' puts the ten-gauge in a locker along with two or three winchesters. then he turns the key on the firearms an' goes caperin' off to his feed. "the other gyard, his _compadre_, is settin' on a stool lookin' out a window. mebby he's considerin' of his sins. it would be more in his hand at this time if he thinks of silver phil. "silver phil, who's full of wrath at the taunts of the departed gyard, slips his hands free of the irons. most of the hide on his wrists comes with 'em, but silver phil don't care. the gyard's back is to him as that gent sits gazin' out an' off along the dusty trail where it winds gray an' hot toward tucson. silver phil organises, stealthy an' cat-cautious; he's out for the gyard's gun as it hangs from his belt, the butt all temptin' an' su'gestive. "as silver phil makes his first move the laig-locks clanks. it ain't louder than the jingle of a brace of copper _centouse_ knockin' together. it's enough, however; it strikes on the y'ear of that thoughtful gyard like the roar of a ' . he emerges from his reverie with a start; the play comes cl'ar as noonday to him in a moment. "the gyard leaps, without even lookin' 'round, to free himse'f from the clutch of silver phil. which he's the splinter of a second too late. silver phil makes a spring like a mountain lion, laig-locks an' all, an' grabs the gun. as the gyard goes clatterin' down sta'rs. silver phil pumps two loads into him an' curls him up at the foot. then silver phil hurls the six-shooter at him with a volley of mal'dictions. "without pausin' a moment, silver phil grabs the stool an' smashes to flinders the locker that holds the -gauge greener. he ain't forgot none; an' he's fair locoed to get that partic'lar weepon for the other gyard. he rips it from the rack an' shows at the window as his prey comes runnin' to the rescoo of his pard: "'oh, you! virg sanders!' yells silver phil. "the second gyard looks up; an' as he does, silver phil gives him both bar'ls. forty-two buckshot; an' that gyard's so clost he stops 'em all! as he lays dead, silver phil breaks the greener in two, an' throws, one after the other, stock an' bar'l at him. "'which i'll show you-all what happens when folks loads a gun for me!' says silver phil. "nacherally, this artillery practice turns out the entire plaza. the folks is standin' about the 'doby which confines silver phil, wonderin' whatever that enthoosiast's goin' to do next. no, they don't come after him, an' i'll tell you why. shore, thar's twenty gents lookin' on, any one of whom, so far as personal apprehensions is involved, would trail silver phil single-handed into a wolf's den. which he'd feel plumb confident he gets away with silver phil an' the wolves thrown in to even up the odds. still, no one stretches forth to capture silver phil on this yere voylent o'casion. an' these is the reasons. thar's no reg'lar offishul present whose dooty it is to rope up this silver phil. if sech had chanced to be thar, you can put down a stack he'd come a-runnin', an' him or silver phil would have caught up with the two gyards on their journey into the beyond. but when it gets down to private people volunteerin' for dooty as marshals, folks in the southwest goes some slothful to work. thar's the friends of the accoosed--an' as a roole he ain't none friendless--who would mighty likely resent sech zeal. also, in the case of silver phil, his captivity grows out of a cattle war. one third the public so far as it stands about the 'doby where silver phil is hived that time is 'three-d' adherents, mebby another third is 'k-in-a-box' folks, while the last third is mighty likely nootral. whichever way it breaks, however, thar's a tacit stand-off, an' never a sport of 'em lifts a finger or voice to head off silver phil. "'which she's the inalien'ble right of americans onder the constitootion to escape with every chance they gets,' says one. "'that's whatever!' coincides his pard; 'an' moreover this ain't our round-up nohow.' "it's in that fashion these private citizens adjusts their dooty to the state while pausin' to look on, in a sperit of cur'osity while silver phil makes his next play. "they don't wait long. silver phil comes out on the roof of a stoop in front. he's got a winchester by now, an' promptly throws the muzzle tharof on a leadin' citizen. silver phil allows he'll plug this dignitary if they don't send up a sport with a file to cut loose the laig-locks. tharupon the pop'lace, full of a warm interest by this time, does better. they gropes about in the war-bags of the virg sanders sharp who stops the buckshot an' gets his keys; a moment after, silver phil is free. "still, this ontirin' hold-up goes on menacin' the leadin' citizen as former. which now silver phil demands a bronco, bridled an' saddled. he gives the public ten minutes; if the bronco is absent at the end of ten minutes silver phil allows he'll introdooce about a pound of lead into where that village father does his cogitating. the bronco appears with six minutes to spar'. as it arrives, the vivacious silver phil jumps off the roof of the stoop--the same bein' low--an' is in the saddle an' out o' sight while as practised a hand as huggins is pourin' out a drink. where the trail bends 'round a mesa silver phil pulls up. "'whoop! whoop! whoopee! for silver phil,' he shouts. "then he waves the winchester, an' as he spurs 'round the corner of the hill it's the last that spellbound outfit ever sees of silver phil. "nacherally now," remarked my old friend, as he refreshed himself with a mouthful of scotch, "you-all is waitin' an' tryin' to guess wherever does dan boggs get in on this yere deal. an' it won't take no time to post you; the same bein' a comfort. "not one word do we-all wolves of wolfville hear of the divertin' adventures of silver phil--shootin' up his gyards an' fetchin' himse'f free--ontil days after. no one in camp has got silver phil on his mind at all; at least if he has he deems him safe an' shore in hock, a-waitin' to be stretched. considerin' what follows, i never experiences trouble in adoptin' doc peets' argyments that the eepisodes wherein this onhappy silver phil figgers sort o' aggravates his intellects ontil he's locoed. "'bein' this silver phil's a degen'rate,' declar's peets, explanatory, 'he's easy an' soon to loco. his mind as well as his moral nacher is onbalanced congenital. any triflin' jolt, much less than what that silver phil runs up on, an' his fretful wits is shore to leave the saddle. "now that silver phil's free, but loonatic like peets says, an' doubly vicious by them tantalisin' gyards, it looks like he thinks of nothin' but wreckin' reprisals on all who's crossed his trail. an' so with vengeance eatin' at his crim'nal heart he p'ints that bronco's muzzle straight as a bird flies for wolfville. whoever do you-all reckon now he wants? cherokee hall? son, you've followed off the wrong waggon track. silver phil--imagine the turpitoode of sech a ornery wretch!--is out for the lovely skelp of faro nell who detects him in his ha'r-copper frauds that time. "which the first intimations we has of silver phil after that escape, is one evenin' about fifth drink time--or as you-all says 'four o'clock.' the sun's still hot an' high over in the west. thar's no game goin'; but bein' it's as convenient thar as elsewhere an' some cooler, cherokee's settin' back of his layout with faro nell as usual on her lookout perch. dan boggs is across the street in the dancehall door, an' his pet best bronco is waitin' saddled in front. hot an' drowsy; the street save for these is deserted. "it all takes place in a moment. thar's a clattering rush; an' then, pony a-muck with sweat an' alkali dust, silver phil shows in the portals of the red light. thar's a flash an' a spit of white smoke as he fires his six-shooter straight at faro nell. "silver phil is quick, but cherokee is quicker. cherokee sweeps faro nell from her stool with one motion of his arm an' the bullet that's searchin' for her lifts cherokee's ha'r a trifle where he 'most gets his head in its way. "ondoubted, this silver phil allows he c'llects on faro nell as planned. he don't shoot twice, an' he don't tarry none, but wheels his wearied pony, gives a yell, an' goes surgin' off. "but silver phil's got down to the turn of that evil deal of his existence. he ain't two hundred yards when dan boggs is in the saddle an' ridin' hard. dan's bronco runs three foot for every one of the pony of silver phil's; which that beaten an' broken cayouse is eighty miles from his last mouthful of grass. "as dan begins to crowd him, silver phil turns in the saddle an' shoots. the lead goes 'way off yonder--wild. dan, grim an' silent, rides on without returnin' the fire. "'which i wouldn't dishonour them guns of mine,' says dan, explainin' later the pheenomenon of him not shootin' none, 'which i wouldn't dishonour them guns by usin' 'em on varmints like this yere silver phil.' "as silver phil reorganises for a second shot his bronco stumbles. silver phil pitches from the saddle an' strikes the grass to one side. as he half rises, dan lowers on him like the swoop of a hawk. it's as though dan's goin' to snatch a handkerchief from the ground. "as dan flashes by, he swings low from the saddle an' his right hand takes a troo full grip on that outlaw's shoulder. dan has the thews an' muscles of a cinnamon b'ar, an' silver phil is only a scrap of a man. as dan straightens up in the stirrups, he heaves this silver phil on high to the length of his long arm; an' then he dashes him ag'inst the flint-hard earth; which the manoover--we-all witnesses it from mebby a quarter of a mile--which the manoover that a-way is shore remorseless! this silver phil is nothin' but shattered bones an' bleedin' pulp. he strikes the plains like he's crime from the clouds an' is dead without a quiver. "'bury him? no!' says old man enright to dave tutt who asks the question. 'let him find his bed where he falls. "while enright speaks, an' as dan rides up to us at the red light, a prompt raven drops down over where this silver phil is layin'. then another raven an' another--black an' wide of wing--comes floatin' down. a coyote yells--first with the short, sharp yelp, an' then with that multiplied patter of laughter like forty wolves at once. that daylight howl of the coyote alters tells of a death. shore raven an' wolf is gatherin'. as enright says: 'this yere silver phil ain't likely to be lonesome none to-night.' "'did you kill him, dan?' asks faro nell. "'why, no, nellie,' replies dan, as he steps outen the stirrups an' beams on faro nell. she's still a bit onstrung, bein' only a little girl when all is said. 'why, no, nellie; i don't kill him speecific as wolfville onderstands the word; but i dismisses him so effectual the kyard shore falls the same for silver phil.'" chapter ii. colonel sterett's panther hunt, "panthers, what we-all calls 'mountain lions,'" observed the old cattleman, wearing meanwhile the sapient air of him who feels equipped of his subject, "is plenty furtive, not to say mighty sedyoolous to skulk. that's why a gent don't meet up with more of 'em while pirootin' about in the hills. them cats hears him, or they sees him, an' him still ignorant tharof; an' with that they bashfully withdraws. which it's to be urged in favour of mountain lions that they never forces themse'fs on no gent; they're shore considerate, that a-way, an' speshul of themse'fs. if one's ever hurt, you can bet it won't be a accident. however, it ain't for me to go 'round impugnin' the motives of no mountain lion; partic'lar when the entire tribe is strangers to me complete. but still a love of trooth compels me to concede that if mountain lions ain't cowardly, they're shore cautious a lot. cattle an' calves they passes up as too bellicose, an' none of 'em ever faces any anamile more warlike than a baby colt or mebby a half-grown deer. i'm ridin' along the caliente once when i hears a crashin' in the bushes on the bluff above--two hundred foot high, she is, an' as sheer as the walls of this yere tavern. as i lifts my eyes, a fear-frenzied mare an' colt comes chargin' up an' projects themse'fs over the precipice an' lands in the valley below. they're dead as joolius caesar when i rides onto 'em, while a brace of mountain lions is skirtin' up an' down the aige of the bluff they leaps from, mewin' an' lashin' their long tails in hot enthoosiasm. shore, the cats has been chasin' the mare an' foal, an' they locoes 'em to that extent they don't know where they're headin' an' makes the death jump i relates. i bangs away with my six-shooter, but beyond givin' the mountain lions a convulsive start i can't say i does any execootion. they turns an' goes streakin' it through the pine woods like a drunkard to a barn raisin'. "timid? shore! they're that timid seminary girls compared to 'em is as sternly courageous as a passel of buccaneers. out in mitchell's canyon a couple of the lee-scott riders cuts the trail of a mountain lion and her two kittens. now whatever do you-all reckon this old tabby does? basely deserts her offsprings without even barin' a tooth, an' the cow-punchers takes 'em gently by their tails an' beats out their joovenile brains. that's straight; that mother lion goes swarmin' up the canyon like she ain't got a minute to live. an' you can gamble the limit that where a anamile sees its children perish without frontin' up for war, it don't possess the commonest roodiments of sand. sech, son, is mountain lions. "it's one evenin' in the red light when colonel sterett, who's got through his day's toil on that coyote paper he's editor of, onfolds concernin' a panther round-up which he pulls off in his yooth. "'this panther hunt,' says colonel sterett, as he fills his third tumbler, 'occurs when mighty likely i'm goin' on seventeen winters. i'm a leader among my young companions at the time; in fact, i allers is. an' i'm proud to say that my soopremacy that a-way is doo to the dom'nant character of my intellects. i'm ever bright an' sparklin' as a child, an' i recalls how my aptitoode for learnin' promotes me to be regyarded as the smartest lad in my set. if thar's visitors, to the school, or if the selectmen invades that academy to sort o' size us up, the teacher allers plays me on 'em. i'd go to the front for the outfit. which i'm wont on sech harrowin' o'casions to recite a ode--the teacher's done wrote it himse'f--an' which is entitled napoleon's mad career. thar's twenty-four stanzas to it; an' while these interlopin' selectmen sets thar lookin' owley an' sagacious, i'd wallop loose with the twenty-four verses, stampin' up and down, an' accompanyin' said recitations with sech a multitood of reckless gestures, it comes plenty clost to backin' everybody plumb outen the room. yere's the first verse: i'd drink an' sw'ar an' r'ar an' t'ar an' fall down in the mud, while the y'earth for forty miles about is kivered with my blood. "'you-all can see from that speciment that our schoolmaster ain't simply flirtin' with the muses when he originates that epic; no sir, he means business; an' whenever i throws it into the selectmen, i does it jestice. the trustees used to silently line out for home when i finishes, an' never a yeep. it stuns 'em; it shore fills 'em to the brim! "'as i gazes r'arward,' goes on the colonel, as by one rapt impulse he uplifts both his eyes an' his nosepaint, 'as i gazes r'arward, i says, on them sun-filled days, an' speshul if ever i gets betrayed into talkin' about 'em, i can hardly t'ar myse'f from the subject. i explains yeretofore, that not only by inclination but by birth, i'm a shore-enough 'ristocrat. this captaincy of local fashion i assoomes at a tender age. i wears the record as the first child to don shoes throughout the entire summer in that neighbourhood; an' many a time an' oft does my yoothful but envy-eaten compeers lambaste me for the insultin' innovation. but i sticks to my moccasins; an' to-day shoes in the bloo grass is almost as yooniversal as the licker habit. "'thar dawns a hour, however, when my p'sition in the van of kaintucky _ton_ comes within a ace of bein' ser'ously shook. it's on my way to school one dewey mornin' when i gets involved all inadvertent in a onhappy rupture with a polecat. i never does know how the misonderstandin' starts. after all, the seeds of said dispoote is by no means important; it's enough to say that polecat finally has me thoroughly convinced. followin' the difference an' my defeat, i'm witless enough to keep goin' on to school, whereas i should have returned homeward an' cast myse'f upon my parents as a sacred trust. of course, when i'm in school i don't go impartin' my troubles to the other chil'en; i emyoolates the heroism of the spartan boy who stands to be eat by a fox, an' keeps 'em to myself. but the views of my late enemy is not to be smothered; they appeals to my young companions; who tharupon puts up a most onneedful riot of coughin's an' sneezin's. but nobody knows me as the party who's so pungent. "'it's a tryin' moment. i can see that, once i'm located, i'm goin' to be as onpop'lar as a b'ar in a hawg pen; i'll come tumblin' from my pinnacle in that proud commoonity as the glass of fashion an' the mold of form. you can go your bottom peso, the thought causes me to feel plenty perturbed. "'at this peril i has a inspiration; as good, too, as i ever entertains without the aid of rum. i determines to cast the opprobrium on some other boy an' send the hunt of gen'ral indignation sweepin' along his trail. "'thar's a innocent infant who's a stoodent at this temple of childish learnin' an' his name is riley bark. this riley is one of them giant children who's only twelve an' weighs three hundred pounds. an' in proportions as riley is a son of anak, physical, he's dwarfed mental; he ain't half as well upholstered with brains as a shepherd dog. that's right; riley's intellects, is like a fly in a saucer of syrup, they struggles 'round plumb slow. i decides to uplift riley to the public eye as the felon who's disturbin' that seminary's sereenity. comin' to this decision, i p'ints at him where he's planted four seats ahead, all tangled up in a spellin' book, an' says in a loud whisper to a child who's sittin' next: "'throw him out!' "'that's enough. no gent will ever realise how easy it is to direct a people's sentiment ontil he take a whirl at the game. in two minutes by the teacher's bull's-eye copper watch, every soul knows it's pore riley; an' in three, the teacher's done drug riley out doors by the ha'r of his head an' chased him home. gents, i look back on that yoothful feat as a triumph of diplomacy; it shore saves my standin' as the beau brummel of the bloo grass. "'good old days, them!' observes the colonel mournfully, 'an' ones never to come ag'in! my sternest studies is romances, an' the peroosals of old tales as i tells you-all prior fills me full of moss an' mockin' birds in equal parts. i reads deep of _walter scott_ an' waxes to be a sharp on moslems speshul. i dreams of the siege of acre, an' richard the lion heart; an' i simply can't sleep nights for honin' to hold a tournament an' joust a whole lot for some fair lady's love. "'once i commits the error of my career by joustin' with my brother jeff. this yere jeff is settin' on the bank of the branch fishin' for bullpouts at the time, an' jeff don't know i'm hoverin' near at all. jeff's reedic'lous fond of fishin'; which he'd sooner fish than read _paradise lost_. i'm romancin' along, sim'larly bent, when i notes jeff perched on the bank. to my boyish imagination jeff at once turns to be a paynim. i drops my bait box, couches my fishpole, an' emittin' a impromptoo warcry, charges him. it's the work of a moment; jeff's onhossed an' falls into the branch. "'but thar's bitterness to follow vict'ry. jeff emerges like diana from the bath an' frales the wamus off me with a club. talk of puttin' a crimp in folks! gents when jeff's wrath is assuaged i'm all on one side like the leanin' tower of pisa. jeff actooally confers a skew-gee to my spinal column. "'a week later my folks takes me to a doctor. that practitioner puts on his specs an' looks me over with jealous care. "'"whatever's wrong with him, doc?" says my father. "'"nothin'," says the physician, "only your son willyum's five inches out o' plumb." "'then he rigs a contraption made up of guy-ropes an' stay-laths, an' i has to wear it; an' mebby in three or four weeks he's got me warped back into the perpendic'lar.' "'but how about this cat hunt?" asks dan boggs. 'which i don't aim to be introosive none, but i'm camped yere through the second drink waitin' for it, an' these procrastinations is makin' me kind o' batty.' "'that panther hunt is like this,' says the colonel turnin' to dan. 'at the age of seventeen, me an' eight or nine of my intimate brave comrades founds what we-all denom'nates as the "chevy chase huntin' club." each of us maintains a passel of odds an' ends of dogs, an' at stated intervals we convenes on hosses, an' with these fourscore curs at our tails goes yellin' an' skally-hootin' up an' down the countryside allowin' we're shore a band of nimrods. "'the chevy chasers ain't been in bein' as a institootion over long when chance opens a gate to ser'ous work. the deep snows in the eastern mountains it looks like has done drove a panther into our neighbourhood. you could hear of him on all sides. folks glimpses him now an' then. they allows he's about the size of a yearlin' calf; an' the way he pulls down sech feeble people as sheep or lays desolate some he'pless henroost don't bother him a bit. this panther spreads a horror over the county. dances, pra'er meetin's, an' even poker parties is broken up, an' the social life of that region begins to bog down. even a weddin' suffers; the bridesmaids stayin' away lest this ferocious monster should show up in the road an' chaw one of 'em while she's _en route_ for the scene of trouble. that's gospel trooth! the pore deserted bride has to heel an' handle herse'f an' never a friend to yoonite her sobs with hers doorin' that weddin' ordeal. the old ladies present shakes their heads a heap solemn. "'"it's a worse augoory," says one, "than the hoots of a score of squinch owls." "'when this reign of terror is at its height, the local eye is rolled appealin'ly towards us chevy chasers. we rises to the opportoonity. day after day we're ridin' the hills an' vales, readin' the milk white snow for tracks. an' we has success. one mornin' i comes up on two of the brackenridge boys an' five more of the chevy chasers settin' on their hosses at the skinner cross roads. bob crittenden's gone to turn me out, they says. then they p'ints down to a handful of close-wove bresh an' stunted timber an' allows that this maraudin' cat-o-mount is hidin' thar; they sees him go skulkin' in. "'gents, i ain't above admittin' that the news puts my heart to a canter. i'm brave; but conflicts with wild an' savage beasts is to me a novelty an' while i faces my fate without a flutter, i'm yere to say i'd sooner been in pursoot of minks or raccoons or some varmint whose grievous cap'bilities i can more ackerately stack up an' in whose merry ways i'm better versed. however, the dauntless blood of my grandsire mounts in my cheek; an' as if the shade of that old trojan is thar personal to su'gest it, i searches forth a flask an' renoos my sperit; thus qualified for perils, come in what form they may, i resolootely stands my hand. "'thar's forty dogs if thar's one in our company as we pauses at the skinner crossroads. an' when the crittenden yooth returns, he brings with him the rickett boys an' forty added dogs. which it's worth a ten-mile ride to get a glimpse of that outfit of canines! thar's every sort onder the canopy: thar's the stolid hound, the alert fice, the sapient collie; that is thar's individyool beasts wherein the hound, or fice, or collie seems to preedominate as a strain. the trooth is thar's not that dog a-whinin' about our hosses' fetlocks who ain't proudly descended from fifteen different tribes, an' they shorely makes a motley mass meetin'. still, they're good, zealous dogs; an' as they're going to go for'ard an' take most of the resks of that panther, it seems invidious to criticise 'em. "'one of the twitty boys rides down an' puts the eighty or more dogs into the bresh. the rest of us lays back an' strains our eyes. thar he is! a shout goes up as we descries the panther stealin' off by a far corner. he's headin' along a hollow that's full of bresh an' baby timber an' runs parallel with the pike. big an' yaller he is; we can tell from the slight flash we gets of him as he darts into a second clump of bushes. with a cry--what young crittenden calls a "view halloo,"--we goes stampedin' down the pike in pursoot. "'our dogs is sta'nch; they shore does themse'fs proud. singin' in twenty keys, reachin' from growls to yelps an' from yelps to shrillest screams, they pushes dauntlessly on the fresh trail of their terrified quarry. now an' then we gets a squint of the panther as he skulks from one copse to another jest ahead. which he's goin' like a arrow; no mistake! as for us chevy chasers, we parallels the hunt, an' continyoos poundin' the skinner turnpike abreast of the pack, ever an' anon givin' a encouragin' shout as we briefly sights our game. "'gents,' says colonel sterett, as he ag'in refreshes himse'f, 'it's needless to go over that hunt in detail. we hustles the flyin' demon full eighteen miles, our faithful dogs crowdin' close an' breathless at his coward heels. still, they don't catch up with him; he streaks it like some saffron meteor. "'only once does we approach within strikin' distance; that's when he crosses at old stafford's whiskey still. as he glides into view, crittenden shouts: "'"thar he goes!" "'for myse'f i'm prepared. i've got one of these misguided cap-an'-ball six-shooters that's built doorin' the war; an' i cuts that hardware loose! this weepon seems a born profligate of lead, for the six chambers goes off together. which you should have seen the chevy chasers dodge! an' well they may; that broadside ain't in vain! my aim is so troo that one of the r'armost dogs evolves a howl an' rolls over; then he sets up gnawin' an' lickin' his off hind laig in frantic alternations. that hunt is done for him. we leaves him doctorin' himse'f an' picks him up two hours later on our triumphant return. "'as i states, we harries that foogitive panther for eighteen miles an' in our hot ardour founders two hosses. fatigue an' weariness begins to overpower us; also our prey weakens along with the rest. in the half glimpses we now an' ag'in gets of him its plain that both pace an' distance is tellin' fast. still, he presses on; an' as thar's no spur like fear, that panther holds his distance. "'but the end comes. we've done run him into a rough, wild stretch of country where settlements is few an' cabins roode. of a sudden, the panther emerges onto the road an' goes rackin' along the trail. we pushes our spent steeds to the utmost. "'thar's a log house ahead; out in the stump-filled lot in front is a frowsy woman an' five small children. the panther leaps the rickety worm-fence an' heads straight as a bullet for the cl'arin'! horrors! the sight freezes our marrows! mad an' savage, he's doo to bite a hunk outen that devoted household! mutooally callin' to each other, we goads our hosses to the utmost. we gain on the panther! he may wound but he won't have time to slay that fam'ly. "'gents, it's a soopreme moment! the panther makes for the female squatter an' her litter, we pantin' an' pressin' clost behind. the panther is among 'em; the woman an' the children seems transfixed by the awful spectacle an' stands rooted with open eyes an' mouths. our emotions shore beggars deescriptions. "'now ensooes a scene to smite the hardiest of us with dismay. no sooner does the panther find himse'f in the midst of that he'pless bevy of little ones, than he stops, turns round abrupt, an' sets down on his tail; an' then upliftin' his muzzle he busts into shrieks an' yells an' howls an' cries, a complete case of dog hysterics! that's what he is, a great yeller dog; his reason is now a wrack because we harasses him the eighteen miles. "'thar's a ugly outcast of a squatter, mattock in hand, comes tumblin' down the hillside from some'ers out back of the shanty where he's been grubbin': "'"what be you-all eediots chasin' my dog for?" demands this onkempt party. then he menaces us with the implement. "'we makes no retort but stands passive. the great orange brute whose nerves has been torn to rags creeps to the squatter an' with mournful howls explains what we've made him suffer. "'no, thar's nothin' further to do an' less to be said. that cavalcade, erstwhile so gala an' buoyant, drags itself wearily homeward, the exhausted dogs in the r'ar walkin' stiff an' sore like their laigs is wood. for more'n a mile the complainin' howls of the hysterical yeller dog is wafted to our y'ears. then they ceases; an' we figgers his sympathizin' master has done took him into the shanty an' shet the door. "'no one comments on this adventure, not a word is heard. each is silent ontil we mounts the big murray hill. as we collects ourse'fs on this eminence one of the brackenridge boys holds up his hand for a halt. "gents," he says, as--hosses, hunters an' dogs--we-all gathers 'round, "gents, i moves you the chevy chase huntin' club yereby stands adjourned _sine die_." thar's a moment's pause, an' then as by one impulse every gent, hoss an' dog, says "ay!" it's yoonanimous, an' from that hour till now the chevy chase huntin' club ain't been nothin' save tradition. but that panther shore disappears; it's the end of his vandalage; an' ag'in does quadrilles, pra'rs, an poker resoom their wonted sway. that's the end; an' now, gents, if black jack will caper to his dooties we'll uplift our drooped energies with the usual forty drops." chapter iii. how faro nell dealt bank. "riches," remarked the old cattleman, "riches says you! neither you-all nor any other gent is competent to state whether in the footure he amasses wealth or not. the question is far beyond the throw of your rope." my friend's tone breathed a note of strong contradiction while his glance was the glance of experience. i had said that i carried no hope of becoming rich; that the members of my tribe were born with their hands open and had such hold of money as a riddle has of water. it was this which moved him to expostulatory denial. "this matter of wealth, that a-way," he continued, "is a mighty sight a question of luck. shore, a gent has to have capacity to grasp a chance an' savey sufficient to get his chips down right. but this chance, an' whether it offers itse'f to any specific sport, is frequent accident an' its comin' or failure to come depends on conditions over which the party about to be enriched ain't got no control. that's straight, son! you backtrack any fortune to its beginning an some'ers along the trail or at the farthest end you'll come up with the fact that it took a accident or two, what we-all darkened mortals calls 'luck,' to make good the play. it's like gettin' shot gettin' rich is; all you has to do is be present personal at the time, an' the bullet does the rest. "you distrusts these doctrines. you shore won't if you sets down hard an' thinks. suppose twenty gents has made a surround an' is huntin' a b'ar. only one is goin' to down him. an' in his clumsy blunderin' the b'ar is goin' to select his execootioner himse'f. that's a fact; the party who downs the b'ar, final, ain't goin' to pick the b'ar out; the b'ar's goin' to pick him out. an' it's the same about wealth; one gent gets the b'ar an' the other nineteen--an' they're as cunnin' an' industr'ous as the lucky party--don't get nothing--don't even get a shot. i repeats tharfore, that you-all settin' yere this evenin', firin' off aimless observations, don't know whether you'll quit rich or not." at the close of his dissertation, my talkative companion puffed a cloud which seemed to hang above his venerable head in a fashion of heavy blue approval. i paused as one impressed by the utter wisdom of the old gentleman. then i took another tack. "speaking of wealth," i said, "tell me concerning the largest money you ever knew to be won or lost at faro--tell me a gambling story." "tell you-all a gamblin' tale," he repeated, and then mused as if lost in retrospection. "if i hesitates it's because of a multitoode of incidents from which to draw. i've beheld some mighty cur'ous doin's at the gamblin' tables. once i knows a party who sinks his hopeless head on the layout an' dies as he loses his last chip. this don't happen in wolfville none. no, i don't say folks ain't cashed in at farobank in that excellent hamlet an' gone singin' to their home above; but it ain't heart disease. usual it's guns; the same bein' invoked by sech inadvertencies as pickin' up some other gent's bet. "tell you-all a story about gamblin'! now i reckons the time faro nell rescoos cherokee hall from rooin is when i sees the most _dinero_ changed in at one play. you can gamble that's a thrillin' eepisode when faro nell steps in between cherokee an' the destroyer. it's the gossip of the camp for days, an' when wolfville discusses anything for days that outfit's plumb moved. "this gent who crowds cherokee to the wall performs the feat deliberate. he organises a sort o' campaign ag'in cherokee; what you might term a fiscal dooel, an' at the finish he has cherokee corralled for his last _peso_. it's at that p'int nell cuts in an' redeems the sityooation a heap. it's all on the squar'; this invadin' sport simply outlucks the bank. that, an' the egreegious limit cherokee gives him, is what does the trick. "in wolfville, we-all allers recalls that sharp-set gent who comes after cherokee with respect. in fact he wins our encomiums before he sets in ag'in cherokee--before ever he gets his second drink at the red light bar. he comes ramblin' over with old monte from tucson one evenin'; that's the first glimpse we has of him. an' for a hour, mebby, followin' his advent, seein' the gen'ral herd is busy with the mail, he has the red light to himse'f. "on this yere o'casion, thar's likewise present in wolfville--he's been infringin' 'round some three days--a onsettled an' migratory miscreant who's name is ugly collins. he's in a heap of ill repoote in the territories, this ugly collins is; an' only he contreebutes the information when he arrives in camp that his visit is to be mighty temp'rary, enright would have signed up jack moore to take his guns an' stampede him a lot. "at the time i'm talkin' of, as thar's no one who's that abandoned as to go writin' letters to ugly collins, it befalls he's plenty footloose. this leesure on the part of ugly collins turns out some disastrous for that party. not havin' no missives to read leaves him free to go weavin' about permiscus an' it's while he's strayin' here an' thar that he tracks up on this stranger who's come after cherokee. "ugly collins sees our pilgrim in the red light an', except black jack,--who of course is present offishul--the stranger's alone. he's weak an' meek an' shook by a cough that sounds like the overture to a fooneral. ugly collins, who's a tyrannizin' cowardly form of outcast, sizes him up as a easy prey. he figgers he'll have a heap of evil fun with him, ugly collins does. tharupon he approaches the consumptive stranger: "'you-all seems plenty ailin', pard,' says ugly collins. "'which i shore ain't over peart none,' retorts the stranger. "'an' you-all can put down a bet,' returns ugly collins, 'i learns of your ill-health with regrets. it's this a-way: i ain't had no exercise yet this evenin'; an' as i tracks in yere, i registers a vow to wallop the first gent i meets up with to whom i've not been introdooced ;--merely by way of stretchin' my muscles. now i must say--an' i admits it with sorrow--that you-all is that onhappy sport. it's no use; i knows i'll loathe myse'f for crawlin' the hump of a gent who's totterin' on the brink of the grave; but whatever else can i do? vows is vows an' must be kept, so you might as well prepare yourse'f for a cloud of sudden an' painful vicissitoodes.' "as ugly collins says this he kind o' reaches for the invalid gent where he's camped in a cha'r. it's a onfortunate gesture; the invalid--as quick as a rattlesnake,--prodooces a derringer, same as doc peets allers packs, from his surtoot an' the bullet carries away most of ugly collins' lower jaw. "'you-all is goin' to be a heap sight more of a audience than a orator yereafter, collins,' says doc peets, as he ties up the villain's visage that a-way. 'also, you oughter be less reckless an' get the address of your victims before embarkin' on them skelp-collectin' enterprises of yours. that gent you goes ag'inst is doc holliday; as hard a game as lurks anywhere between the slope an' the big muddy.' "does the stranglers do anything to this holliday? why, no, not much; all they does is present him with a colt's- along with the compliments of the camp. "'an' it's to be deplored,' says enright, when he makes the presentation speech to holliday, 'that you-all don't have this weepon when you cuts loose at collins instead of said jimcrow derringer. in sech events, that hoss-thief's death would have been assured. shore! shootin' off collins' jaw is good as far as it goes, but it can't be regyarded as no sech boon as downin' him complete. "it's after supper when this holliday encounters cherokee; the two has a conference. this holliday lays bar' his purpose. "'which i'm yere,' says this holliday, 'not only for your money, but i wants the camp.' then he goes for'ard an' proposes that they plays till one is broke; an, if it's cherokee who goes down, he is to vamos the outfit while holliday succeeds to his game. 'an' the winner is to stake his defeated adversary to one thousand dollars wherewith to begin life anew,' concloodes this holliday. "'which what you states seems like agreeable offers,' says cherokee, an' he smiles clever an' gentlemanly. 'how strong be you-all, may i ask?' "'thirty thousand dollars in thirty bills,' replies this holliday. 'an' now may i enquire how strong be you? i also likes to know how long a trail i've got to travel.' "'my roll is about forty thousand big,' says cherokee. then he goes on: 'it's all right; i'll open a game for you at second drink time sharp.' "'that's comfortin' to hear,' retorts this holliday. 'the chances,--what with splits an' what with the ten thousand you oversizes me,--is nacherally with you; but i takes 'em. if i lose, i goes back with a even thousand; if i win, you-all hits the trail with a thousand, while i'm owner of your roll an' bank. does that onderstandin' go?' "'it goes!' says cherokee. then he turns off for a brief powwow with faro nell. "'but thar's one thing you-all forgets, cherokee,' says nell. 'if he breaks you, he's got to go on an' break me. i've a bundle of three thousand; he's got to get it all before ever the play is closed. tell this yere holliday party that.' "cherokee argues ag'in it; but nell stamps 'round an' starts to weep some, an' at that, like every other troo gent, he gives in abject. "'thar's a bet i overlooks,' observes cherokee, when he resoomes his talk with this holliday; 'it's my partner. it's only a little matter of three thousand, but the way the scheme frames itse'f up, after i'm down an' out, you'll have to break my partner before wolfville's all your own.' "'that's eminent satisfactory,' returns this holliday. 'an' i freely adds that your partner is a dead game sport to take so brief a fortune an'--win all, lose all--go after more'n twenty times as much. your partner's a shore enough optimist that a-way.' "cherokee don't make no retort. this holliday ain't posted none that the partner cherokee's mentionin' is faro nell, an' cherokee allows he won't onbosom himse'f on that p'int onless his hand is forced. "when the time arrives to open the game, the heft of wolfville's public is gathered at the red light. the word goes 'round as to the enterprisin' holliday bein' out for cherokee's entire game; an' the prospect of seein' a limit higher than a cat's back, an' a dooel to the death, proves mighty pop'lar. the play opens to a full house, shore! "'what limit do you give me?' says this holliday, with a sort o' cough, at the same time settin' in opposite to cherokee. 'be lib'ral; i ain't more'n a year to live, an' i've got to play 'em high an' hard to get average action. if i'm in robust health now, with a long, useful life before me, the usual figgers would do. considerin' my wasted health, however, i shore hopes you'll say something like the even thousand.' "'which i'll do better than that,' returns cherokee, as he snaps the deck in the box, 'i'll let you fix the limit to suit yourse'f. make it the ceilin' if the sperit moves you.' "'that's gen'rous!' says holliday. 'an' to mark my appreciation tharof, i'll jest nacherally take every resk of splits an' put ten thousand in the pot, coppered; ten thousand in the big squar'; an' ten thousand, coppered, on the high kyard.' "son, we-all sports standin' lookin' on draws a deep breath. thirty thousand in three ten thousand dollar bets, an' all on the layout at once, marks a epock in wolfville business life wherefrom folks can onblushin'ly date time! thar it lays however, an' the two sharps most onmoved tharby is cherokee an' holliday themse'fs. "'turn your game!' says this holliday, when his money is down, an' leanin' back to light a seegyar. "cherokee makes the turn. never does i witness action so sudden an' complete! it's shore the sharpest! the top kyard as the deck lays in the box is a ten-spot. an' as the papers is shoved forth, how do you-all reckon they falls! i'm a mexican! if they don't come seven-king! this holliday wins all along; cherokee is out thirty thousand an' only three kyards showed! how's that for perishin' flesh an' blood! "i looks at cherokee; his face is as ca'm as a injun's; he's too finely fibred a sport to so much as let a eyelash quiver. this holliday is equally onemotional. cherokee shoves over three yaller chips. "'call 'em ten thousand each,' says cherokee. then he waits for this holliday to place his next bets. "'since you-all has exackly that sum left in your treasury,' observes this holliday, puffin' his seegyar, 'i reckons i'll let one of these yaller tokens go, coppered, on the high kyard ag'in. you-all doubles or breaks right yere.' "the turn falls trey-eight. cherokee takes in that ten thousand dollar chip. "'bein's that i'm still playin' on velvet,' remarks this holliday, an' his tone is listless an' languid like he's only half interested, 'i'll go twenty thousand on the high kyard, open. this trip we omits the copper.' "the first kyard to show is a deuce. it's better than ten to one cherokee will win. but disapp'intment chokes the camp; the next kyard is a ace, an' cherokee's swept off his moccasins. the bank is broke; and to signify as much, cherokee turns his box on its side, counts over forty thousand dollars to this holliday an' gets up from the dealer's cha'r. "as cherokee rises, faro nell slides off the lookout's stool an' into the vacated cha'r. when cherokee loses the last bet i hears nell's teeth come together with a click. i don't dare look towards her at the time; but now, when she turns the box back, takes out the deck, riffles an' returns it to its place i gives her a glance. nell's as game as cherokee. as she sets over ag'inst this lucky invalid her colour is high an' her eyes like two stars. "'an' now you've got to break me,' says nell to this holliday. 'also, we restores the _statu quo_, as colonel sterett says in that _coyote_ paper, an' the limit retreats to a even hundred dollars.' "'be you-all the partner mister hall mentions?' asks this holliday, at the same time takin' off his sombrero an' throwin' away his seegyar. "nell says she is. "'miss,' says this holliday, 'i feels honoured to find myse'f across the layout from so much sperit an' beauty. a limit of one hundred, says you; an' your word is law! as a first step then, give me three thousand dollars worth of chips an' make 'em fifty dollars each. i'll take the same chance with you on that question of splits i does former, an' i wants a hundred on every kyard, middle to win ag'in the ends.' "the deal begins; nell is winner from the jump; she takes in three bets to lose one plumb down to the turn. this holliday calls the turn for the limit; an' loses. the kyards go into the box ag'in an' a next deal ensooes. so it continyoos; an' nell beats this holliday hard for half a hour. nell sees she's in luck; an' she feels that strong she concloods to press it some. "'the limit's five hundred!' says nell to this holliday. 'come after me!' "holliday bows like he's complimented. 'i'm after you; an' i comes a-runnin',' he says. "down goes his money all over the lay-out; only now its five hundred instead of one hundred. "it's no avail, this holliday still loses. at the end of a hour nell sizes up her roll; she's a leetle over forty thousand strong; jest where cherokee stands at the start. "nell pauses as she's about to put the deck in the box for a deal. she looks at this holliday a heap thoughtful. that look excites dan boggs who's been on the brink of fits since ever the play begins, he's that 'motional. "'don't raise the limit, nell!' says dan in a awful whisper. 'that's where cherokee's weak at the go-off. he ought never to have thrown away the limit.' "nell casts her eyes--they're burnin' like coals!--on dan. i can see his bluff about cherokee bein' weak has done decided her mind. "'cherokee does right,' says nell to dan, 'like cherokee allers does. an' i'll do the same as cherokee. stranger,' goes on nell, turnin' from dan to this holliday; 'go as far as you likes. the bridle's off the hoss.' "'an' much obleeged to you, miss!' says this holliday, with another of them p'lite bows. 'as the kyards goes in the box, i makes you the same three bets i makes first to mister hall. ten thousand, coppered, in the pot; ten thousand, open, in the big squar'; an' ten thousand on the high kyard, coppered.' "'an' now as then,' says nell, sort o' catchin' her breath, 'the ten-spot's the soda kyard!' "son, it won't happen ag'in in a billion years! nell's right hand shakes a trifle--she's only a child, mind, an' ain't got the nerves that goes with case-hardened sports--as she shoves the ten-spot forth. but it's comin' her way; her luck holds; as certain as we all sets yere drinkin' toddy, the same two kyards shows for her as for cherokee, but this time they falls 'king-seven'; the bank wins, an' pore holliday is cleaned out. "'thar, cherokee,' says nell, an' thar's a soft smile an' a sigh of deep content goes with the observation, 'thar's your bank ag'in; only it's thirty thousand stronger than it is four hours ago.' "'your bank, ladybird, you means!' says cherokee. "'well, our bank, then,' retorts nell. 'what's the difference? don't you-all tell me we're partners?' then nell motions to black jack. 'the drinks is on me, jack,' she says; 'see what the house will have.'" chapter iv. how the raven died. "which if you-all is out to hear of injuns, son," observed the old cattleman, doubtfully, "the best i can do is shet my eyes an' push along regyardless, like a cayouse in a storm of snow. but i don't guarantee no facts; none whatever! i never does bend myse'f to severe study of savages an' what notions i packs concernin' 'em is the casual frootes of what i accidental hears an' what i sees. it's only now an' then, as i observes former, that injuns invades wolfville; an' when they does, we-all scowls 'em outen camp--sort o' makes a sour front, so as to break 'em early of habits of visitin' us. we shore don't hone none to have 'em hankerin' 'round. "nacherally, i makes no doubt that if you goes clost to injuns an' studies their little game you finds some of 'em good an' some bad, some gaudy an' some sedate, some cu'rous an' some indifferent, same as you finds among shore-enough folks. it's so with mules an' broncos; wherefore, then, may not these differences exist among injuns? come squar' to the turn, you-all finds white folks separated the same. some gents follows off one waggon track an' some another; some even makes a new trail. "speakin' of what's opposite in folks, i one time an' ag'in sees two white chiefs of scouts who frequent comes pirootin' into wolfville from the fort. each has mebby a score of injuns at his heels who pertains to him personal. one of these scout chiefs is all buck-skins, fringes, beads an' feathers from y'ears to hocks, while t'other goes garbed in a stiff hat with a little jim crow rim--one of them kind you deenom'nates as a darby--an' a diag'nal overcoat; one chief looks like a dime novel on a spree an' t'other as much like the far east as he saveys how. an' yet, son, this voylent person in buckskins is a second lootenent--a mere boy, he is--from west p'int; while that outcast in the reedic'lous hat is foaled on the plains an' never does go that clost to the risin' sun as to glimpse the old missouri. the last form of maverick bursts frequent into western bloom; it's their ambition, that a-way, to deloode you into deemin' 'em as fresh from the states as one of them tomatter airtights. "thar's old gent jeffords; he's that sort. old jeffords lives for long with the apaches; he's found among 'em when gen'ral crook--the old 'grey fox'--an' civilisation and gatlin' guns comes into arizona arm in arm. i used to note old jeffords hibernatin' about the oriental over in tucson. i shore reckons he's procrastinatin' about thar yet, if the great sperit ain't done called him in. as i says, old jeffords is that long among the apaches back in cochise's time that the mem'ry of man don't run none to the contrary. an' yet no gent ever sees old jeffords wearin' anything more savage than a long-tail black surtoot an' one of them stove pipe hats. is jeffords dangerous? no, you-all couldn't call him a distinct peril; still, folks who goes devotin' themse'fs to stirrin' jeffords up jest to see if he's alive gets disasterous action. he has long grey ha'r an' a tangled white beard half-way down his front; an' with that old plug hat an' black coat he's a sight to frighten children or sour milk! still, jeffords is all right. as long as towerists an' other inquisitive people don't go pesterin' jeffords, he shore lets 'em alone. otherwise, you might as well be up the same saplin' with a cinnamon b'ar; which you'd most likely hear something drop a lot! "for myse'f, i likes old jeffords, an' considers him a pleasin' conundrum. about tenth drink time he'd take a cha'r an' go camp by himse'f in a far corner, an' thar he'd warble hymns. many a time as i files away my nosepaint in the oriental have i been regaled with, jesus, lover of my soul, let me to thy bosom fly, while the nearer waters roll, while the tempest still is high, as emanatin' from jeffords where he's r'ared back conductin' some personal services. folks never goes buttin' in interferin' with these concerts; which it's cheaper to let him sing. "speakin' of injuns, as i su'gests, i never does see over-much of 'em in wolfville. an' my earlier experiences ain't thronged with 'em neither, though while i'm workin' cattle along the red river i does carom on injuns more or less. thar's one old hostile i recalls speshul; he's a fool injun called black feather;--choctaw, he is. this black feather's weakness is fire-water; he thinks more of it than some folks does of children. "black feather used to cross over to where dick stocton maintains a store an' licker house on the upper hawgthief. of course, no gent sells these injuns licker. it's ag'in the law; an' onless you-all is onusual eager to make a trip to fort smith with a marshal ridin' herd on you doorin' said visit, impartin' of nosepaint to aborigines is a good thing not to do. but black feather, he'd come over to dick stocton's an' linger 'round the bar'ls of valley tan, an' take a chance on stealin' a snifter or two while stocton's busy. "at last stocton gets tired an' allows he'll lay for black feather. this yere stocton is a mighty reckless sport; he ain't carin' much whatever he does do; he hates injuns an' shot guns, an' loves licker, seven-up, an' sin in any form; them's stocton's prime characteristics. an' he gets mighty weary of the whiskey-thievin' black feather, an' lays for him. "one evenin' this aggravatin' black feather crosses over an' takes to ha'ntin' about dick stocton's licker room as is his wont. it looks like black feather has already been buyin' whiskey of one of them boot-laig parties who takes every chance an' goes among the injuns an' sells 'em nosepaint on the sly. 'fore ever he shows up on the upper hawgthief that time, this black feather gets nosepaint some'ers an' puts a whole quart of it away in the shade; an' he shore exhibits symptoms. which for one thing he feels about four stories tall! "stocton sets a trap for black feather. he fills up the tin cup into which he draws that valley tan with coal-oil--karoseen you-all calls it--an' leaves it, temptin' like, settin' on top a whiskey bar'l. shore! it's the first thing black feather notes. he sees his chance an' grabs an' downs the karoseen; an' stocton sort o' startin' for him, this black feather gulps her down plump swift. the next second he cuts loose the yell of that year, burns up about ten acres of land, and starts for red river. no, i don't know whether the karoseen hurts him none or not; but he certainly goes squatterin' across the old red river like a wounded wild-duck, an' he never does come back no more. "but, son, as you sees, i don't know nothin' speshul or much touchin' injuns, an' if i'm to dodge the disgrace of ramblin' along in this desultory way, i might better shift to a tale i hears sioux sam relate to doc peets one time in the red light. this sam is a sioux, an a mighty decent buck, considerin' he's injun; sam is servin' the great father as a scout with the diag'nal-coat, darby-hat sharp i mentions. peets gives this saddle-tinted longhorn a -bit piece, an' he tells this yarn. it sounds plenty childish; but you oughter b'ar in mind that savages, mental, ain't no bigger nor older than ten year old young-ones among the palefaces. "'this is the story my mother tells me,' says sioux sam, 'to show me the evils of cur'osity. "the great sperit allows to every one the right to ask only so many questions," says my mother, "an' when they ask one more than is their right, they die." "'this is the story of the fate of _kaw-kaw-chee_, the raven, a sioux chief who died long ago exackly as my mother told me. the raven died because he asked too many questions an' was too cur'ous. it began when sublette, who was a trader, came up the _mitchi-zoor-rah_, the big-muddy, an' was robbed by the raven's people. sublette was mad at this, an' said next time he would bring the sioux a present so they would not rob him. so he brought a little cask of fire-water an' left it on the bank of the big-muddy. then sublette went away, an' twenty of the raven's young men found the little cask. an' they were greedy an' did not tell the camp; they drank the fire-water where it was found. "'the raven missed his twenty young men an' when he went to spy for them, behold! they were dead with their teeth locked tight an' their faces an' bodies writhen an' twisted as the whirlwind twists the cottonwoods. then the raven thought an' thought; an' he got very cur'ous to know why his young men died so writhen an' twisted. the fire-water had a whirlwind in it, an' the raven was eager to hear. so he sent for sublette. "'then the raven an' sublette had a big talk. they agreed not to hurt each other; an' sublette was to come an' go an' trade with the sioux; an' they would never rob him. "'at this, sublette gave the raven some of the whirlwind that so killed an' twisted the twenty young men. it was a powder, white; an' it had no smell. sublette said its taste was bitter; but the raven must not taste it or it would lock up his teeth an' twist an' kill him. for to swallow the white powder loosed the whirlwind on the man's heart an' it bent him an' twisted him like the storms among the willows. "'but the raven could give the powder to others. so the raven gave it in some deer's meat to his two squaws; an' they were twisted till they died; an' when they would speak they couldn't, for their teeth were held tight together an' no words came out of their mouths,--only a great foam. then the raven gave it to others that he did not love; they were twisted an' died. at last there was no more of the powder of the whirlwind; the raven must wait till sublette came up the big-muddy again an' brought him more. "'there was a man, the gray elk, who was of the raven's people. the gray elk was a _choo-ayk-eed_, a great prophet. and the gray elk had a wife; she was wise an' beautiful, an' her name was squaw-who-has-dreams. but gray elk called her _kee-nee-moo-sha_, the sweetheart. "'while the raven waited for sublette to bring him more powder of the whirlwind, a star with a long tail came into the sky. this star with the tail made the raven heap cur'ous. he asked gray elk to tell him about it, for he was a prophet. the raven asked many questions; they fell from him like leaves from a tree in the month of the first ice. so the gray elk called _chee-bee_, the spirit; an' the spirit told the gray elk. then the gray elk told the raven.' "'it was not a tail, it was blood--star blood; an' the star had been bit an' was wounded, but would get well. the sun was the father of the stars, an' the moon was their mother. the sun, _gheezis_, tried ever to pursue an' capture an' eat his children, the stars. so the stars all ran an' hid when the sun was about. but the stars loved their mother who was good an' never hurt them; an' when the sun went to sleep at night an' _coush-ee-wan_, the darkness, shut his eyes, the moon an' her children came together to see each other. but the star that bled had been caught by the sun; it got out of his mouth but was wounded. now it was frightened, so it always kept its face to where the sun was sleeping over in the west. the bleeding star, _sch-coo-dah_, would get well an' its wound would heal. "'then the raven wanted to know how the gray elk knew all this. an' the gray elk had the raven into the medicine lodge that night; an' the raven heard the spirits come about an' heard their voices; but he could not understand. also, the raven saw a wolf all fire, with wings like the eagle which flew overhead. also he heard the thunder, _boom-wa-wa_, talking with the gray elk; but the raven couldn't understand. the gray elk told the raven to draw his knife an' stab with it in the air outside the medicine lodge. an' when he did, the raven's blade an' hand came back covered with blood. still, the raven was cur'ous an' kept askin' to be told how the gray elk knew these things. an' the gray elk at last took the raven to the great bachelor sycamore that lived alone, an' asked the raven if the bachelor sycamore was growing. an' the raven said it was. then gray elk asked him how he knew it was growing. an' the raven said he didn't know. then gray elk said he did not know how he knew about _sch-coo-dah_, the star that was bit. this made the raven angry, for he was very cur'ous; an' he thought the gray elk had two tongues. "'then it came the month of the first young grass an' sublette was back for furs. also he brought many goods; an' he gave to the raven more of the powder of the whirlwind in a little box, at once the raven made a feast of ducks for the gray elk; an' he gave him of the whirlwind powder; an' at once his teeth came together an' the gray elk was twisted till he died. "'now no one knew that the raven had the powder of the whirlwind, so they could not tell why all these people were twisted and went to the great spirit. but the squaw-who-has-dreams saw that it was the raven who killed her husband, the gray elk, in a vision. then the squaw-who-has-dreams went into the mountains four days an' talked with _moh-kwa_, the bear who is the wisest of the beasts. the bear said it was the raven who killed the gray elk an' told the squaw-who-has-dreams of the powder of the whirlwind. "'then the bear an' the squaw-who-has-dreams made a fire an' smoked an' laid a plot. the bear did not know where to find the powder of the whirlwind which the raven kept always in a secret place. but the bear told the squaw-who-has-dreams that she should marry the raven an' watch until she found where the powder of the whirlwind was kept in its secret place; an' then she was to give some to the raven, an' he, too, would be twisted an' die. there was a great danger, though; the raven would, after the one day when they were wedded, want to kill the squaw-who-has-dreams. so to protect her, the bear told her she must begin to tell the raven the moment she was married to him the story-that-never-ends. then, because the raven was more cur'ous than even he was cruel, he would put off an' put off giving the powder of the whirlwind to the squaw-who-has-dreams, hoping to hear the end of the story-that-never-ends. meanwhile the squaw-who-has-dreams was to watch the raven until she found the powder of the whirlwind in its secret place. "'then the wise bear gave the squaw-who-has-dreams a bowlful of words as seed, so she might plant them an' raise a crop of talk to tell the story-that-never-ends. an' the squaw-who-has-dreams planted the seed-words, an' they grew an' grew an' she gathered sixteen bundles of talk an' brought them to her wigwam. after that she put beads in her hair, an' dyed her lips red, an' rubbed red on her cheeks, an' put on a new blanket; an' when the raven saw her, he asked her to marry him. so they were wedded; an' the squaw-who-has-dreams went to the teepee of the raven an' was his wife. "'but the raven was old an' cunning like _yah-mee-kee_, the beaver, an' he said, "he is not wise who keeps a squaw too long!" an' with that he thought he would kill the squaw-who-has-dreams the next day with the powder of the whirlwind. but the squaw-who-has-dreams first told the raven that she hated _when-dee-goo_, the giant; an' that she should not love the raven until he had killed _when-dee-goo_. she knew the giant was too big an' strong for the raven to kill with his lance, an' that he must get his powder of the whirlwind; she would watch him an' learn its secret place. the raven said he would kill the giant as the sun went down next day. "'then the squaw-who-has-dreams told the raven the first of the story-that-never-ends an' used up one bundle of talk; an' when the story ended for that night, the squaw-who-has-dreams was saying: "an' so, out of the lake that was red as the sun came a great fish that was green, with yellow wings, an' it walked also with feet, an' it came up to me an' said: "but then she would tell no more that night; nor could the raven, who was crazy with cur'osity, prevail on her. "i must now sleep an' dream what the green fish with the yellow wings said," was the reply of the squaw-who-has-dreams, an' she pretended to slumber. so the raven, because he was cur'ous, put off her death. "'all night she watched, but the raven did not go to the secret place where he had hidden the powder of the whirlwind. nor the next day, when the sun went down, did the raven kill the giant. but the squaw-who-has-dreams took up again the story-that-never-ends an' told what the green fish with the yellow wings said; an' she used up the second bundle of talk. when she ceased for that time, the squaw-who-has-dreams was saying: "an' as night fell, _moh-kwa_, the bear, called to me from his canyon, an' said for me to come an' he would show me where the great treasure of fire-water was buried for you who are the raven. so i went into the canyon, an' _moh-kwa_, the bear, took me by the hand an' led me to the treasure of fire-water which was greater an' richer than was ever seen by any sioux." "'then the squaw-who-has-dreams would tell no more that night, while the raven eat his fingers with cur'osity. but he made up a new plan not to twist the squaw-who-has-dreams until she showed him the treasure of fire-water an' told him the end of the story-that-never-ends. on her part, however, the squaw-who-has-dreams, as she went to sleep, wept an' tore the beads from her hair an' said the raven did not love her; for he had not killed the giant as he promised. she said she would tell no more of the story-that-never-ends until the giant was dead; nor would she show to a husband who did not love her the great treasure of fire-water which _moh-kwa_, the bear, had found. at this, the raven who was hot to have the treasure of firewater an' whose ears rang with cur'osity to hear the end of the story-that-never-ends saw that he must kill the giant. therefore, when the squaw-who-has-dreams had ceased to sob and revile him, an' was gone as he thought asleep, the raven went to his secret place where he kept the powder of the whirlwind an' took a little an' wrapped it in a leaf an' hid the leaf in the braids of his long hair. then the raven went to sleep. "'when the raven was asleep the squaw-who-has-dreams went also herself to the secret place an' got also a little of the powder of the whirlwind. an' the next morning she arose early an' gave the powder of the whirlwind to the raven on the roast buffalo, the _pez-hee-kee_, which was his food. "'when the raven had eaten, the squaw-who-has-dreams went out of the teepee among the people an' called all the sioux to come an' see the raven die. so the sioux came gladly, and the raven was twisted an' writhen with the power of the whirlwind wrenching at his heart; an' his teeth were tight like a trap; an' no words, but only foam, came from his mouth; an' at last the spirit, the _chee-bee_, was twisted out of the raven; an' the squaw-who-has-dreams was revenged for the death of the gray elk whom she loved an' who always called her _kee-nee-moo-sha_, the sweetheart, because it made her laugh. "'when the raven was dead, the squaw-who-has-dreams went to the secret place an' threw the powder of the whirlwind into the big-muddy; an' after that she distributed her fourteen bundles of talk that were left among all the sioux so that everybody could tell how glad he felt because the raven was twisted and died. an' for a week there was nothing but happiness an' big talk among the sioux; an' _moh-kwa_, the bear, came laughing out of his canyon with the wonder of listening to it; while the squaw-who-has-dreams now, when her revenge was done, went with _when-dee-goo_, the giant, to his teepee and became his squaw. so now everything was ended save the story-that-never-ends.' "when sioux sam gets this far," concluded the old cattleman, "he says, 'an' my mother's words at the end were: "an' boys who ask too many questions will die, as did the raven whose cur'osity was even greater than his cruelty."'" chapter v. the queerness of dave tutt. "which these queernesses of dave's," observed the old cattleman, "has already been harrowin' an' harassin' up the camp for mighty likely she's two months, when his myster'ous actions one evenin' in the red light brings things to a climax, an' a over-strained public, feelin' like it can b'ar no more, begins to talk. "it's plumb easy to remember this red light o'casion, for jest prior to dave alarmin' us by becomin' melodious, furtive--melody bein' wholly onnacheral to dave, that a-way--thar's a callow pin-feather party comes caperin' in an' takin' old man enright one side, asks can he yootilise wolfville as a strategic p'int in a elopement he's goin' to pull off. "'which i'm out to elope a whole lot from tucson,' explains this pin-feather party to enright, 'an' i aims to cinch the play. i'm a mighty cautious sport, an' before ever i hooks up for actooal freightin' over any trail, i rides her once or twice to locate wood and water, an' pick out my camps. said system may seem timorous, but it's shore safer a heap. so i asks ag'in whether you-all folks has any objections to me elopin' into wolfville with my beloved, like i suggests. i ain't out to spring no bridals on a onprotected outfit, wherefore i precedes the play with these queries.' "'but whatever's the call for you to elope at all?' remonstrates enright. 'the simple way now would be to round up this lady's paternal gent, an' get his consent.' "'seein' the old gent,' says the pin-feather party, ''speshully when you lays it smoothly off like that, shore does seem simplicity itse'f. but if you was to prance out an' try it some, it would be found plenty complex. see yere!' goes on the pin-feather party, beginnin' to roll up his sleeve, 'you-all impresses me as more or less a jedge of casyooalities. whatever now do you think of this? 'an' the pin-feather party exhibits a bullet wound in his left fore-arm, the same bein' about half healed. "'colt's six-shooter,' says enright. "'that's straight,' says the pin-feather party, buttonin' up his sleeve; 'you calls the turn. i wins out that abrasion pleadin' with the old gent. which i tackles him twice. the first time he opens on me with his -gun before ever i ends the sentence. but he misses. nacherally, i abandons them marital intentions for what you-all might call the "nonce" to sort o' look over my hand ag'in an' see be i right. do my best i can't on earth discern no reasons ag'in the nuptials. moreover, the lady--who takes after her old gent a heap--cuts in on the play with a bluff that while she don't aim none to crowd my hand, she's doo to begin shootin' me up herse'f if i don't show more passionate anxiety about leadin' her to the altar. it's then, not seein' why the old gent should go entertainin' notions ag'in me, an' deemin' mebby that when he blazes away that time he's merely pettish and don't really mean said bullet none, that i fronts up ag'in.' "'an' then,' asks enright, 'whatever does this locoed parent do?' "'which i jest shows you what,' says the pin-feather party. 'he gets the range before ever i opens my mouth, an' plugs me. at that i begins to half despair of winnin' his indorsements. i leaves it to you-all; be i right?' "'why,' says enright, rubbin' his fore'erd some doobious, 'it would look like the old gent is a leetle set ag'in you. still, as the responsible chief of this camp, i would like to hear why you reckons wolfville is a good place to elope to. i don't s'ppose it's on account of them drunkards over in tucson makin' free with our good repoote an' lettin' on we're light an' immoral that a-way?' "'none whatever!' says the pin-feather party. 'it's on account of you wolves bein' regyarded as peaceful, staid, an' law abidin' that i first considers you. then ag'in, thar ain't a multitood of places clost about tucson to elope to nohow; an' i can't elope far on account of my roll.' "the replies of this pin-feather party soothes enright an' engages him on that side, so he ups an' tells the 'swain,' as colonel sterett calls him later in the coyote, to grab off his inamorata an' come a-runnin'. "'which, givin' my consent,' says enright when explainin' about it later, 'is needed to protect this tempest-tossed lover in the possession of his skelp. the old gent an' that maiden fa'r has got him between 'em, an' onless we opens up wolfville as a refooge, it looks like they'll cross-lift him into the promised land.' "but to go back to dave." here my old friend paused and called for refreshments. i seized the advantage of his silence over a glass of peach and honey, to suggest an eagerness for the finale of the tucson love match. "no," responded my frosty friend, setting down his glass, "we'll pursoo the queernesses of dave. that tucson elopement 'is another story a heap,' as some wise maverick says some'ers, an' i'll onload it on you on some other day. "when dave evolves the cadencies in the red light that evenin', thar's enright, moore an' me along with dan boggs, bein' entertained by hearin' cherokee hall tell us about a brace game he gets ag'inst in las vegas one time. "'this deadfall--this brace i'm mentionin',' says cherokee, 'is over on the plaza. of course, i calls this crooked game a "brace" in speakin' tharof to you-all sports who ain't really gamblers none. that's to be p'lite. but between us, among a'credited kyard sharps, a brace game is allers allooded to as "the old thing." if you refers to a game of chance as "the old thing," they knows at once that every chance is 'liminated an' said deevice rigged for murder.' "'that's splendid, cherokee,' says faro nell, from her lookout's roost by his shoulder; 'give 'em a lecture on the perils of gamblin' with strangers.' "thar's no game goin' at this epock an' cherokee signifies his willin'ness to become instructive. "'not that i'm no beacon, neither,' says cherokee, 'on the rocky wreck-sown shores of sport; an' not that i ever resorts to onderhand an' doobious deals myse'f; still, i'm cap'ble of p'intin' out the dangers. scientists of my sort, no matter how troo an' faithful to the p'int of honour, is bound to savey all kyard dooplicities in their uttermost depths, or get left dead on the field of finance. every gent should be honest. but more than honest--speshully if he's out to buck faro-bank or set in on casyooal games of short-kyards--every gent should be wise. in the amoosements i mentions to be merely honest can't be considered a complete equipment. wherefore, while i never makes a crooked play an' don't pack the par'fernalia so to do, i'm plenty astoote as to how said tricks is turned. "'which sports has speshulties same as other folks. thar's texas thompson, his speshulty is ridin' a hoss; while peets's speshulty is shootin' a derringer, colonel sterett's is pol'tics, enright's is jestice, dave's is bein' married, jack moore's is upholdin' law an' order, boggs's is bein' sooperstitious, missis rucker's is composin' bakin' powder biscuits, an' huggins's is strong drink.' "'whatever is my speshulty, cherokee?' asks faro nell, who's as immersed as the rest in these settin's forth; 'what do you-all reckon now is my speshulty?' "'bein' the loveliest of your sex,' says cherokee, a heap emphatic, an' on that p'int we-all strings our game with his. "'that puts the ambrosia on me,' says faro nell, blushin' with pleasure, an' she calls to black jack. "'as i observes,' goes on cherokee, 'every sport has his speshulty. thar's casino joe; his is that he can "tell the last four." nacherally, bein' thus gifted, a game of casino is like so much money in the bank for joe. still, his gifts ain't crooked, they're genius; joe's simply born able to "tell the last four." "'which, you gents is familiar by repoote at least with the several plans for redoocin' draw-poker to the prosaic level of shore-things. thar's the "bug" an' the "foot-move" an' the "sleeve holdout" an' dozens of kindred schemes for playin' a cold hand. an' thar's optimists, when the game is easy, who depends wholly on a handkerchief in their laps to cover their nefariousness. if i'm driven to counsel a gent concernin' poker it would be to never play with strangers; an' partic'lar to never spec'late with a gent who sneezes a lot, or turns his head an' talks of draughts of cold air invading' the place, or says his foot's asleep an' gets up to stampede about the room after a hand is dealt an' prior to the same bein' played. it's four to one this afflicted sharp is workin' a holdout. then that's the "punch" to mark a deck, an' the "lookin' glass" to catch the kyards as they're dealt. then thar's sech manoovers as stockin' a deck, an' shiftin' a cut, an' dealin' double. thar's gents who does their work from the bottom of a deck---puts up a hand on the bottom, an' confers it on a pard or on themse'fs as dovetails with their moods. he's a one-arm party--shy his right arm, he is--who deals a hand from the bottom the best i ever beholds. "'no, i don't regyard crooked folks as dangerous at poker, only you've got to watch 'em. so long as your eye is on 'em a heap attentive they're powerless to perform their partic'lar miracle, an' as a result, since that's the one end an' aim of their efforts, they becomes mighty inocuous. as a roole, crooked people ain't good players on the squar', an' as long as you makes 'em play squar', they're yours. "'but speakin' of this devious person on the las vegas plaza that time: the outfit is onknown to me--i'm only a pilgrim an' a stranger an' don't intend to tarry none--when i sets up to the lay-out. i ain't got a bet down, however, before i sees the gent who's dealin', sign-up the seven to the case-keep, an' instanter i feels like i'd known that bevy of bandits since long before the war. also, i realises their methods after i takes a good hard look. that dealer's got what post gradyooates in faro-bank robbery calls a "end squeeze" box; the deck is trimmed--"wedges" is the name--to put the odds ag'in the evens, an' sanded so as to let two kyards come at a clatter whenever said pheenomenon is demanded by the exigencies of their crimes; an' thar you be. no, it's a fifty-two-kyard deck all right, an' the dealer depends on "puttin' back" to keep all straight. an' i'm driven to concede that the put-back work of said party is like a romance; puttin' back's his speshulty. his left hand would sort o' settle as light as a dead leaf over the kyard he's after that a-way--not a tenth part of a second--an' that pasteboard would come along, palmed, an' as his hand floats over the box as he's goin' to make the next turn the kyard would reassoome its cunnin' place inside. an' all as smoothly serene as pray'r meetin's.' "'an', nacherally, you denounces this felon,' says colonel sterett, who's come in an' who's integrity is of the active sort. "'nacherally, i don't say a word,' retorts cherokee. 'i ain't for years inhabited these roode an' sand-blown regions, remote as they be from best ideals an' high examples of the east, not to long before have learned the excellence of that maxim about lettin' every man kill his own snakes. i says nothin'; i merely looks about to locate the victim of them machinations with a view of goin' ag'inst his play.' "it's when cherokee arrives at this place in his recitals that dave evolves his interruptions. he's camped by himse'f in a reemote corner of the room, an' he ain't been noticin' nobody an' nobody's been noticin' him. all at once, in tones which is low but a heap discordant, dave hums to himse'f something that sounds like: 'bye o babe, lie still in slumber, holy angels gyard thy bed.' "at this, cherokee in a horrified way stops, an' we-all looks at each other. enright makes a dispar'in' gesture towards dave an' says: "'gents, first callin' your attention to the fact that dave ain't over-drinkt an' that no nosepaint theery is possible in accountin' for his acts, i asks you for your opinions. as you knows, this thing's been goin' for'ard for some time, an' i desires to hear if from any standp'int of public interest do you-all figger that steps should be took?' "in order to fully onderstand enright in all he means, i oughter lay bar' that dave's been conductin' himse'f in a manner not to be explained for mighty likely she's eight weeks. yeretofore, thar's no more sociable sport an' none whose system is easier to follow in all wolfville than dave. while holdin' himse'f at what you might call 'par' on all o'casions, dave is still plenty minglesome an' fraternal with the balance of the herd, an' would no more think of donnin' airs or puttin' on dog than he'd think of blastin' away at one of us with his gun. yet eight weeks prior thar shorely dawns a change. "which the first symptom--the advance gyard as it were of dave's gettin' queer--is when dave's standin' in front of the post-office. thar's a faraway look to dave at the time, like he's tryin' to settle whether he's behind or ahead on some deal. while thus wropped in this fit of abstraction dan boggs comes hybernatin' along an' asks dave to p'int into the red light for a smell of valley tan. dave sort o' rouses up at this an' fastens on dan with his eyes, half truculent an' half amazed, same as if he's shocked at dan's familiarity. then he shakes his head decisive. "'don't try to braid this mule's tail none!' says dave, an' at that he strides off with his muzzle in the air. boggs is abashed. "'which these insultin' bluffs of dave's,' says boggs, as we canvasses the play a bit later, 'would cut me to the quick, but i knows it ain't on the level, dave ain't himse'f when he declines said nosepaint--his intellects ain't in camp.' "this ontoward an' onmerited rebuke to boggs is followed, by further breaks as hard to savey. dave ain't no two days alike. one time he's that haughty he actooally passes enright himse'f in the street an' no more heed or recognition than if wolfville's chief is the last mexican to come no'th of the line. then later dave is effoosive an' goes about riotin' in the s'ciety of every gent whereof he cuts the trail. one day he won't drink; an' the next he's tippin' the canteen from sun-up till he's claimed by sleep. which he gets us mighty near distracted; no one can keep a tab on him. what with them silences an' volyoobilities, sobrieties an' days of drink, an' all in bewilderin' alternations, he's shore got us goin' four ways at once. "'in spite of the fact,' continyooes dan boggs when we're turnin' dave's conduct over in our minds an' rummagin' about for reasons; 'in spite of the fact, i says, that i'm plenty posted in advance that i'm up ag'inst a gen'ral shout of derision on account of me bein' sooperstitious, i'm yere to offer two to one dave's hoodooed. moreover, i can name the hoodoo.' "'whatever is it then?' asks texas thompson; 'cut her freely loose an' be shore of our solemn consid'ration.' "'it's opals,' says boggs. 'them gems as every well-instructed gent is aware is the very spent of bad luck. dave's wearin' one in his shirt right now. it's that opal pin wherewith he decks himse'f recent while he's relaxin' with nosepaint in tucson. i'm with him at the time an' i says to him: "dave, i wouldn't mount that opal none. which all opals is implacable hoodoos, an' it'll likely conjure up your rooin." but i might as well have addressed that counsel to a buffalo bull for all the respectful heed i gains. dave gives me a grin, shets one eye plenty cunnin', an' retorts: "dan, you're envious; you wants that ornament yourse'f an' you're out to try an make me diskyard it in your favour. sech schemes, dan, can't make the landin'. opals that a-way is as harmless as bull snakes. also, i knows what becomes my looks; an' while i ain't vain, still, bein' married as you're aware, it's wisdom in me to seize every openin' for enhancin' my pulcritoode. the better i looks, the longer tucson jennie loves me; an' i'm out to reetain that lady's heart at any cost." no, i don't onbend in no response,' goes on boggs. 'them accoosations of dave about me honin' for said bauble is oncalled for. i'd no more pack a opal than i'd cut for deal an' embark on a game of seven-up with a ghost. as i states, the luck of opals is black.' "'i was wont to think so,' says enright, 'but thar once chances a play, the same comin' off onder my personal notice, that shakes my convictions on that p'int. thar's a broke-down sport--this yere's long ago while i'm briefly sojournin' in socorro--who's got a opal, an' he one day puts it in hock with a kyard sharp for a small stake. the kyard gent says he ain't alarmed none by these charges made of opals bein' bad luck. it's a ring, an' he sticks it on his little finger. two days later he goes broke ag'in four jacks. "'this terrifies him; he begins to believe in the evil innocences of opals. he presents the jewelry to a bar-keep, who puts it up, since his game limits itse'f to sellin' licker an', him bein' plenty careful not to drink none himse'f, his contracted destinies don't offer no field for opals an' their malign effects. in less time than a week, however, his wife leaves him; an' also that drink-shop wherein he officiates is blown down by a high wind. "'that bar-keep emerges from the rooms of his domestic hopes an' the desolation of that gin mill, an' endows a lady of his acquaintance with this opal ornament. it ain't twenty-four hours when she cuts loose an' weds a mexican. "'which by this time, excitement is runnin' high, an' you-all couldn't have found that citizen in socorro with a search warrant who declines to believe in opals bein' bad luck. on the hocks of these catastrophes it's the common notion that nobody better own that opal; an' said malev'lent stone in the dooal capac'ty of a cur'osity an' a warnin' is put in the seegyar case at the early rose s'loon. the first day it's thar, a jeweller sharp come in for his daily drinks--he runs the jewelry store of that meetropolis an' knows about diamonds an' sim'lar jimcracks same as peets does about drugs--an' he considers this talisman, scrootinisin' it a heap clost. "do you-all believe in the bad luck of opals?" asks a pard who's with him. "this thing ain't no opal," says the jeweller sharp, lookin' up; "it's glass." "'an' so it is: that baleful gewgaw has been sailin' onder a alias; it ain't no opal more'n a colt's cartridge is a poker chip. an', of course, it's plain the divers an' several disasters, from the loss of that kyard gent's bank-roll down to the mexican nuptials of the ill-advised lady to whom i alloodes, can't be laid to its charge. the whole racket shocks an' shakes me to that degree,' concloods enright, 'that to-day i ain't got no settled views on opals', none whatever.' "'jest the same, i thinks it's opals that's the trouble with dave,' declar's boggs, plenty stubborn an' while the rest of us don't yoonite with him, we receives his view serious an' respectful so's not to jolt boggs's feelin's. "goin' back, however, to when dave sets up the warble of 'bye o baby!' that a-way, we-all, followin' enright's s'licitation for our thoughts, abides a heap still an' makes no response. enright asks ag'in: 'what do you-all think?' "at last boggs, who as i sets forth frequent is a nervous gent, an' one on whom silence soon begins to prey, ag'in speaks up. bein' doubtful an' mindful of enright's argyment ag'in his opal bluff, however, boggs don't advance his concloosions this time at all emphatic. in a tone like he's out ridin' for information himse'f, boggs says: "'mebby, if it ain't opals, it's a case of straight loco.' "'while i wouldn't want to readily think dave locoed,' says enright, 'seein' he's oncommon firm on his mental feet, still he's shore got something on his mind. an' bein' it is something, it's possible as you says that dave's intellects is onhossed.' "'whatever for a play would it be,' says cherokee, 'to go an' ask dave himse'f right now?' "'i'd be some slow about propoundin' sech surmises to dave,' says boggs. 'he might get hostile; you can put a wager on it, he'd turn out disagree'ble to a degree, if he did. no, you-all has got to handle a loonatic with gloves. i knows a gent who entangles himse'f with a loonatic, askin' questions, an' he gets all shot up.' "'i reckons, however,' says cherokee, 'that i'll assoome the resk. dave an' me's friends; an' i allows if i goes after him in ways both soft an' careless, so as not to call forth no suspicions, he'll take it good-humoured even if he is locoed.' "we-all sets breathless while cherokee sa'nters down to where dave's still wropped in them melodies. "'whatever be you hummin' toones for, dave?' asks cherokee all accidental like. "'which i'm rehearsin',' says dave, an' he shows he's made impatient. 'don't come infringin' about me with no questions,' goes on dave. 'i'm like the ancient romans, i've got troubles of my own; an' no sport who calls himse'f my friend will go aggravatin' me with ontimely inquis'tiveness.' then dave gets up an' pulls his freight an' leaves us more onsettled than at first. "for a full hour, we does nothin' but canvass this yere question of dave's aberrations. at last a idee seizes us. thar's times when dave's been seen caucusin' with missis rucker an' doc peets. most likely one of 'em would be able to shed a ray on dave. by a excellent coincidence, an' as if to he'p us out, peets comes in as texas thompson su'gests that mebby the doc's qualified to onravel the myst'ry. "'tell you-all folks what's the matter with dave?' says peets. 'pards, it's simply not in the deck. meanin' no disrespects--for you gents knows me too well to dream of me harborin' anything but feelin's of the highest regyards for one an' all--i'll have to leave you camped in original darkness. it would be breakin' professional confidences. shore, i saveys dave's troubles an' the causes of these vagaries of his; jest the same the traditions of the medical game forces me to hold 'em sacred an' secret.' "'tell us at least, doc,' says enright, 'whether dave's likely to grow voylent. if he is, it's only proper that we arranges to tie him down.' "'dave may be boisterous later,' says peets, an' his reply comes slow an' thoughtful, like he's considerin'; 'he may make a joyful uproar, but he won't wax dangerous.' this yere's as far as peets'll go; he declines to talk longer, on professional grounds. "'which suspense, this a-way,' says boggs, after peets is gone, 'an' us no wiser than when he shows in the door, makes me desp'rate. i'll offer the motion: let's prance over in a bunch, an' demand a explanation of missis rucker. dave's been talkin' to her as much as ever he has to peets, an' thar's no professional hobbles on the lady; she's footloose, an' free to speak.' "'we waits on you, marm,' says enright, when ten minutes later boggs, cherokee, texas thompson an' he is in the kitchen of the o. k. restauraw where missis rucker is slicin' salt hoss an' layin' the fragrant foundations of supper; 'we waits on you-all to ask your advice. dave tutt's been carryin' on in a manner an' form at once doobious an' threatenin'. it ain't too much to say that we-all fears the worst. we comes now to invite you to tell us all you knows of dave an' whatever it is that so onsettles him. our idee is that you onderstands a heap about it.' "'see yere, sam enright,' retorts missis rucker, pausin' over the salt hoss, 'you ain't doin' yourse'f proud. you better round up this herd of inebriates an' get 'em back to the red light. thar's nothin' the matter with dave; leastwise if it was the matter with you, you'd be some improved. dave tutt's a credit to this camp; never more so than now; the same bein' a mighty sight more'n i could say of any of you-all an' stick to the trooth.' "'then you does know, missis rucker,' says enright, 'the secret that's gnawin' at dave.' "'know it,' replies misses rucker, 'of course, i knows it. but i don't propose to discuss it none with you tarrapins. i ain't got no patience with sech dolts! now that you-all is yere, however, i'll give you notice that to-morry you can begin to do your own cookin' till you hears further word from me. i'm goin' to be otherwise an' more congenially engaged. most likely i'll be back in my kitchen ag'in in a day or two; but i makes no promises. an' ontil sech time as i shows up, you-all can go scuffle for yourse'fs. i've got more important dooties jest now on my hands than cookin' chuck for sots.' "as missis rucker speaks up mighty vigorous, an' as none of us has the nerve to ask her further an' take the resk of turnin' loose her temper, we lines out ag'in for the red light no cl'arer than what we was. "'i could ask her more questions,' says enright, 'but, gents, i didn't deem it wise. missis rucker is a most admirable character; but i'm sooperstitious about crowdin' her too clost. like boggs says about opals, thar's plenty of bad luck lurkin' about missis rucker's environs if you only goes about its deevelopment the right way.' "'the sityooation is too many for me,' says boggs, goin' up to the bar for a drink, 'i gives it up. i ain't got a notion left, onless it is that dave's runnin' for office; that is, i might entertain sech a thought only thar ain't no office.' "'the next day missis rucker abandons her post; an' we tharupon finds that feedin' ourse'fs keeps us busy an' we don't have much time to discuss dave. also, dave disappears;--in fact, both dave an' missis rucker fades from view. "it's about fo'rth drink time the evenin' of the third day, an' most of us is in the red light. thar's a gloom overhangs us like a fog. mebby it's the oncertainties which envelops dave, mebby it's because missis rucker's done deserted an' left us to rustle for ourse'fs or starve. most of us is full of present'ments that something's due to happen. "all at once, an' onexpected, dave walks in. a sigh of relief goes up, for the glance we gives him shows he's all right--sane as enright--clothed an' in his right mind as set fo'th in holy writ. also, his countenance is a wrinkle of glee. "'gents,' says dave, an' his air is that patronisin' it would have been exasperatin' only we're so relieved, 'gents, i'm come to seek congratyoolations an' set 'em up. peets an' that motherly angel, missis rucker, allows i'll be of more use yere than in my own house, whereat i nacherally floats over. coupled with a su'gestion that we drinks, i wants to say that he's a boy, an' that i brands him "enright peets tutt."'" chapter vi. with the apache's compliments. "ondoubted," observed the old cattleman, during one of our long excursive talks, "ondoubted, the ways an' the motives of injuns is past the white man's findin' out. he's shore a myst'ry, the injun is! an' where the paleface forever fails of his s'lootion is that the latter ropes at this problem in copper-colour from the standp'int of the caucasian. can a dog onderstand a wolf? which i should remark not! "it's a heap likely that with injuns, the white man in his turn is jest as difficult to solve. an' without the injun findin' onusual fault with 'em, thar's a triangle of things whereof the savage accooses the paleface. the western injuns at least--for i ain't posted none on eastern savages, the same bein' happily killed off prior to my time--the western injuns lays the bee, the wild turkey, an' that weed folks calls the 'plantain,' at the white man's door. they-all descends upon the injun hand in hand. no, the injun don't call the last-named veg'table a 'plantain;' he alloodes to it as 'the white man's foot.' "thar's traits dominant among injuns which it wouldn't lower the standin' of a white man if he ups an' imitates a whole lot. i once encounters a savage--one of these blanket injuns with feathers in his ha'r--an' bein' idle an' careless of what i'm about, i staggers into casyooal talk with him. this buck's been east for the first time in his darkened c'reer an' visited the great father in washin'ton. i asks him what he regyards as the deepest game he in his travels goes ag'inst. at first he allows that pie, that a-way, makes the most profound impression. but i bars pie, an' tells him to su'gest the biggest thing he strikes, not on no bill of fare. tharupon, abandonin' menoos an' wonders of the table, he roominates a moment an' declar's that the steamboat--now that pie is exclooded--ought to get the nomination. "'the choo-choo boat,' observes this intelligent savage, 'is the paleface's big medicine.' "'you'll have a list of marvels,' i says, 'to avalanche upon the people when you cuts the trail of your ancestral tribe ag'in?' "'no,' retorts the savage, shakin' his head ontil the skelp-lock whips his y'ears, an' all mighty decisive; 'no; won't tell injun nothin'.' "'why not?' i demands. "'if i tell,' he says, 'they no believe. they think it all heap lie.' "son, consider what a example to travellers is set by that ontootered savage? that's what makes me say thar be traits possessed of injuns, personal, which a paleface might improve himse'f by copyin'. "bein' white myse'f, i'm born with notions ag'in injuns. i learns of their deestruction with relief, an' never sees one pirootin' about, full of life an' vivacity, but the spectacle fills me with vain regrets. all the same thar's a load o' lies told east concernin' the injun. i was wont from time to time to discuss these red folks with gen'ral stanton, who for years is stationed about in arizona, an'--merely for the love he b'ars to fightin'--performs as chief of scouts for gen'ral crook. "'our divers wars with the apaches,' says gen'ral stanton, 'comes more as the frootes of a misdeal by a locoed marshal than anything else besides. when crook first shows up in arizona--this is in the long ago--an' starts to inculcate peace among the apaches, he gets old jeffords to bring cochise to him to have a pow-wow. jeffords rounds up cochise an' herds him with soft words an' big promises into the presence of crook. the grey fox--which was the injun name for crook--makes cochise a talk. likewise he p'ints out to the chief the landmarks an' mountain peaks that indicates the mexican line. an' the grey fox explains to cochise that what cattle is killed an' what skelps is took to the south'ard of the line ain't goin' to bother him a bit. but no'th'ard it's different; thar in that sacred region cattle killin' an' skelp collectin' don't go. the grey fox shoves the information on cochise that every trick turned on the american side of the line has done got to partake of the characteristics of a love affair, or the grey fox with his young men in bloo--his walk-a-heaps an' his hoss-warriors--noomerous as the grass, they be--will come down on cochise an' his apaches like a coyote on a sage hen or a pan of milk from a top shelf an' make 'em powerful hard to find. "'cochise smokes an' smokes, an' after considerin' the bluff of the grey fox plenty profound, allows he won't call it. thar shall be peace between the apache an' the paleface to the no'th'ard of that line. then the grey fox an' cochise shakes hands an' says "how!" an' cochise, with a bolt or two of red calico wherewith to embellish his squaws, goes squanderin' back to his people, permeated to the toes with friendly intentions. "'sech is cochise's reverence for his word, coupled with his fear of the grey fox, that years float by an' every deefile an' canyon of the southwest is as safe as the aisles of a church to the moccasins of the paleface. thus it continyoos ontil thar comes a evenin' when a jimcrow marshal, with more six-shooters than hoss sense, allows he'll apprehend cochise's brother a whole lot for some offense that ain't most likely deuce high in the category of troo crime. this ediot offishul reaches for the relative of cochise; an' as the latter--bein' a savage an' tharfore plumb afraid of captivity--leaps back'ard like he's met up with a rattlesnake, the marshal puts his gun on him an' plugs him so good that he cashes in right thar. the marshal says later in explanation of his game that cochise's brother turns hostile an' drops his hand on his knife. most likely he does; a gent's hands--even a apache's--has done got to be some'ers. "'but the killin' overturns the peaceful programmes built up between the grey fox an' cochise. when the old chief hears of his brother bein' downed, he paints himse'f black an' red an' sends a bundle of arrows tied with a rattlesnake skin to the grey fox with a message to count his people an' look out for himse'f. the grey fox, who realises that the day of peace has ended an' the sun gone down to rise on a mornin' of trouble, fills the rattlesnake skin with cartridges an' sends 'em back with a word to cochise to turn himse'f loose. from that moment the war-jig which is to last for years is on. after cochise comes geronimo, an' after geronimo comes nana; an' one an' all, they adds a heap of spice to life in arizona. it's no exaggeration to put the number of palefaces who lose their ha'r as the direct result of that fool marshal layin' for cochise's brother an' that injun's consequent cuttin' off, at a round ten thousand. shore! thar's scores an' scores who's been stood up an' killed in the hills whereof we never gets a whisper. i, myse'f, in goin' through the teepees of a apache outfit, after we done wipes 'em off the footstool, sees the long ha'r of seven white women who couldn't have been no time dead. "'who be they? folks onknown who's got shot into while romancin' along among the hills with schemes no doubt of settlement in californy. "'with what we saveys of the crooelties of the apaches, thar's likewise a sperit of what book-sharps calls chivalry goes with 'em an' albeit on one ha'r-hung o'casion i profits mightily tharby, i'm onable to give it a reason. you wouldn't track up on no sim'lar weaknesses among the palefaces an' you-all can put down a stack on that. "'it's when i'm paymaster,' says the gen'ral, reachin' for the canteen, 'an' i starts fo'th from fort apache on a expedition to pay off the nearby troops. i've got six waggons an' a escort of twenty men. for myse'f, at the r'ar of the procession, i journeys proudly in a amb'lance. our first camp is goin' to be on top of the mesa out a handful of miles from the fort. "'the word goes along the line to observe a heap of caution an' not straggle or go rummagin' about permiscus, for the mountains is alive with hostiles. it's five for one that a frownin' cloud of 'em is hangin' on our flanks from the moment we breaks into the foothills. no, they'd be afoot; the apaches ain't hoss-back injuns an' only fond of steeds as food. he never rides on one, a apache don't, but he'll camp an' build a fire an' eat a corral full of ponies if you'll furnish 'em, an' lick his lips in thankfulness tharfore. but bein' afoot won't hinder 'em from keepin' up with my caravan, for in the mountains the snow is to the waggon beds an' the best we can do, is wriggle along the trail like a hurt snake at a gait which wouldn't tire a papoose. "'we've been pushin' on our windin' uphill way for mighty likely half a day, an' i'm beginnin'--so dooms slows is our progress--to despair of gettin' out on top the mesa before dark, when to put a coat of paint on the gen'ral trouble the lead waggon breaks down. i turns out in the snow with the rest, an' we-all puts in a heated an' highly profane half-hour restorin' the waggon to health. at last we're onder headway ag'in, an' i wades back through the snow to my amb'lance. "'as i arrives at the r'ar of my offishul waggon, it occurs to me that i'll fill a pipe an' smoke some by virchoo of my nerves, the same bein' torn and frayed with the many exasperations of the day. i gives my driver the word to wait a bit, an' searchin' forth my tobacco outfit loads an' lights my pipe. i'm planted waist deep in the mountain snows, but havin' on hossman boots the snow ain't no hardship. "'while i'm fussin' with my pipe, the six waggons an' my twenty men curves 'round a bend in the trail an' is hid by a corner of the canyon. i reflects at the time--though i ain't really expectin' no perils--that i'd better catch up with my escort, if it's only to set the troops a example. as i exhales my first puff of smoke and is on the verge of tellin' my driver to pull out--this yere mule-skinner is settin' so that matters to the r'ar is cut off from his gaze by the canvas cover of my waggon--a slight noise attracts me, an' castin' my eye along the trail we've been climbin', i notes with feelin's of disgust a full dozen apaches comin'. an' it ain't no hyperbole to say they're shore comin' all spraddled out. "'in the lead for all the deep snow, an' racin' up on me like the wind, is a big befeathered buck, painted to the eyes; an' in his right fist, raised to hurl it, is a -foot lance. as i surveys this pageant, i realises how he'pless, utter, i be, an' with what ca'mness i may, adjusts my mind to the fact that i've come to the end of my trails. he'pless? shore! i'm stuck as firm in the snow as one of the pines about me; my guns is in the waggon outen immediate reach; thar i stands as certain a prey to that apache with the lance as he's likely to go up ag'inst doorin' the whole campaign. why, i'm a pick-up! i remembers my wife an' babies, an' sort o' says "goodbye!" to 'em, for i'm as certain of my finish as i be of the hills, or the snows beneath my feet. however, since it's all i can do, i continyoos to smoke an' watch my execootioners come on. "'the big lance injun is the dominatin' sperit of the bunch. as he draws up to me--he's fifty foot in advance of the others--he makes his lance shiver from p'int to butt. it fairly sings a death song! i can feel it go through an' through me a score of times. but i stands thar facin' him; for, of course, i wants it to go through from the front. i don't allow to be picked up later with anything so onfashionable as a lance wound in my back. that would be mighty onprofessional! "'you onderstands that what now requires minutes in the recital don't cover seconds as a play. the lance injun runs up to within a rod of me an' halts. his arm goes back for a mighty cast of the lance; the weepon is vibrant with the very sperit of hate an' malice. his eyes, through a fringe of ha'r that has fallen over 'em, glows out like a cat's eyes in the dark. "we stands thar--i still puffin my pipe, he with his lance raised--an' we looks on each other--i an' that paint-daubed buck! i can't say whatever is his notion of me, but on my side i never beholds a savage who appeals to me as a more evil an' forbiddin' picture! "'as i looks him over a change takes place. the fire in his eyes dies out, his face relaxes its f'rocity, an' after standin' for a moment an' as the balance of the band arrives, he turns the lance over his arm an' with the butt presented, surrenders it into my hand. you can gamble i don't lose no time in arguin' the question, but accepts the lance with all that it implies. bringin' the weepon to a 'right shoulder' an' with my mind relieved, i gives the word to my mule-skinner--who's onconscious of the transactions in life an' death goin' on behind his back--an' with that, we-all takes up our march an' soon comes up on the escort where it's ag'in fixed firm in the snow about a furlong to the fore. my savages follows along with me, an' each of 'em as grave as squinch owls an' tame as tabby cats. "'joke? no; them apaches was as hostile as gila monsters! but beholdin' me, as they regyards it--for they don't in their ontaught simplicity make allowance for me bein' implanted in the snow, gunless an' he'pless--so brave, awaitin' deestruction without a quiver, their admiration mounts to sech heights it drowns within 'em every thought of cancellin' me with that lance, an' tharupon they pays me their savage compliments in manner an' form deescribed. they don't regyard themse'fs as surrenderin' neither; they esteems passin' me the lance as inauguratin' a armistice an' looks on themse'fs as guests of honor an' onder my safegyard, free to say "how!" an' vamos back to the warpath ag'in whenever the sperit of blood begins to stir within their breasts. i knows enough of their ways to be posted as to what they expects; an' bein', i hopes, a gent of integrity, i accedes to 'em that exact status which they believes they enjoys. "'they travels with me that day, eats with me that evenin' when we makes our camp, has a drink with me all 'round, sings savage hymns to me throughout the night, loads up with chuck in the mornin', offers me no end of flattery as a dead game gent whom they respects, says _adios_; an' then they scatters like a flock of quail. also, havin' resoomed business on old-time lines, they takes divers shots at us with their winchesters doorin' the next two days, an' kills a hoss an' creases my sergeant. why don't i corral an' hold 'em when they're in my clutch? it would have been breakin' the trooce as injuns an' i onderstands sech things; moreover, they let me go free without conditions when i was loser by every roole of the game.'" chapter vii. the mills of savage gods. "thar might, of course, be romances in the west," observed the old cattleman, reflectively, in response to my question, "but the folks ain't got no time. romance that a-way demands leesure, an' a party has to be more or less idlin' about to get what you-all might style romantic action. take that warjig whereof i recently relates an' wherein this yere wild bill hickox wipes out the mccandlas gang--six to his colt's, four to his bowie, an' one to his hawkins rifle; eleven in all--i asks him myse'f later when he's able to talk, don't he regyard the eepisode as some romantic. an' bill says, 'no, i don't notice no romance tharin; what impresses me most is that she's shore a zealous fight--also, mighty busy.' "injuns would be romantic, only they're so plumb ignorant they never once saveys. thar's no injun word for 'romantic'; them benighted savages never tumblin' to sech a thing as romance bein' possible. an' yet said aborigines engages in plays which a eddicated eastern taste with leesure on its hands an' gropin' about for entertainment would pass on as romantic. "when i'm pesterin' among the osages on that one o'casion that i'm tryin' to make a round-up of my health, the old buck strike axe relates to me a tale which i allers looks on as possessin' elements. shore; an' it's as simple an' straight as the sights of a gun. it's about a squaw an' three bucks, an' thar's enough blood in it to paint a waggon. which i reckons now i'll relate it plain an' easy an' free of them frills wherewith a professional racontoor is so prone to overload his narratives. "the black cloud is a osage medicine man an' has high repoote about greyhoss where he's pitched his teepee an' abides. he's got a squaw, sunbright, an' he's plenty jealous of this yere little sunbright. the black cloud has three squaws, an' sunbright is the youngest. the others is sunbright's sisters, for a osage weds all the sisters of a fam'ly at once, the oldest sister goin' to the front at the nuptials to deal the weddin' game for the entire outfit. "now this sunbright ain't over-enamoured of black cloud; he's only a half-blood injun for one thing, his father bein' a buffalo-man (negro) who's j'ined the osages, an' sunbright don't take kindly to his nose which is some flatter than the best rools of osage beauty demands; an' likewise thar's kinks in his ha'r. still, sunbright sort o' keeps her aversions to herse'f, an' if it ain't for what follows she most likely would have travelled to her death-blankets an' been given a seat on a hill with a house of rocks built 'round her--the same bein' the usual burial play of a osage--without black cloud ever saveyin' that so far from interestin' sunbright, he only makes her tired. "over south from black cloud's greyhoss camp an' across the arkansaw an' some'ers between the polecat an' the cimmaron thar's livin' a young creek buck called the lance. he's straight an' slim an' strong as the weepon he's named for; an' he like black cloud is a medicine sharp of cel'bration an' stands way up in the papers. the creeks is never weary of talkin' about the lance an' what a marvel as a medicine man he is; also, by way of insultin' the osages, they declar's onhesitatin' that the lance lays over black cloud like four tens, an' offers to bet hosses an' blankets an' go as far as the osages likes that this is troo. "by what strike axe informs me,--an' he ain't none likely to overplay in his statements--by what strike axe tells me, i says, the lance must shore have been the high kyard as a medicine man. let it get dark with the night an' no moon in the skies, an' the lance could take you-all into his medicine lodge, an' you'd hear the sperits flappin' their pinions like some one flappin' a blanket, an' thar'd be whisperin's an' goin's on outside the lodge an' in, while fire-eyes would show an' burn an' glower up in the peak of the teepee; an' all plenty skeary an' mystifiyin'. besides these yere accomplishments the lance is one of them mesmerism sports who can set anamiles to dreamin'. he could call a coyote or a fox, or even so fitful an' nervous a prop'sition as a antelope; an' little by little, snuffin' an' snortin', or if it's a coyote, whinin', them beasts would approach the lance ontil they're that clost he'd tickle their heads with his fingers while they stands shiverin' an' sweatin' with apprehensions. you can put a bet on it, son, that accordin' to this onbiassed buck, strike axe, the lance is ondoubted the big medicine throughout the injun range. "as might be assoomed, the black cloud is some heated ag'in the lance an' looks on him with baleful eye as a rival. still, black cloud has his nerve with him constant, an' tharfore one day when the osages an' creeks has been dispootin' touchin' the reespective powers of him an' the lance, an' this latter injun offers to come over to greyhoss an' make medicine ag'in him, black cloud never hesitates or hangs back like a dog tied onder a waggon, but calls the bluff a heap prompt an' tells the lance to come. "which the day is set an' the lance shows in the door, as monte sharps would say. black cloud an' the lance tharupon expands themse'fs, an' delights the assembled creeks an' osages with their whole box of tricks, an' each side is braggin' an' boastin' an' puttin' it up that their gent is most likely the soonest medicine man who ever buys black paint. it's about hoss an' hoss between the two. "black cloud accompanies himse'f to this contest with a pure white pony which has eyes red as roobies--a kind o' albino pony--an' he gives it forth that this milk-coloured bronco is his 'big medicine' or familiar sperit. the lance observes that the little red-eyed hoss is mighty impressive to the savages, be they creeks or osages. at last he says to black cloud: "'to show how my medicine is stronger than yours, to-morry i'll make your red-eyed big medicine bronco go lame in his off hind laig.' "black cloud grins scornful at this; he allows that no sport can make his white pony go lame. "he's plumb wrong; the next mornin' the white pony is limpin' an' draggin' his off hind hoof, an' when he's standin' still he p'ints the toe down like something's fetched loose. black cloud is sore; but he can't find no cactus thorn nor nothin' to bring about the lameness an' he don't know what to make of the racket. black cloud's up ag'inst it, an' the audience begins to figger that the lance's' medicine is too strong for black cloud. "what's the trouble with the red-eyed pony? that's simple enough, son. the lance done creeps over in the night an' ties a hossha'r tight about the pony's laig jest above the fetlock. black cloud ain't up to no sech move, the same bein' a trade secret of the lance's an' bein' the hossha'r is hid in the ha'r on the pony's laig, no one notes its presence. "after black cloud looks his red-eyed big medicine pony all over an' can't onderstand its lameness, the lance asks him will he cure it. black cloud, who's sc'owlin' like midnight by now, retorts that he will. so he gets his pipe an' fills it with medicine tobacco an' blows a mouthful of smoke in the red-eyed pony's nose. sech remedies don't work; that pony still limps on three laigs, draggin' the afflicted member mighty pensive. "at last the lance gives black cloud a patronisin' smile an' says that his medicine'll cure the pony sound an' well while you're crackin' off a gun. he walks up to the pony an' looks long in its red eyes; the pony's y'ears an' tail droops, its head hangs down, an' it goes mighty near to sleep. then the lance rubs his hand two or three times up an' down the lame laig above the fetlock an' elim'nates that hossha'r ligature an' no one the wiser. a moment after, he wakes up the red-eyed pony an' to the amazement of the osages an' the onbounded delight of the creeks, the pony is no longer lame, an' the laig so late afflicted is as solid an' healthy as a sod house. what's bigger medicine still, the red-eyed pony begins to follow the lance about like a dog an' as if it's charmed; an' it likewise turns in to bite an' r'ar an' pitch an' jump sideways if black cloud seeks to put his paw on him. then all the injuns yell with one voice: 'the lance has won the black cloud's big medicine red-eyed pony away from him.' "the lance is shore the fashion, an' black cloud discovers he ain't a four-spot by compar'son. his repootation is gone, an' the lance is regyarded as the great medicine along the arkansaw. "sunbright is lookin' on at these manoovers an' her heart goes out to the lance; she falls more deeply in love with him than even the red-eyed bronco does. that evenin' as the lance is goin' to his camp onder the cottonwoods, he meets up with sunbright standin' still as a tree in his path with her head bowed like a flower that's gone to sleep. the lance saveys; he knows sunbright; likewise he knows what her plantin' herse'f in his way an' her droopin' attitoode explains. he looks at her, an' says; "'i am a guest of the osages, an' to-night is not the night. wait ontil the lance is in his own teepee on the polecat; then come.' "sunbright never moves, never looks up; but she hears an' she knows this is right. no buck should steal a squaw while he's a guest. the lance walks on an' leaves her standin', head bowed an' motionless. "two days later the lance is ag'in in his own teepee. sunbright counts the time an' knows that he must be thar. she skulks from the camp of black cloud an' starts on her journey to be a new wife to a new husband. "sunbright is a mile from camp when she's interrupted. it's black cloud who heads her off. black cloud may not be the boss medicine man, but he's no fool, an' his eyes is like a wolf's eyes an' can see in the dark. he guesses the new love which has stampeded sunbright. "injuns is a mighty cur'ous outfit. now if sunbright had succeeded in gettin' to the lodge of her new husband, the divorce between her an' black cloud would have been complete. moreover, if on the day followin' or at any time black cloud had found her thar, he wouldn't so much as have wagged a y'ear or batted a eye in recognition. he wouldn't have let on he ever hears of a squaw called 'sunbright.' this ca'mness would be born of two causes. it would be ag'in injun etiquette to go trackin' about makin' a onseemly uproar an' disturbin' the gen'ral peace for purely private causes. then ag'in it would be beneath the dignity of a high grade savage an' a big medicine sharp to conduct himse'f like he'd miss so trivial a thing as a squaw. "but ontil sunbright fulfils her elopement projects an' establishes herse'f onder the protectin' wing of her new love, she's runnin' resks. she's still the black cloud's squaw; an' after she pulls her marital picket pin an' while she's gettin' away, if the bereaved black cloud crosses up with her he's free, onder the license permitted to injun husbands, to kill her an' skelp her an' dispose of her as consists best with his moods. "sunbright knows this; an' when she runs ag'in the black cloud in her flight, she seats herse'f in the long prairie grass an' covers her head with her blanket an' speaks never a word. "'does sunbright so love me,' says black cloud, turnin' aheap ugly, 'that she comes to meet me? is it for me she has combed her h'ar an' put on a new feather an' beads? does she wear her new blanket an' paint her face bright for black cloud? or does she dress herse'f like the sun for that creek coyote, the lance?'" sunbright makes no reply, black cloud looks at her a moment an' then goes on: "it's for the lance! good! i will fix the sunbright so she will be a good squaw to my friend, the lance, an' never run from his lodge as she does now from black cloud's.' with that he stoops down, an' a slash of his knife cuts the heel-tendons of sunbright's right foot. she groans, and writhes about the prairie, while black cloud puts his knife back in his belt, gets into his saddle ag'in an' rides away. "the next day a creek boy finds the body of sunbright where she rolls herse'f into the greyhoss an' is drowned. "when the lance hears the story an' sees the knife slash on sunbright's heel, he reads the trooth. it gives him a bad heart; he paints his face red an' black an thinks how he'll be revenged. next day he sends a runner to black cloud with word that black cloud has stole his hoss. this is to arrange a fight on virtuous grounds. the lance says that in two days when the sun is overhead black cloud must come to the three cottonwoods near the mouth of the cimmaron an' fight, or the lance on the third day an' each day after will hunt for him as he'd hunt a wolf ontil black cloud is dead. the black cloud's game, an' sends word that on the second day he'll be thar by the three cottonwoods when the sun is overhead; also, that he will fight with four arrows. "then black cloud goes at once, for he has no time to lose, an' kills a dog near his lodge. he cuts out its heart an' carries it to the rocky canyon where the rattlesnakes have a village. black cloud throws the dog's heart among them an' teases them with it; an' the rattlesnakes bite the dog's heart ag'in an' ag'in ontil it's as full of p'isen as a bottle is of rum. after that, black cloud puts the p'isened heart in the hot sun an' lets it fret an' fester ontil jest before he goes to his dooel with the lance. as he's about to start, black cloud dips the four steel arrowheads over an' over in the p'isened heart, bein' careful to dry the p'isen on the arrowheads; an' now whoever is touched with these arrows so that the blood comes is shore to die. the biggest medicine in the nation couldn't save him. "thar's forty osage and forty creek bucks at the three cottonwoods to see that the dooelists get a squar' deal. the lance an' black cloud is thar; each has a bow an' four arrows; each has made medicine all night that he may kill his man. "but the dooel strikes a obstacle. "thar's a sombre, sullen sport among the osages who's troo name is the 'bob-cat,' but who's called the 'knife thrower.' the bob-cat is one of the osage forty. onknown to the others, this yere bob-cat--who it looks like is a mighty impressionable savage--is himse'f in love with the dead sunbright. an' he's hot an' cold because he's fearful that in this battle of the bows the lance'll down black cloud an' cheat him, the bob-cat, of his own revenge. the chance is too much; the bob-cat can't stand it an' resolves to get his stack down first. an' so it happens that as black cloud an' the lance, painted in their war colours, is walkin' to their places, a nine-inch knife flickers like a gleam of light from the hand of the bob-cat, an' merely to show that he ain't called the 'knife thrower' for fun, catches black cloud flush in the throat, an' goes through an' up to the gyard at the knife-haft. black cloud dies standin', for the knife p'int bites his spine. "no, son, no one gets arrested; injuns don't have jails, for the mighty excellent reason that no injun culprit ever vamoses an' runs away. injun crim'nals, that a-way, allers stands their hands an' takes their hemlock. the osages, who for injuns is some shocked at the bob-cat's interruption of the dooel--it bein' mighty onparliamentary from their standp'ints--tries the bob-cat in their triboonals for killin' black cloud an' he's decided on as guilty accordin' to their law. they app'ints a day for the bob-cat to be shot; an' as he ain't present at the trial none, leavin' his end of the game to be looked after by his reelatives, they orders a kettle-tender or tribe crier to notify the bob-cat when an' where he's to come an' have said sentence execooted upon him. when he's notified, the bob-cat don't say nothin'; which is satisfactory enough, as thar's nothin' to be said, an' every osage knows the bob-cat'll be thar at the drop of the handkerchief if he's alive. "it so turns out; the bob-cat's thar as cool as wild plums. he's dressed in his best blankets an' leggin's; an' his feathers an' gay colours makes him a overwhelmin' match for peacocks. thar's a white spot painted over his heart. "the chief of the osages, who's present to see jestice done, motions to the bob-cat, an' that gent steps to a red blanket an' stands on its edge with all the blanket spread in front of him on the grass. the bob-cat stands on the edge, as he saveys when he's plugged that he'll fall for'ard on his face. when a gent gets the gaff for shore, he falls for'ard. if a party is hit an' falls back'ards, you needn't get excited none; he's only creased an' 'll get over it. "wherefore, as i states, the bob-cat stands on the edge of the blanket so it's spread out in front to catch him as he drops. thar's not a word spoke by either the bob-cat or the onlookers, the latter openin' out into a lane behind so the lead can go through. when the bob-cat's ready, his cousin, a buck whose name is little feather, walks to the front of the blanket an' comes down careful with his winchester on the white mark over the bob-cat's heart. thar's a moment's silence as the bob-cat's cousin runs his eye through the sights; thar's a flash an' a hatful of gray smoke; the white spot turns red with blood; an' then the bob-cat falls along on his face as soft as a sack of corn. "what becomes of the lance? it's two weeks later when that scientist is waited on by a delegation of osages. they reminds him that sunbright has two sisters, the same bein' now widows by virchoo of the demise of that egreegious black cloud. also, the black cloud was rich; his teepee was sumptuous, an' he's left a buckskin coat with ivory elk teeth sewed onto it plenty as stars at night. the coat is big medicine; moreover thar's the milk-white big medicine bronco with red eyes. the osage delegation puts forth these trooths while the lance sets cross-laiged on a b'arskin an' smokes willow bark with much dignity. in the finish, the osage outfit p'ints up to the fact that their tribe is shy a medicine man, an' a gent of the lance's accomplishments who can charm anamiles an' lame broncos will be a mighty welcome addition to the osage body politic. the lance lays down his pipe at this an' says, 'it is enough!' an' the next day he sallies over an' weds them two relicts of black cloud an' succeeds to that dead necromancer's estate an' both at one fell swoop. the two widows chuckles an' grins after the manner of ladies, to get a new husband so swift; an' abandonin' his lodge on the polecat the lance sets up his game at greyhoss, an' onless he's petered, he's thar dealin' it yet." chapter viii. tom and jerry; wheelers. "obstinacy or love, that a-way, when folks pushes 'em to excess, is shore bad medicine. which i'd be aheap loath to count the numbers them two attribootes harries to the tomb. why, son, it's them sentiments that kills off my two wheel mules, tom an' jerry." the old cattleman appeared to be on the verge of abstract discussion. as a metaphysician, he was not to be borne with. there was one method of escape; i interfered to coax the currents of his volubility into other and what were to me, more interesting channels. "tell me of the trail; or a story about animals," i urged. "you were saying recently that perfect systems of oral if not verbal communication existed among mules, and that you had listened for hours to their gossip. give me the history of one of your freighting trips and what befell along the trail; and don't forget the comment thereon--wise, doubtless, it was--of your long-eared servants of the rein and trace-chain." "tell you what chances along the trail? son, you-all opens a wide-flung range for my mem'ry to graze over. i might tell you how i'm lost once, freightin' from vegas into the panhandle, an' am two days without water--blazin' jooly days so hot you couldn't touch tire, chain, or bolt-head without fryin' your fingers. an' how at the close of the second day when i hauls in at cabra springs, i lays down by that cold an' blessed fountain an' drinks till i aches. which them two days of thirst terrorises me to sech degrees that for one plumb year tharafter, i never meets up with water when i don't drink a quart, an' act like i'm layin' in ag'in another parched spell. "or i might relate how i stops over one night from springer on my way to the canadian at a triangle-dot camp called kingman. this yere is a one-room stone house, stark an' sullen an' alone on the desolate plains, an' no scenery worth namin' but a half-grown feeble spring. this kingman ain't got no windows; its door is four-inch thick of oak; an' thar's loopholes for rifles in each side which shows the sports who builds that edifice in the stormy long-ago is lookin' for more trouble than comfort an' prepares themse'fs. the two cow-punchers i finds in charge is scared to a standstill; they allows this kingman's ha'nted. they tells me how two parties who once abides thar--father an' son they be--gets downed by a hold-up whose aim is pillage, an' who comes cavortin' along an' butchers said fam'ly in their sleep. the cow-punchers declar's they hears the spooks go scatterin' about the room as late as the night before i trails in. i ca'ms 'em--not bein' subject to nerve stampedes myse'f, an' that same midnight when the sperits comes ha'ntin' about ag'in, i turns outen my blankets an' lays said spectres with the butt of my mule whip--the same when we strikes a light an' counts 'em up bein' a couple of kangaroo rats. this yere would front up for a mighty thrillin' tale if i throws myse'f loose with its reecital an' daubs in the colour plenty vivid an' free. "then thar's the time i swings over to the k-bar- ranch for corn--bein' i'm out of said cereal--an' runs up on a cow gent, spurs, gun-belt, big hat an' the full regalia, hangin' to the limb of a cottonwood, dead as george the third, an' not a hundred foot from the ranch door. an' how inside i finds a half-dozen more cow folks, lookin' grave an' sayin' nothin'; an' the ranch manager has a bloody bandage about his for'ead, an' another holdin' up his left arm, half bandage an' half sling, the toot ensemble, as colonel sterett calls it, showin' sech recent war that the blood's still wet on the cloths an' drops on the floor as we talks. an' how none of us says a word about the dead gent in the cottonwood or of the manager who's shot up; an' how that same manager outfits me with ten sacks of mule-food an' i goes p'intin' out for the southeast an' forgets all i sees an' never mentions it ag'in. "then thar's sim booth of the fryin' pan outfit, who's one evenin' camped with me at antelope springs; an' who saddles up an' ropes onto the laigs of a dead injun where they're stickin' forth--bein' washed free by the rains--an' pulls an' rolls that copper-coloured departed outen his sepulchre a lot, an' then starts his pony off at a canter an' sort o' fritters the remains about the landscape. sim does this on the argyment that the obsequies, former, takes place too near the spring. this yere sim's pony two months later steps in a dog hole when him an' sim's goin' along full swing with some cattle on a stampede, an' the cayouse falls on sim an' breaks everything about him incloosive of his neck. the other cow-punchers allers allow it's because sim turns out that aborigine over by antelope springs. now sech a eepisode, properly elab'rated, might feed your attention an' hold it spellbound some. "son, if i was to turn myse'f loose on, great an' little, the divers incidents of the trail, it would consoome days in the relation. i could tell of cactus flowers, blazin' an' brilliant as a eye of red fire ag'in the brown dusk of the deserts; or of mile-long fields of spanish bayonet in bloom; or of some mexican's doby shinin' like a rooby in the sunlight a day's journey ahead, the same one onbroken mass from roof to ground of the peppers they calls _chili_, all reddenin' in the hot glare of the day. "or, if you has a fancy for stirrin' incident an' lively scenes, thar's a time when the rains has raised the old canadian ontil that quicksand ford at tascosa--which has done eat a hundred teams if ever it swallows one!--is torn up complete an' the bottom of the river nothin' save b'ilin' sand with a shallow yere an' a hole deep enough to drown a house scooped out jest beyond. an' how since i can't pause a week or two for the river to run down an' the ford to settle, i goes spraddlin' an' tumblin' an' swimmin' across on tom, my nigh wheeler, opens negotiations with the lit ranch, an' bob roberson, has his riders round-up the pasture, an' comes chargin' down to the ford with a bunch of one thousand ponies, all of 'em dancin' an' buckin' an' prancin' like chil'en outen school. roberson an' the lit boys throws the thousand broncos across an' across the ford for mighty likely it's fifty times. they'd flash 'em through--the whole band together--on the run; an' then round 'em up on the opp'site bank, turn 'em an' jam 'em through ag'in. when they ceases, the bottom of the river is tramped an' beat out as hard an' as flat as a floor, an' i hooks up an' brings the waggons over like the ford--bottomless quicksand a hour prior--is one of these yere asphalt streets. "or i might relate about a cowboy tournament that's held over in the flat green bottom of parker's arroya; an' how jack coombs throws a rope an' fastens at one hundred an' four foot, while waco simpson rides at the herd of cattle one hundred foot away, ropes, throws an' ties down a partic'lar steer, frees his lariat an' is back with the jedges ag'in in forty-eight seconds. waco wins the prize, a mexican saddle--stamp-leather an' solid gold she is--worth four hundred dollars, by them onpreecedented alacrities. "or, i might impart about a mexican fooneral where the hearse is a blanket with two poles along the aige, the same as one of these battle litters; of the awful songs the mournful mexicans sings about departed; of the candles they burns an' the dozens of baby white-pine crosses they sets up on little jim-crow stone-heaps along the trail to the tomb; meanwhiles, howlin' dirges constant. "now i thinks of it i might bresh up the recollections of a mornin' when i rolls over, blankets an' all, onto something that feels as big as a boot-laig an' plenty squirmy; an' how i shows zeal a-gettin' to my feet, knowin' i'm reposin' on a rattlesnake who's bunked in ag'in my back all sociable to warm himse'f. it's worth any gent's while to see how heated an' indignant that serpent takes it because of me turnin' out so early and so swift. "then thar's a mornin' when i finds myse'f not five miles down the wind from a prairie fire; an' it crackin' an' roarin' in flame-sheets twenty foot high an' makin' for'ard jumps of fifty foot. what do i do? go for'ard down the wind, set fire to the grass myse'f, an' let her burn ahead of me. in two minutes i'm over on a burned deestrict of my own, an' by the time the orig'nal flames works down to my fire line, my own speshul fire is three miles ahead an i myse'f am ramblin' along cool an' saloobrious with a safe, shore area of burnt prairie to my r'ar. "an' thar's a night on the serrita la cruz doorin' a storm, when the lightnin' melts the tire on the wheel of my trail-waggon, an' me layin' onder it at the time. an' it don't even wake me up. thar's the time, too, when i crosses up at chico springs with eighty injuns who's been buffalo huntin' over to the south paloduro, an' has with 'em four hundred odd ponies loaded with hides an' buffalo beef an' all headed for their home-camps over back of taos. the bucks is restin' up a day or two when i rides in; later me an' a half dozen jumps a band of antelopes jest 'round a p'int of rocks. son, you-all would have admired to see them savages shoot their arrows. i observes one young buck a heap clost. he holds the bow flat down with his left hand while his arrows in their cow-skin quiver sticks over his right shoulder. the way he would flash his right hand back, yank forth a arrow, slam it on his bow, pull it to the head an' cut it loose, is shore a heap earnest. them missiles would go sailin' off for over three hundred yards, an' i sees him get seven started before ever the first one strikes the ground. the injuns acquires four antelope by this archery an' shoots mebby some forty arrows; all of which they carefully reclaims when the excitement subsides. she's trooly a sperited exhibition an' i finds it mighty entertainin'. "i throws these hints loose to show what might be allooded to by way of stories, grave and gay, of sights pecooliar to the trail if only some gent of experience ups an' devotes himse'f to the relations. as it is, however, an' recurrin' to tom an' jerry--the same bein' as i informs you, my two wheel mules--i reckons now i might better set forth as to how they comes to die that time. it's his obstinacy that downs jerry; while pore, tender tom perishes the victim--volunteer at that--of the love he b'ars his contrary mate. "them mules, tom an' jerry, is obtained by me, orig'nal in vegas. they're the wheelers of a eight-mule team; an' i gives frosty--who's a gambler an' wins 'em at monte of some locoed sport from chaparita--twelve hundred dollars for the outfit. which the same is cheap an' easy at double the _dinero_. "these mules evident has been part an' passel of the estates of some mexican, for i finds a cross marked on each harness an' likewise on both waggons. mexicans employs this formal'ty to run a bluff on any evil sperit who may come projectin' round. your american mule skinner never makes them tokens. as a roole he's defiant of sperits; an' even when he ain't he don't see no refooge in a cross. mexicans, on the other hand, is plenty strong on said symbol. every mornin' you beholds a mexican with a dab of white on his fore'erd an' on each cheek bone, an' also on his chin where he crosses himse'f with flour; shore, the custom is yooniversal an' it takes a quart of flour to fully fortify a full-blown greaser household ag'inst the antic'pated perils of the day. "no sooner am i cl'ar of vegas--i'm camped near the plaza de la concepcion at the time--when i rounds up the eight mules an' looks 'em over with reference to their characters. this is jest after i acquires 'em. it's allers well for a gent to know what he's ag'inst; an' you can put down a stack the disp'sitions of eight mules is a important problem. "the review is plenty satisfactory. the nigh leader is a steady practical person as a lead mule oughter be, an' i notes by his ca'm jedgmatical eye that he's goin' to give himse'f the benefit of every doubt, an' ain't out to go stampedin' off none without knowin' the reason why. his mate at the other end of the jockey-stick is nervous an' hysterical; she never trys to solve no riddles of existence herse'f, this jane mule don't, but relies on her mate peter an' plays peter's system blind. the nigh p'inter is a deecorous form of mule with no bad habits; while his mate over the chain is one of these yere hard, se'fish, wary parties an' his little game is to get as much of everything except work an' trouble as the lay of the kyards permits. my nigh swing mule is a wit like i tells you the other day. which this jocose anamile is the life of the team an' allers lettin' fly some dry, quaint observation. this mule wag is partic'lar excellent at a bad ford or a hard crossin', an his gay remarks, full of p'int as a bowie knife, shorely cheers an' uplifts the sperits of the rest. the off swing is a heedless creature who regyards his facetious mate as the very parent of fun, an' he goes about with his y'ear cocked an' his mouth ajar, ready to laugh them 'hah, hah!' laughs of his'n at every word his pard turns loose. "tom an' jerry is different from the others. bein' bigger an' havin' besides the respons'bilities of the hour piled onto them as wheel mules must, they cultivates a sooperior air an is distant an' reserved in their attitoodes towards the other six. as to each other their pose needs more deescription. tom, the nigh wheeler--the one i rides when drivin'--is infatyooated with jerry. i hears a sky-sharp aforetime preach about jonathan an' david. yet i'm yere to assert, son, that them sacred people ain't on speakin' terms compared to the way that pore old lovin' tom mule feels towards jerry. "this affection of tom's is partic'lar amazin' when you-all recalls the fashion in which the sullen jerry receives it. doorin' the several years i spends in their s'ciety i never once detects jerry in any look or word of kindness to tom. jerry bites him an' kicks him an' cusses him out constant; he never tol'rates tom closter than twenty foot onless at times when he orders tom to curry him. shore, the imbecile tom submits. on sech o'casions when jerry issues a summons to go over him, usin' his upper teeth for a comb an' bresh, tom is never so happy. which he digs an' delves at jerry's ribs that a-way like it's a honour; after a half hour, mebby, when jerry feels refreshed s'fficient, he w'irls on tom an' dismisses him with both heels. "'i track up on folks who's jest the same,' says dan boggs, one time when i mentions this onaccountable infatyooation of tom. 'this jerry loves that tom mule mate of his, only he ain't lettin' on. i knows a lady whose treatment of her husband is a dooplicate of jerry's. she metes out the worst of it to that long-sufferin' shorthorn at every bend in the trail; it looks like he never wins a good word or a soft look from her once. an' yet when that party cashes in, whatever does the lady do? takes a hooker of whiskey, puts in p'isen enough to down a dozen wolves, an' drinks off every drop. 'far'well, vain world, i'm goin' home,' says the lady; 'which i prefers death to sep'ration, an' i'm out to jine my beloved husband in the promised land.' i knows, for i attends the fooneral of that family--said fooneral is a double-header as the lady, bein' prompt, trails out after her husband before ever he's pitched his first camp--an' later assists old chandler in deevisin' a epitaph, the same occurrin' in these yere familiar words: "she sort o got the drop on him, in the dooel of earthly love; let's hope he gets an even break when they meets in heaven above." "'thar,' concloods dan, 'is what i regyards as a parallel experience to this tom an' jerry. the lady plays jerry's system from soda to hock, an' yet you-all can see in the lights of that thar sooicide how deep she loves him.' "'that's all humbug, dan,' says enright; 'the lady you relates of isn't lovin'. she's only locoed that a-way.' "'whyever if she's locoed, then,' argues dan, 'don't they up an' hive her in one of their madhouse camps? she goes chargin' about as free an' fearless as a cyclone.' "'all the same,' says texas thompson, 'her cashin' in don't prove no lovin' heart. mebby she does it so's to chase him up an' continyoo onbroken them hectorin's of her's. i could onfold a fact or two about that wife of mine who cuts out the divorce from me in laredo that would lead you to concloosions sim'lar. but she wasn't your wife; an' i don't aim to impose my domestic afflictions on this innocent camp, which bein' troo i mootely stands my hand.' "this jerry's got one weakness however, i don't never take advantage of it. he's scared to frenzy if you pulls a gun. i reckons, with all them crimes of his'n preyin' on his mind, that he allows you're out, to shoot him up. jerry is ca'm so long as your gun's in the belt, deemin' it as so much onmeanin' ornament. but the instant you pulls it like you're goin' to put it in play, he onbuckles into piercin' screams. i reaches for my six-shooter one evenin' by virchoo of antelopes, an' that's the time i discovers this foible of jerry's. i never gets a shot. at the sight of the gun jerry evolves a howl an' the antelopes tharupon hits two or three high places an' is miles away. shore, they thinks jerry is some new breed of demon. "when i turns to note the cause of jerry's clamours he's loppin' his fore-laigs over tom's back an' sobbin' an' sheddin' tears into his mane. tom sympathises with jerry an' says all he can to teach him that the avenger ain't on his trail. nothin' can peacify jerry, however, except jammin' that awful six-shooter back into its holster. i goes over jerry that evenin' patiently explorin' for bullet marks, but thar ain't none. no one's ever creased him; an' i figgers final by way of a s'lootion of his fits that mighty likely jerry's attended some killin' between hoomans, inadvertent, an' has the teeth of his apprehensions set on aige. "jerry is that high an' haughty he won't come up for corn in the mornin' onless i petitions him partic'lar an' calls him by name. to jest whoop 'mules!' he holds don't incloode him. usual i humours jerry an' shouts his title speshul, the others bein' called in a bunch. when jerry hears his name he walks into camp, delib'rate an' dignified, an' kicks every mule to pieces who tries to shove in ahead. "once, feelin' some malignant myse'f, i tries jerry's patience out. i don't call 'jerry,' merely shouts 'mules' once or twice an' lets it go at that. jerry, when he notices i don't refer to him partic'lar lays his y'ears back; an' although his r'ar elevation is towards me i can see he's hotter than a hornet. the faithful tom abides with jerry; though he tells him it's feed time an' that the others with a nosebag on each of 'em is already at their repasts. jerry only gets madder an' lays for tom an' tries to bite him. after ten minutes, sullen an' sulky, hunger beats jerry an' he comes bumpin' into camp like a bar'l down hill an' eases his mind by wallopin' both hind hoofs into them other blameless mules, peacefully munchin' their rations. also, after jerry's let me put the nosebag onto him he reeverses his p'sition an' swiftly lets fly at me. but i ain't in no trance an' jerry misses. i don't frale him; i saveys it's because he feels hoomiliated with me not callin' him by name. "as a roole me an' jerry gets through our dooties harmonious. he can pull like a lion an' never flinches or flickers at a pinch. it's shore a vict'ry to witness the heroic way jerry goes into the collar at a hard steep hill or some swirlin', rushin' ford. sech bein' jerry's work habits i'm prepared to overlook a heap of moral deeficiencies an' never lays it up ag'in jerry that he's morose an' repellant when i flings him any kindnesses. "but while i don't resent 'em none by voylence, still jerry has habits ag'inst which i has to gyard. you-all recalls how long ago i tells you of jerry's, bein' a thief. shore, he can't he'p it; he's a born kleptomaniac. leastwise 'kleptomaniac' is what colonel sterett calls it when he's tellin' me of a party who's afflicted sim'lar. "'otherwise this gent's a heap respectable,' says the colonel. 'morally speakin' thar's plenty who's worse. of course, seein' he's crowdin' forty years, he ain't so shamefully innocent neither. he ain't no debyootanty; still, he ain't no crime-wrung debauchee. i should say he grades midway in between. but deep down in his system this person's a kleptomaniac, an' at last his weakness gets its hobbles off an' he turns himse'f loose, an' begins to jest nacherally take things right an' left. no, he don't get put away in huntsville; they sees he's locoed an' he's corraled instead in one of the asylums where thar's nothin' loose an' little kickin' 'round, an' tharfore no temptations.' "takin' the word then from colonel sterett, jerry is a kleptomaniac. i used former to hobble jerry but one mornin' i'm astounded to see what looks like snow all about my camp. bein' she's in joone that snow theery don't go. an' it ain't snow, it's flour; this kleptomaniac jerry creeps to the waggons while i sleeps an' gets away, one after the other, with fifteen fifty-pound sacks of flour. then he entertains himse'f an' tom by p'radin' about with the sacks in his teeth, shakin' an' tossin' his head an' powderin' my 'pride of denver' all over the plains. which jerry shore frosts that scenery plumb lib'ral. "it's the next night an' i don't hobble jerry; i pegs him out on a lariat. what do you-all reckon now that miscreant does? corrupts pore tom who you may be certain is sympathisin' 'round, an' makes tom go to the waggons, steal the flour an' pack it out to him where he's pegged. the soopine tom, who otherwise is the soul of integrity, abstracts six sacks for his mate an' at daybreak the wretched jerry's standin' thar, white as milk himse'f, an' flour a foot deep in a cirkle whereof the radius is his rope tom's gazin' on jerry in a besotted way like he allows he's certainly the greatest sport on earth. "which this last is too much an' i ropes up jerry for punishment. i throws an' hawgties jerry, an' he's layin' thar on his side. his eye is obdoorate an' thar's neither shame nor repentance in his heart. tom is sort o' sobbin' onder his breath; tom would have swapped places with jerry too quick an' i sees he has it in his mind to make the offer, only he knows i'll turn it down." "the other six mules comes up an' loafs about observant an' respectful. they jestifies my arrangements; besides jerry is mighty onpop'lar with 'em by reason of his heels. i can hear peter the little lead mule sayin' to jane, his mate: 'the boss is goin' to lam jerry a lot with a trace-chain. which it's shore comin' to him!' "i w'irls the chain on high an' lays it along jerry's evil ribs, _kerwhillup_! every other link bites through the hide an' the chain plows a most excellent an' wholesome furrow. as the chain descends, the sympathetic tom jumps an' gives a groan. tom feels a mighty sight worse than his _companero_. at the sixth wallop tom can't b'ar no more, but with tears an' protests comes an' stands over jerry an' puts it up he'll take the rest himse'f. this evidence of brotherly love stands me off, an' for tom's sake i desists an' throws jerry loose. that old scoundrel--while i sees he's onforgivin' an' a-harbourin' of hatreds ag'in me--don't forget the trace-chain an' comports himse'f like a law-abidin' mule for months. he even quits bitin' an' kickin' tom, an' that lovin' beast seems like he's goin' to break his heart over it, 'cause he looks on it as a sign that jerry's gettin' cold. "but thar comes a day when i loses both tom an' jerry. it's about second drink time one august mornin' an' me an' my eight mules goes scamperin' through a little mexican plaza called tramperos on our way to the canadian. over by a 'doby stands a old fleabitten gray mare; she's shore hideous. "now if mules has one overmasterin' deloosion it's a gray mare; she's the religion an' the goddess of the mules. this knowledge is common; if you-all is ever out to create a upheaval in the bosom of a mule the handiest, quickest lever is a old gray mare. the gov'ment takes advantage of this aberration of the mules. thar's trains of pack mules freightin' to the gov'ment posts in the rockies. they figgers on three hundred pounds to the mule an' the freight is packed in panniers. the gov'ment freighters not bein' equal to the manifold mysteries of a diamond-hitch, don't use no reg'lar shore-enough pack saddle but takes refooge with their ignorance in panniers. "speakin' gen'ral, thar's mebby two hundred mules in one of these gov'ment pack trains. an' in the lead, followed, waited on an' worshipped by the mules, is a aged gray mare. she don't pack nothin' but her virchoo an' a little bell, which last is hung 'round her neck. this old mare, with nothin' but her character an' that bell to encumber her, goes fa'rly flyin' light. but go as fast an' as far as she pleases, them long-y'eared locoed worshippers of her's won't let her outen their raptured sight. the last one of 'em, panniers, freight an' all, would go surgin' to the topmost pinnacle of the rockies if she leads the way. "an' at that this gray mare don't like mules none; she abhors their company an' kicks an' abooses 'em to a standstill whenever they draws near. but the fool mules don't care; it's ecstacy to simply know she's livin' an' that mule's cup of joy is runnin' over who finds himse'f permitted to crop grass within forty foot of his old, gray bell-bedecked idol. "we travels all day, followin' glimpsin' that flea-bitten cayouse at tramperos. but the mules can't think or talk of nothin' else. it arouses their religious enthoosiasm to highest pitch; even the cynic jerry gets half-way keyed up over it. i looks for trouble that night; an' partic'lar i pegs out jerry plenty deep and strong. the rest is hobbled, all except tom. gray mare or not, i'll gamble the outfit tom wouldn't abandon jerry, let the indoocement be ever so alloorin'. "every well-organised mule team that a-way allers carries along a bronco. this little steed, saddled an' bridled, trots throughout the day by the side of the off-wheeler, his bridle-rein caught over the wheeler's hame. the bronco is used to round up the mules in event they strays or declines in the mornin' to come when called. sech bein' the idee, the cayous is allers kept strictly in camp. "'james' is my bronco's name; an' the evenin', followin' the vision of that tramperos gray mare i makes onusual shore 'that james stays with me. not that gray mares impresses james--him bein' a boss an' bosses havin' religious convictions different from mules--or is doo to prove temptations to him; but he might conceal other plans an' get strayed prosecootin' of 'em to a finish. i ties james to the trail-waggon, an' followin' bacon, biscuits, airtights an' sech, the same bein' my froogal fare when on the trail, i rolls in onder the lead-waggon 'an' gives myse'f up to sleep. "exactly as i surmises, when i turns out at sun-up thar's never a mule in sight. every one of them idolaters goes poundin' back, as fast as ever he can with hobbles on, to confess his sins an' say his pray'rs at the shrine of that old gray mare. even jerry, whose cynicism should have saved him, pulls his picket-pin with the rest an', takin' tom along, goes curvin' off. it ain't more than ten minutes, you can gamble! when james an' me is on their trails. "one by one, i overtakes the team strung all along between my camp an' tramperos. peter, the little lead mule, bein' plumb agile an' a sharp on hobbles, gets cl'ar thar; an' i finds him devourin' the goddess gray mare with heart an' soul an' eyes, an' singin' to himse'f the while in low, satisfied tones. "as one after the other i passes the pilgrim mules i turns an' lifts about a squar' inch of hide off each with the blacksnake whip i'm carryin', by way of p'intin' out their heresies an arousin' in 'em a eagerness to get back to their waggons an' a' upright, pure career. they takes the chastisement humble an' dootiful, an' relinquishes the thought of reachin' the goddess gray mare. "when i overtakes old jerry i pours the leather into him speshul, an' the way him an' his pard tom goes scatterin' for camp refreshes me a heap. an' yet after i rescoos peter from the demoralisin' inflooences of the gray mare, an' begins to pick up the other members of the team on the journey back, i'm some deepressed when i don't see tom or jerry. nor is either of them mules by the waggons when i arrives. "it's onadulterated cussedness! jerry, with no hobbles an' merely draggin' a rope, can lope about free an' permiscus. tom, with nothin' to hamper him but his love for jerry, is even more lightsome an' loose. that jerry mule, hatin' me an' allowin' to make me all the grief he can, sneakingly leaves the trail some'ers after i turns him an' touches him up with the lash. an' now tom an' jerry is shorely hid out an' lost a whole lot. it's nothin' but jerry's notion of revenge on me. "i camps two days where i'm at, an rounds up the region for the trooants. i goes over it like a fine-tooth comb an' rides james to a show-down. that bronco never is so long onder the saddle since he's foaled; i don't reckon he knows before thar's so much hard work in the world as falls to him when we goes ransackin' in quest of tom an' jerry. "it's no use; the ground is hard an' dry an' i can't even see their hoof-marks. the country's so rollin', too, it's no trouble for 'em to hide. at last i quits an' throws my hand in the diskyard. tom an' jerry is shore departed an' i'm deeficient my two best mules. i hooks up the others, an' seein' it's down hill an' a easy trail i makes tascosa an' refits. "i never crosses up on tom an' jerry in this yere life no more, but one day i learns their fate. it's a month later on my next trip back, an' i'm camped about a half day's drive of that same locoed plaza of tramperos. as i'm settin' in camp with the sun still plenty high--i'm compilin' flapjacks at the time--i sees eight or ten ravens wheelin' an' cirklin' over beyond a swell about three miles to the left. "'tom an' jerry for a bloo stack!' i says to myse'f; an' with that i cinches the saddle onto james precip'tate. "shore enough; i'm on the scene of the tragedy. half way down a rocky slope where thar ain't grass enough to cover the brown nakedness of the ground lies the bones of tom an' jerry. this latter, who's that obstinate an' resentful he won't go back to camp when i wallops him on that gray mare mornin', allows he'll secrete himse'f an' tom off to one side an' worrit me up. while he's manooverin' about he gets the half-inch rope he's draggin' tangled good an' fast in a mesquite bush. it shorely holds him; that bush is old jerry's last picket---his last camp. which he'd a mighty sight better played his hand out with me, even if i does ring in a trace-chain on him at needed intervals. jerry jest nacherally starves to death for grass an' water. an' what's doubly hard the lovin' tom, troo to the last, starves with him. thar's water within two miles; but tom declines it, stays an' starves with jerry, an' the ravens an' the coyotes picks their frames." chapter ix. the influence of faro nell. "thar's no doubt about it," observed the old cattleman, apropos of the fairer, better sex--for woman was the gentle subject of our morning's talk; "thar's no doubt about it, females is a refinin' an' ennoblin' inflooence; you-all can hazard your chips on that an' pile 'em higher than cook's peak! an' when faro nell prefers them requests, she's ondoubted moved of feelin's of mercy. they shore does her credit, said motives does, an' if she had asked cherokee or jack moore, or even texas thompson, things would have come off as effective an' a mighty sight more discreet. but since he's standin' thar handy, nell ups an' recroots dan boggs on the side of hoomanity, an' tharupon dan goes trackin' in without doo reflection, an' sets the mexicans examples which, to give 'em a best deescription, is shore some bad. it ain't nell's fault, but dan is a gent of sech onusual impulses that you-all don't know wherever dan will land none, once you goes pokin' up his ha'r-hung sensibil'ties with su'gestions that is novel to his game. still, nell can't he'p it; an' in view of what we knows to be the female record since ever the world begins, i re-asserts onhesitatin' that the effects of woman is good. she subdooes the reckless, subjoogates the rebellious, sobers the friv'lous, burns the ground from onder the indolent moccasins of that male she's roped up in holy wedlock's bonds, an' p'ints the way to a higher, happier life. that's whatever! an' this dramy of existence, as i once hears colonel sterett say, would be a frost an' a failure an' bog plumb down at that, if you was to cut out the leadin' lady roles an' ring up the curtain with nothin' but bucks in the cast.' "narrow an' contracted as you may deem said camp to be, wolfville itse'f offers plenty proof on this head. thar's dave tutt: whatever is dave, i'd like for to inquire, prior to tucson jennie runnin' her wifely brand on to him an' redoocin' him to domesticity? no, thar's nothin' so evil about dave neither, an' yet he has his little ways. for one thing, dave's about as extemporaneous a prop'sition as ever sets in a saddle, an' thar's times when you give dave licker an' convince him it's a o'casion for joobilation, an' you-all won't have to leave no 'call' with the clerk to insure yourse'f of bein' out early in the mornin.' son, dave would keep that camp settin' up all night. "but once dave comes onder the mitigatin' spells of tucson jennie, things is changed. tucson jennie knocks dave's horns off doorin' the first two weeks; he gets staid an' circumspect an' tharby plays better poker an' grows more urbane. "likewise does benson annie work mir'cles sim'lar in the conduct of that maverick french which enright an' the camp, to allay the burnin' excitement that's rendin' the outfit on account of the laundry war, herds into her lovin' arms. tenderfoot as he is, when we-all ups an' marries him off that time, this french already shows symptoms of becomin' one of the most abandoned sports in arizona. benson annie seizes him, purifies him, an' makes him white as snow. "an' thar's missis rucker;--as troo a lady as ever bakes a biscuit! even with the burdens of the o.k. restauraw upon her she still finds energy to improve old rucker to that extent he ups an' rides off towards the hills one mornin' an' never does come back no more. "'doc,' he says to doc peets, while he's fillin' a canteen in the red light prior to his start; 'i won't tell you what i'm aimin' to accomplish, because the stranglers might regyard it as their dooty to round me up. but thar's something comin' to the public, doc; so i yereby leaves word that next week, or next month, or mebby later, if doubts is expressed of my fate, i'm still flutterin' about the scenery some'ers an' am a long ways short of dead. an' as i fades from sight, doc, i'll take a chance an' say that the clause in the constitootion which allows that all gents is free an' equal wasn't meant to incloode no married man.' an' with these croode bluffs rucker chases forth for the floridas. "no, the camp don't do nothin'; the word gets passed 'round that old rucker's gone prospectin' an' that he will recur in our midst whenever thar's a reg'lar roll-call. as for missis rucker, personal, from all we can jedge by lookin' on--for thar's shore none of us who's that locoed we ups an' asks--i don't reckon now she ever notices that rucker's escaped. "yere's how it is the time when faro nell, her heart bleedin' for the sufferin's of dumb an' he'pless brutes, employs dan boggs in errants of mercy an' dan's efforts to do good gets ill-advised. not that dan is easily brought so he regyards his play as erroneous; enright has to rebooke dan outright in set terms an' assoome airs of severity before ever dan allows he entertains a doubt. "'suppose i does retire that greaser's hand from cirk'lation?' says dan, sort o' dispootatious with enright an' doc peets, who's both engaged in p'intin' out dan's faults. 'mexicans ain't got no more need for hands than squinch owls has for hymn books. they won't work; they never uses them members except for dealin' monte or clawin' a guitar. i regyards a mexican's hands that a-way, when considered as feachers in his makeup, as sooperfluous.' "'dan, you shore is the most perverse sport!' says enright, makin' a gesture of impatience an' at the same time refillin' his glass in hopes of a ca'mer frame. 'this ain't so much a question of hands as it's a question of taste. nell's requests is right, an' you're bound to go about the rescoo of said chicken as the victim of crooelties. where you-all falls down is on a system. the method you invokes is impertinent. don't you say so, doc?' "'which i shore does,' says peets. 'dan's conduct is absolootely oncouth.' "dan lays the basis for these strictures in the follow-in' fashion: it's a _fieste_ with the mexicans--one of the noomerous saint's days they gives way to when every greaser onbuckles an' devotes himse'f to merriments--an' over in chihuahua, as the mexican part of the camp is called, the sunburnt portion of wolfville's pop'lation broadens into quite a time. thar's hoss races an' monte an' mescal an' pulque, together with roode music sech as may be wrung from primitive instruments like the guitar, the fiddle, an' tin cans half filled with stones. "faro nell, who is only a child as you-all might say, an' ready to be engaged an' entertained with childish things, goes trippin' over to size up the gala scene. "thar's a passel of young mexicans who's ridin' for the chicken's head. this yere is a sport something like a gander pullin', same as we-all engages in on thanksgivin' days an' christmas, back when i'm a boy in tennessee. you saveys a gander pullin'? son, you don't mean sech ignorance! thar must have been mighty little sunshine in the life of a yooth in the morose regions where you was raised for you-all never to disport yourse'f, even as a spectator, at a gander pullin'! it wouldn't surprise me none after that if you ups an' informs me you never shakes a fetlock in that dance called money-musk. "to the end that you be eddicated,--for it's better late than never,"--i'll pause concernin' boggs an' the mexicans long enough to eloocidate of gander pullin's. "as i su'gests, we onbends in this pastime at sech epocks as christmas an' thanksgivin.' i don't myse'f take actooal part in any gander pullin's. not that i'm too delicate, but i ain't got no hoss. bein' a pore yooth, i spends the mornin' of my c'reer on foot, an' as a hoss is a necessary ingreedient to a gander pullin', i never does stand in personal on the festival, but is redooced to become a envy-bitten looker-on. "gander pullin's is conducted near a tavern or a still house so's the assembled gents won't want the inspiration befittin' both the season an' the scene, an' is commonly held onder the auspices of the proprietor tharof. thar's a track marked out in a cirkle like a little racecourse for the hosses to gallop on. this course runs between two poles pinned into the ground; or mebby it's two trees. thar's a rope stretched from pole to pole,--taut an' stiff she's stretched; an' the gander who's the object of the meetin', with his neck an' head greased a heap lavish, is hung from the rope by his two hind laigs. as the gander hangs thar, what colonel sterett would style 'the cynosure of every eye,' you'll notice that a gent by standin' high in the stirrups can get a grip of the gander's head. "as many as determines to distinguish themse'fs in the amoosement throws a two-bit piece into a hat. most likely thar'll be forty partic'pants. they then lines up, injun file, an' goes caperin' round the course, each in his place in the joyous procession. as a gent goes onder the rope he grabs for the gander's head; an' that party who's expert enough to bring it away in his hand, wins the hat full of two-bit pieces yeretofore deescribed. "which, of course, no gent succeeds the first dash outen the box, as a gander's head is on some good and strong; an' many a saddle gets emptied by virchoo of the back'ard yanks a party gets. but it's on with the dance! they keeps whoopin' an' shoutin' an' ridin' the cirkle an' grabbin' at the gander, each in his cheerful turn, ontil some strong or lucky party sweeps away the prize, assoomes title to the two-bit pieces, goes struttin' to the licker room an' buys nosepaint for the pop'lace tharwith. "shore, doorin' a contest a gent's got to keep ridin'; he's not allowed to pause an' dally with the gander an' delay the game. to see to this a brace of brawny sharps is stationed by each pole with clubs in their willin' hands to reemonstrate with any hoss or gent who slows down or stops as he goes onder the gander. "thar you have it, son; a brief but lively picture of a gander pullin' as pulled former in blithe old tennessee. an' you'll allow, if you sets down to a ca'm, onja'ndiced study of the sport, that a half hour of reasonable thrill might be expected to flow from it. gander pullin's is popular a lot when i'm a yearlin'; i knows that for shore; though in a age which grows effete it's mighty likely if we-all goes back thar now, we'd find it fallen into disuse as a reelaxation. "in ridin' for the chicken's head, a mexican don't hang up his prey none same as we-all does at gander pullin's. he buries it in the ground to sech degrees that nothin' but the head an' neck protroodes. an' as the mexicans goes flashin' by on their broncos, each in turn swings down an' makes a reach for the chicken's head. the experiment calls for a shore-enough rider; as when a party is over on one side that a-way, an' nothin' to hold by but a left hand on the saddlehorn an' a left spur caught in the cantle, any little old pull will fetch him out on his head. "this day when faro nell comes bulgin' up to amoose her young an' idle cur'osity with the gayeties of chihuahua, the ridin' for the chicken's head is about to commence. which they're jest plantin' the chicken. at first nell don't savey, as she ain't posted deep on mexican pastimes. but nell is plenty quick mental; as, actin' look-out for cherokee's bank, she's bound to be. wherefore nell don't study the preeliminaries long before she gets onto the roodiments of some idee concernin' the jocund plans of the greasers. "at last the chicken is buried, an' thar's nothin' in sight but its anxious head. except that it can turn an' twist its neck some, it's fixed in the ground as firm an' solid as the stumps of a mesquite bush. "the first greaser--he's a gaudy party with more colours than you could count in any rainbow--is organisin' for a rush. he's pickin' up his reins an' pushin' his moccasins deep into his tappedaries, when, as he gives his cayouse the spur, the beauty of ridin' for the chicken's head bursts full on faro nell. comin' on her onexpected, nell don't see no pleasure in it. it don't present the attractions which so alloores the heart of a greaser. without pausin' to think, an' feelin' shocked over the fate that's ridin' down on the buried chicken, nell grips her little paws convulsive an' snaps her teeth. it's then her eye catches dan boggs, who's contemplatin' details an' awaitin' the finish with vivid interest. "'oh, dan!' says nell, grabbin' dan's arm, 'i don't want that chicken hurt none! can't you-all make 'em stop?' "'shore!' says dan, prompt to nell's cry. 'i preevails on 'em to cease easy.' "as dan says this, that radiant cavalier is sweepin' upon the pore chicken like the breath of destiny. he's bendin' from the saddle to make a swoop as dan speaks. thar ain't a moment to lose an' dan's hand goes to his gun. "'watch me stop him,' says dan; an' as he does, his bullet makes rags of the mexican's hand not a inch from the chicken's head. "for what time you-all might need to slop out a drink, the onlookin' mexicans stands still. then the stoopefyin' impressions made by dan's pistol practice wears off an' a howl goes up like a hundred wolves. at this dan gets his number-two gun to b'ar, an' with one in each hand, confronts the tan-coloured multitoode. "'that's shore a nice shot, nell!' says dan over his shoulder, ropin' for the congratoolations he thinks is comin.' "but nell don't hear him; she's one hundred yards away an' streakin' it for the red light like a shootin' star. she tumbles in on us with the brake off like a stage-coach downhill. "'dan's treed chihuahua!' gasps nell, as she heads straight for cherokee; 'you-all better rustle over thar plumb soon!' "cherokee jumps an' grabs his hardware where they're layin' onder the table. bein' daylight an' no game goin', an' the day some warm besides, he ain't been wearin' 'em, bein' as you-all might say in negligee. cherokee buckles on his belts in a second an' starts; the rest of us, however, since we're more ackerately garbed, don't lose no time an' is already half way to dan. "it ain't a two-minute run an' we arrives in time. thar's no more blood, though thar might have been, for we finds dan frontin' up to full two hundred greasers, their numbers increasin' and excitement runnin' a heap high. we cuts in between dan an' mexican public opinion and extricates that over-vol'tile sport. "but dan won't return ontil he exhoomes the chicken, which is still bobbin' an' twistin' its onharmed head where the mexican buries it. dan digs it up an' takes it by the laigs; enright meanwhile cussin' him out, fervent an' nervous, for he fears some locoed greaser will cut loose every moment an' mebby crease a gent, an' so leave it incumbent on the rest of us to desolate chihuahua. "'it's for nell,' expostulates dan, replyin' to enright's criticisms. 'i knows she wants it by the way she grabs my coat that time. moreover, from the tones she speaks in, i reckons she wants it alive. also, i don't discern no excoose for this toomult neither; which you-all is shore the most peevish bunch, enright, an' that's whatever!' "'peevish or no,' retorts enright, 'as a jedge of warjigs i figgers that we gets here jest in time. thar you be, up ag'inst the entire tribe, an' each one with a gun. it's one of the deefects of a colt's six-shooter that it hits as hard an' shoots as troo for a injun or a greaser as it does for folks. talk about us bein' peevish! what do you-all reckon would have been results if we hadn't cut in on the _baile_ at the time we does?' "'nothin',' says dan, with tones of soopreme vanity, at the same time dustin' the dirt off nell's chicken, 'nothing except i'd hung crape on half the dobies in chihuahua.' "about two hours after, when things ag'in simmers to the usual, an' nell is makin' her chicken a coop out to the r'ar of the red light, enright gives a half laugh. "'dan,' says enright, 'when i reflects on the hole we drug you out of, an' the way you-all gets in, you reminds me of that thomas benton dog i owns when i'm a yoothful child on the cumberland. which thomas benton that a-way is a mighty industrious dog an' would turn over a quarter-section of land any afternoon diggin' out a ground-hawg. but thar's this drawback to thomas benton which impairs his market valyoo. some folks used to regyard it as a foible; but it's worse, it's a deefect. as i remarks, this thomas benton dog would throw his whole soul into the work, an' dig for a groundhawg like he ain't got another dollar. but thar's this pecooliarity: after that thomas benton dog has done dug out the ground-hawg for a couple of hours, you-all is forced to get a spade an' dig out that thomas benton dog. he's dead now these yere forty years, but if he's livin' i'd shore change his name an' rebrand him "dan'l boggs."'" chapter x. the ghost of the bar-b- . "spectres? never! i refooses 'em my beliefs utter"; and with these emphatic words the old cattleman tasted his liquor thoughtfully on his tongue. the experiment was not satisfactory; and he despatched his dark retainer tom for lemons and sugar. "an' you-all might better tote along some hot water, too;" he commanded. "this nosepaint feels raw an' over-fervid; a leetle dilootion won't injure it none." "but about ghosts?" i persisted. "ghosts?" he retorted. "i never does hear of but one; that's a apparition which enlists the attentions of peets and old man enright a lot. it's a spectre that takes to ha'ntin' about one of enright's bar-b- sign-camps, an' scarin' up the cattle an' drivin' 'em over a precipice, an' all to enright's disaster an' loss. nacherally, enright don't like this spectral play; an' him an' peets lays for the wraith with rifles, busts its knee some, an' peets ampytates its laig. then they throws it loose; allowin' that now it's only got one lai'g, the visitations will mighty likely cease. moreover enright regyards ampytation that a-way, as punishment enough. which i should shore allow the same myse'f! "it ain't much of a tale. it turns out like all sperit stories; when you approaches plumb close an' jumps sideways at 'em an' seizes 'em by the antlers, the soopernacheral elements sort o' bogs down. "it's over mebby fifty miles to the southeast of wolfville, some'ers in the fringes of the tres hermanas that thar's a sign-camp of enright's brand. thar's a couple of enright's riders holdin' down this corner of the bar-b- game, an' one evenin' both of 'em comes squanderin' in,--ponies a-foam an' faces pale as milk,--an' puts it up they don't return to that camp no more. "'because she's ha'nted,' says one; 'jim an' me both encounters this yere banshee an' it's got fire eyes. also, itse'f and pony is constructed of bloo flames. you can gamble! i don't want none of it in mine; an' that's whatever!' "any gent can see that these yooths is mighty scared. enright elicits their yarn only after pourin' about a quart of nosepaint into 'em. "it looks like on two several o'casions that a handful of cattle gets run over a steep bluff from the _mesa_ above. the fall is some sixty feet in the cl'ar, an' when them devoted cattle strikes the bottom it's plenty easy to guess they're sech no longer, an' thar's nothin' left of 'em but beef. these beef drives happens each time in the night; an' the cattle must have been stampeded complete to make the trip. cattle, that a-way, ain't goin' to go chargin' over a high bluff none onless their reason is onhinged. no, the coyotes an' the mountain lions don't do it; they never chases cattle, holdin' 'em in fear an' tremblin.' these mountain lions prounces down on colts like a mink on a settin' hen, but never calves or cattle. "it's after the second beef killin' when the two riders allows they'll do some night herdin' themse'fs an' see if they solves these pheenomenons that's cuttin' into the bar-b- . "'an' it's mebby second drink time after midnight,' gasps the cow-puncher who's relatin' the adventures, 'an' me an' jim is experimentin' along the aige of the _mesa_, when of a suddent thar comes two steers, heads down, tails up, locoed absoloote they be; an' flashin' about in the r'ar of 'em rides this flamin' cow-sperit on its flamin' cayouse. shore! he heads 'em over the cliff; i hears 'em hit the bottom of the canyon jest as i falls off my bronco in a fit. as soon as ever i comes to an' can scramble into that texas saddle ag'in, me an' jim hits the high places in the scenery, in a fervid way, an' yere we-all be! an' you hear me, gents, i don't go back to that bar-b- camp no more. i ain't ridin' herd on apparitions; an' whenever ghosts takes to romancin' about in the cow business, that lets me out.' "'i reckons,' says enright, wrinklin' up his brows, 'i'll take a look into this racket myse'f.' "'an' if you-all don't mind none, enright,' says peets, 'i'll get my chips in with yours. thar's been no one shot for a month in either red dog or wolfville an' i'm reedic'lous free of patients. an' if the boys'll promise to hold themse'fs an' their guns in abeyance for a week or so, an' not go framin' up excooses for my presence abrupt, i figgers that a few days idlin' about the ranges, an' mebby a riot or two roundin' up this cow-demon, will expand me an' do me good.' "'you're lookin' for trouble, doc,' says colonel sterett, kind o' laughin' at peets. 'you reminds me of a onhappy sport i encounters long ago in looeyville.' "'an' wherein does this bloo grass party resemble me?' asks peets. "'it's one evenin',' says colonel sterett, 'an' a passel of us is settin' about in the gait house bar, toyin' with our beverages. thar's a smooth, good-lookin' stranger who's camped at a table near. final, he yawns like he's shore weary of life an' looks at us sharp an' cur'ous. then he speaks up gen'ral as though he's addressin' the air. "this is a mighty dull town!" he says. "which i've been yere a fortnight an' i ain't had no fight as yet." an' he continyoos to look us over plenty mournful. "'"you-all needn't gaze on us that a-way," says a gent named granger; "you can set down a stack on it, you ain't goin' to pull on no war with none of us." "'"shore, no!" says the onhappy stranger. then he goes on apol'getic; "gents, i'm onfort'nately constitootcd. onless i has trouble at reasonable intervals it preys on me. i've been yere in your town two weeks an' so far ain't seen the sign. gents, it's beginnin' to tell; an' if any of you-all could direct me where i might get action it would be kindly took." "'"if you're honin' for a muss," says granger, "all you has to do is go a couple of blocks to the east, an' then five to the no'th, an' thar on the corner you'll note a mighty prosperous s'loon. you caper in by the side door; it says family entrance over this yere portal. sa'nter up to the bar, call for licker, drink it; an' then you remark to the barkeep, casooal like, that you're thar to maintain that any outcast who'll sell sech whiskey ain't fit to drink with a nigger or eat with a dog. that's all; that barkeep'll relieve you of the load that's burdenin' your nerves in about thirty seconds. you'll be the happiest sport in looeyville when he gets through." "'"but can't you come an' p'int out the place," coaxes the onhappy stranger of granger. he's all wropped up in what granger tells him. "i don't know my way about good, an' from your deescriptions i shorely wouldn't miss visitin' that resort for gold an' precious stones. come an' show me, pard; i'll take you thar in a kerriage." "'at that granger consents to guide the onhappy stranger. they drives over an' granger stops the outfit, mebby she's fifty yards from the door. he p'ints it out to the onhappy stranger sport. "'come with me," says the onhappy stranger, as he gets outen the kerriage. "come on; you-all don't have to fight none. i jest wants you to watch me. which i'm the dandiest warrior for the whole length of the ohio!" "'but granger is firm that he won't; he's not inquisitive, he says, an' will stay planted right thar on the r'ar seat an' await deevelopments. with that, the onhappy stranger sport goes sorrowfully for'ard alone, an' gets into the gin-mill by the said family entrance. granger' sets thar with his head out an' y'ears cocked lookin' an' listenin'. "'everything's plenty quiet for a minute. then slam! bang! bing! crash! the most flagrant hubbub breaks forth! it sounds like that store's comin' down. the racket rages an' grows worse. thar's a smashin' of glass. the lights goes out, while customers comes boundin' an' skippin' forth from the family entrance like frightened fawns. at last the uproars dies down ontil they subsides complete. "'granger is beginnin' to upbraid himse'f for not gettin the onhappy stranger's address, so's he could ship home the remainder. in the midst of granger's se'f-accoosations, the lights in the gin-mill begins to burn ag'in, one by one. after awhile, she's reilloominated an' ablaze with old-time glory. it's then the family entrance opens an' the onhappy stranger sport emerges onto the sidewalk. he's in his shirtsleeves, an' a satisfied smile wreathes his face. he shore looks plumb content! "'"get out of the kerriage an' come in, pard," he shouts to granger. "come on in a whole lot! i'd journey down thar an' get you, but i can't leave; i'm tendin' bar!"' "'you're shore right, colonel,' says peets, when colonel sterett ends the anecdote, 'the feelin' of that onhappy stranger sport is parallel to mine. ghosts is new to me; an' i'm goin' pirootin' off with enright on this demon hunt an' see if i can't fetch up in the midst of a trifle of nerve-coolin' excitement.' "the ghost tales of the stampeded cow-punchers excites dan boggs a heap. after enright an' peets has organised an' gone p'inting out for the ha'nted bar-b- sign-camp to investigate the spook, dan can't talk of nothin' else. "'them's mighty dead game gents, enright an' doc peets is!' says dan. 'i wouldn't go searchin' for no sperits more'n i'd write letters to rattlesnakes! i draws the line at intimacies with fiends.' "'but mebby this yere is a angel,' says faro nell, from her stool alongside of cherokee hall. "'not criticisin' you none, nell,' says dan, 'cherokee himse'f will tell you sech surmises is reedic'lous. no angel is goin' to visit arizona for obvious reasons. an' ag'in, no angel's doo to go skally-hootin' about after steers an' stampeedin' 'em over brinks. it's ag'in reason; you bet! that blazin' wraith, that a-way, is a shore-enough demon! an' as for me, personal, i wouldn't cut his trail for a bunch of ponies! "'be you-all scared of ghosts, dan?' asks faro nell. "'be i scared of ghosts?' says dan. 'which i wish, i could see a ghost an' show you! i don't want to brag none, nellie, but i'll gamble four for one, an' go as far as you likes, that if you was to up an' show me a ghost right now, i wouldn't stop runnin' for a month. but what appals me partic'lar,' goes on dan, 'about peets an' enright, is they takes their guns. now a ghost waxes onusual indignant if you takes to shootin' him up with guns. no, it don't hurt him; but he regyards sech demonstrations as insults. it's like my old pap says that time about the yankees. my old pap is a colonel with gen'ral price, an' on this evenin' is engaged in leadin' one of the most intrepid retreats of the war. as he's prancin' along at the head of his men where a great commander belongs, he's shore scandalised by hearin' his r'ar gyard firin' on the yanks. so he rides back, my old pap does, an' he says: "yere you-all eediots! whatever do you mean by shootin' at them yankees? don't you know it only makes 'em madder?" an' that,' concloods dan, 'is how i feels about spectres. i wouldn't go lammin' loose at 'em with no guns; it only makes 'em madder.' "it's the next day, an' peets an' enright is organised in the ha'nted sign-camp of the bar-b- . also, they've been lookin' round. by ridin' along onder the face of the precipice, they comes, one after t'other, on what little is left of the dead steers. what strikes 'em as a heap pecooliar is that thar's no bones or horns. two or three of the hoofs is kickin' about, an' enright picks up one the coyotes overlooks. it shows it's been cut off at the fetlock j'int by a knife. "'this spectre,' says enright, passin' the hoof to peets, 'packs a bowie; an' he likewise butchers his prey. also, ondoubted, he freights the meat off some'ers to his camp, which is why we don't notice no big bones layin' 'round loose.' then enright scans the grass mighty scroopulous; an' shore enough! thar's plenty of pony tracks printed into the soil. 'that don't look so soopernacheral neither,' says enright, p'intin' to the hoof-prints. "'them's shorely made by a flesh an' blood pony,' says peets. 'an' from their goin' some deep into the ground, i dedooces that said cayouse is loaded down with what weight of beef an' man it can stagger onder.' "that evenin' over their grub enright an' peets discusses the business. thar's a jimcrow mexican plaza not three miles off in the hills. both of 'em is aware of this hamlet, an' peets, partic'lar, is well acquainted with a old mexican sharp who lives thar--he's a kind o' schoolmaster among 'em--who's mighty cunnin' an' learned. his name is jose miguel. "'an' i'm beginnin' to figger,' says peets, 'that this ghostly rider is the foxy little jose miguel. which i've frequent talked with him; an' he saveys enough about drugs an' chemicals to paint up with phosphorus an' go surgin' about an' stampedin' cattle over bluffs. it's a mighty good idee from his standp'int. he can argue that the cattle kills themse'fs--sort o' commits sooicide inadvertent--an' if we-all trades up on him with the beef, he insists on his innocence, an' puts it up that his cuttin' in on the play after said cattle done slays themse'fs injures nobody but coyotes.' "'doc,' coincides enright, after roominatin' in silence, 'doc, the longer i ponders, the more them theories seems sagacious. that enterprisin' greaser is jest about killin' my beef an' sellin' it to the entire plaza. not only does this ghost play opp'rate to stampede the cattle an' set 'em runnin' cimmaron an' locoed so they'll chase over the cliffs to their ends, but it serves to scare my cow-punchers off the range, which last, ondoubted, this miguel looks on as a deesideratum. however, it's goin' to be good an' dark to-night, an' if we-all has half luck i reckons that we fixes him.' "it's full two hours after midnight an' while thar's stars overhead thar's no moon; along the top of the _mesa_ it's as dark as the inside of a jug. peets an' enright is injunin' about on the prowl for the ghost. they don't much reckon it'll be abroad, as mebby the plaza has beef enough. "'however, by to-morry night,' says enright in a whisper, 'or at the worst, by the night after, we're shore to meet up with this marauder.' "'hesh!' whispers peets, at the same time stoppin' enright with his hand, 'he's out to-night!' "an' thar for shore is something like a dim bloo light movin' across the plains. now an' then, two brighter lights shows in spots like the blazes of candles; them's the fire eyes the locoed cowboys tells of. whatever it is, whether spook or greaser, it's quarterin' the ground like one of these huntin' dogs. its gait is a slow canter. "'he's on the scout,' says enright,' 'tryin' to start a steer or two in the dark; but he ain't located none yet.' "enright an' peets slides to the ground an' hobbles their broncos. they don't aim to have 'em go swarmin' over no bluffs in any blindness of a first surprise. when the ponies is safe, they bends low an' begins makin' up towards the ground on which this bloo-shimmerin' shadow is ha'ntin' about. things comes their way; they has luck. they've done crope about forty rods when the ghost heads for 'em. they can easy tell he's comin', for the fire eyes shows all the time an' not by fits an' starts as former. as the bloo shimmer draws nearer they makes out the vague shadows of a man on a hoss. son, she's shore plenty ghostly as a vision, an' enright allows later, it's no marvel the punchers vamoses sech scenes. "'how about it,' whispers peets; 'shall i do the shootin'?' "'which your eyes is younger,' says enright. 'you cut loose; an' i'll stand by to back the play. only aim plenty low. you can't he'p over-shootin' in the dark. hold as low as his stirrup.' "peets pulls himse'f up straight as a saplin' an' runs his left hand along the bar'l as far as his arm'll reach. an' he hangs long on the aim as shootin' in the dark ain't no cinch. if this ghost is a bright ghost it would be easy. but he ain't; he's bloo an' dim like washed out moonlight, or when it's jest gettin' to be dawn. enright's twenty yards to one side so as to free himse'f of peet's smoke in case he has to make a second shot. "but peets calls the turn. with the crack of that sharp's of his, the ghost sets up sech a screech it proves he ain't white an' also that he'll live through the evenin's events. as the spectre yelps, the bloo cayouse goes over on its head an' neck an' then falls dead on its side. the lead which only smashes the spectre's knee to splinters goes plumb through the pony's heart. "as peets foresees, the ghost ain't none other than the wise little jose miguel, schoolmaster, who's up on drugs an' chemicals. the bloo glimmer is phosphorus; an' the fire eyes is two of these little old lamps like miners packs in their caps. "enright an' peets strolls up; this miguel is groanin' an' mournin' an' cryin' 'marie, madre de dios!' when he sees who downs him, he drags himse'f to enright an' begs a heap abject for his life. with that, enright silently lets down the hammer of his rifle. "peets when the sun comes up enjoys himse'f speshul with the opp'ration. peets is fond of ampytations, that a-way, and he lops off said limb with zest an' gusto. "'i shore deplores, jose,' says peets, 'to go shortenin' up a fellow scientist like this. but thar's no he'pin' it; fate has so decreed. also, as some comfort to your soul, i'll explain to sam enright how you won't ride much when i gets you fairly trimmed. leastwise, after i'm done prunin' you, thar won't be nothin' but these yere woman's saddles that you'll fit, an' no gent, be he white or be he greaser, can work cattle from a side-saddle.' an' peets, hummin' a roundelay, cuts merrily into the wounded member." chapter xi. tucson jennie's correction. "doc peets, son," said the old cattleman, while his face wore the look of decent gravity it ever donned when that man of medicine was named, "doc peets has his several uses. aside from him bein' a profound sharp on drugs, an' partic'lar cowboy drugs, he's plenty learned in a gen'ral way, an' knows where every kyard lays in nacher's deck, from them star-flecked heavens above to the earth beneath, an'--as scripter puts it--to the 'waters onder the earth.' it's a good scheme to have a brace of highly eddicated gents, same as colonel sterett an' doc peets, sort o' idlin' 'round your camp. thar's times when a scientist, or say, a lit'rary sport comes bluffin' into wolfville; an' sech folks is a mighty sight too deep for boggs an' me an' tutt. if we're left plumb alone with a band of them book-read shorthorns like i deescribes, you-all sees yourse'f, they're bound to go spraddlin' east ag'in, an' report how darkened wolfville is. but not after they locks horns with doc peets or colonel sterett. wherefore, whenever the camp's invaded by any over-enlightened people who's gone too far in schools for the rest of us to break even with, we ups an' plays doc peets or colonel sterett onto 'em; an' the way either of them gents would turn in an' tangle said visitors up mental don't bother 'em a bit. that's straight; peets an' the colonel is our refooge; they're our protectors; an' many a time an' oft, have i beheld 'em lay for some vain-glorious savant who's got a notion the southwest, that a-way, is a region of savagery where the folks can't even read an' write none, an' they'd rope, throw, an' hawgtie him--verbal, i means--an' brand his mem'ry with the red-hot fact that he's wrong an' been wadin' in error up to the saddle-girths touchin' the intellectooal attainments of good old arizona. shore,--doc peets has other uses than drugs, an' he discharges 'em. "now that i thinks of the matter, it's doc peets who restores dave tutt to full standin' with tucson jennie, the time she begins to neglect dave. you see, the trouble is this a-way: it really starts--leastwise i allers so believes--in dave's beginnin' wrong with tucson jennie. troo, as i confesses to you frequent yeretofore, i ain't married none myse'f; still, i've been livin' a likely number of years, an' has nacherally witnessed a whole lot touchin' other gents an' their wives; an' sech experiences is bound to breed concloosions. an' while i may be wrong, for these yere views is nothin' more than a passel of ontested theeries with me, it's my beliefs that thar's two attitoodes, speakin' gen'ral, which a gent assoomes toward his bride. either he deals with her on what we-all will call the buck-squaw system, or he turns the game about complete, an' organises his play on the gentleman-lady system. in the latter, the gent waits on his wife; he comes an' he goes, steps high or soft, exactly as she commands. she gives the orders; an' he rides a pony to death execootin' 'em, an' no reemonstrances nor queries. that wife is range an' round-up boss for her outfit. "but the buck-squaw system is after all more hooman an' satisfactory. it's opposite to the other. the gent is reesponsible for beef on the hook an' flour in the bar'l. he's got to provide the blankets, make good ag'in the household's hunger, an' see to it thar's allers wood an' water within easy throw of every camp he pitches. beyond that, however, the gent who's playin' the buck-squaw system don't wander. when he's in camp, he distinguishes himse'f by doin' nothin'. he wrops himse'f in his blankets, camps down by the fire, while his wife rustles his chuck an' fills his pipe for him. at first glance, this yere buck-squaw system might strike a neeophyte as a mighty brootal scheme. jest the same, it'll eemerge winner twenty times to the gentleman-lady system's once. the women folks like it. which they'll pretend they prefers the gentleman-lady system, where they sets still an' the gent attends on 'em; but don't you credit it, none whatever. it's the good old patriarchal, buck-squaw idee, where the gent does nothin' an' the lady goes prancin' about like the ministerin' angel which she is, that tickles her to death. i states ag'in, that it's my notion, dave who begins with tucson jennie--they bein' man an' wife--on the gentleman-lady system, tharby hatches cold neglect for himse'f. an' if it ain't for the smooth savey of doc peets, thar's no sport who could foretell the disastrous end. dave, himse'f thinks he'd have had eventool to resign his p'sition as jennie's husband an' quit. "which i've onfolded to you prior of jennie's gettin' jealous of dave touchin' that english towerist female; but this yere last trouble ain't no likeness nor kin to that. them gusts of jealousy don't do no harm nohow; nor last the day. they're like thunder showers; brief an' black enough, but soon over an' leavin' the world brighter. "this last attitoode of jennie towards dave is one of abandonment an' onthinkin' indifference that a-way. it begins hard on the fetlocks of that interestin' event, thrillin' to every proud wolfville heart, the birth of dave's only infant son, enright peets tutt. which i never does cross up with no one who deems more of her progeny than jennie does of the yoothful enright peets. a cow's solicitoode concernin' her calf is chill regyard compared tharwith. jennie hangs over enright peets like some dew-jewelled hollyhock over a gyarden fence; you'd think he's a roast apple; an' i don't reckon now, followin' that child's advent, she ever sees another thing in arizona but jest enright peets. he's the whole check-rack--the one bet that wins on the layout of the possible--an' jennie proceeds to conduct herse'f accordin'. it's a good thing mebby for enright peets; i won't set camped yere an' say it ain't; but it's mighty hard on dave. "jennie not only neglects dave, she turns herse'f loose frequent an' assails him. if he shows up in his wigwam walkin' some emphatic, jennie'll be down on him like a fallin' star an' accoose him of wakin' enright peets. "'an' if you-all wakes him,' says jennie to dave, sort o' domineerin' at him with her forefinger, 'he'll be sick; an' if he gets sick, he'll die; an' if he dies, you'll be a murderer--the heartless deestroyer of your own he'pless offspring,--which awful deed i sometimes thinks you're p'intin' out to pull off.' an' then jennie would put her apron over her head an' shed tears a heap; while dave--all harrowed up an' onstrung--would come stampedin' down to the red light an' get consolation from black jack by the quart. "that's the idee, son; it's impossible to go into painful details, 'cause i ain't in dave's or jennie's confidence enough to round 'em up; but you onderstands what i means. jennie's forever hectorin' an' pesterin' dave about enright peets; an' beyond that she don't pay no more heed, an' don't have him no more on her mind, than if he's one of these yere little jimcrow ground-owls you-all sees inhabitin' about dissoloote an' permiscus with prairie-dogs. what's the result? dave's sperits begins to sink; he takes to droopin' about listless an' onregyardful; an' he's that low an' onhappy his nosepaint don't bring him no more of comfort than if he's a graven image. why, it's the saddest thing i ever sees in wolfville! "we-all observes how dave's dwindlin' an' pinin' an' most of us has a foggy onderstandin' of the trooth. but what can we do? if thar's ever a aggregation of sports who's powerless, utter, to come to the rescoo of a comrade in a hole, it's enright an' moore an' boggs an' texas thompson an' cherokee an' me, doorin' them days when that neglect of tucson jennie's is makin' pore dave's burdens more'n he can b'ar. shore, we consults; but that don't come to nothin' ontil the o'casion when doc peets takes the tangle in ser'ous hand. "thar's a day dawns when missis rucker gets exasperated over dave's ill-yoosage. missis rucker is a sperited person an' she canters over an' onloads her opinions on tucson jennie. commonly, these yere ladies can't think too much of one another; but on this one division of the house of tutt, missis rucker goes out on dave's angle of the game. an' you-all should have seen the terror it inspires when missis rucker declar's her hostile intentions. "it's in the o.k. restauraw, when missis rucker, who's feedin' us our mornin' flap-jacks an' salt hoss as usual, turns to old man enright, an' says: "'as soon as ever i've got the last drunkard fed an' outen the house, i'm goin' to put on my shaker an' go an' tell that tucson jennie tutt what's on my mind. i shore never sees a woman change more than jennie since the days when she cooks for me in this yere very restauraw an' lays plans an' plots to lure dave into wedlock. i will say that jennie, nacheral, is a good wife; but the fashion, wherein she tromples on dave an' his rights is a disgrace to her sex, an' i'm goin' to deevote a hour this mornin' to callin' jennie's attention tharunto.' "'missis rucker is a mighty intrepid lady,' says enright, when we goes over to the new york store followin' feed. 'i'd no more embrace them chances she's out to tackle than i'd go dallyin' about a wronged grizzly. but jest the same, i'd give a stack of reds if peets is here! when did he say he'd be back from tucson?' "'the doc don't allow he'll come trailin' in ag'in,' says dan boggs, 'ontil day after to-morry. which this female dooel will be plumb over by then, an' most likely the camp a wrack.' "while we-all stands thar gazin' on each other, enable to su'gest anything to meet the emergency, texas thompson's pony is brought up from the corral, saddled an' bridled, an' ready for the trail. "'well, gents,' says texas, when he sees his hoss is come, 'i reckons i'll say _adios_ an' pull my freight. i'll be back in a week.' "'wherever be you p'intin' for?' asks cherokee hall. 'ain't this goin' of yours some sudden?' "'it is a trifle hasty,' says texas; 'but do you cimmarons think i'm goin' to linger yere after missis rucker gives notice she's preparin' to burn the ground around tucson jennie about dave? gents, i don't pack the nerve! i ain't lived three years with my former wife who gets that laredo divorce i once or twice adverts to, an' not know enough not to get caught out on no sech limb as this. no, sir; i sees enough of woman an' her ways to teach me that now ain't no time to be standin' about irresoloote an' ondecided, an' i'm goin' to dig out for tucson, you bet, ontil this uprisin' subsides.' "this example of texas scares us up a whole lot; the fact is, it stampedes us; an' without a further word of argyment, the whole band makes a break for the corral, throws saddles onto the swiftest ponies, an' in two minutes we're lost in that cloud of alkali dust we kicks up down the trail toward the no'th. "'which i won't say that this exodus is necessary,' observes enright, when ten miles out we slows up to a road gait to breathe our ponies, 'but i thinks on the whole it's safer. besides, i oughter go over to tucson anyway on business.' "the rest of us don't make no remarks nor excooses; but every gent is feelin' like a great personal peril has blown by. "the next day, we rounds up doc peets, an' he encourages us so that we concloods to return an' make a size-up of results. "'i shore hopes we finds dave safe.' says dan boggs. "'it's even money,' says jack moore, 'that dave pulls through. dave's a mighty wary sport when worst comes to worst; an' as game as redhead ants.' "'that's all right about dave bein' game,' retorts dan, 'but this yere's a time when dave ain't got no show. i says ag'in, i trust he retains decision of character sufficient to go hide out doorin' the storm. it ain't no credit to us that we forgets to bring him along.' "'no; thar wasn't no harm done,' says faro nell, who reports progress to us after we rounds up in the red light followin' our return. nell's a brave girl an' stands a pat hand when the rest of us vamosed that time. 'thar ain't no real trouble. missis rucker merely sets fire to jennie about the way she maltreats dave; an' she says jennie's drivin' him locoed, an' no wonder. also, she lets on she don't see whatever dave marries jennie for anyhow! "'at that, jennie comes back an' reminds missis rucker how she herse'f done treats mister rucker that turrible he goes cavortin' off an' seeks safety among the apaches. an' so they keeps on slingin' it back'ards an' for'ards for mebby two hours, an' me ha'ntin' about to chunk in a word. then, final, they cries an' makes up; an' then they both concedes that one way an' another they're the best two people each other ever sees. at this juncture,' concloods nell, 'i declar's myse'f in on the play; an' we-all three sets down an' admires enright peets an' visits an' has a splendid afternoon.' "'an' wherever doorin' this emute is dave?' asks enright. "'oh, dave?' says nell. 'why he's lurkin' about outside som'ers in a furtive, surreptitious way; but he don't molest us none. which, now i remembers, dave don't even come near us none at all.' "'i should say not!' says texas thompson, plenty emphatic. 'dave ain't quite that witless.' "'now, gents,' remarks doc peets, when nell is done, an' his tones is confident like he's certain of his foothold, 'since things has gone thus far i'll sa'nter into the midst of these domestic difficulties an' adjust 'em some. i've thought up a s'lootion; an' it's apples to ashes that inside of twenty-four hours i has jennie pettin' an' cossetin' dave to beat four of a kind. leave this yere matter to me entire.' "we-all can't see jest how peets is goin' to work these mir'cles; still, sech is our faith, we believes. we decides among ourse'fs, however, that if peets does turn this pacific trick it'll ondoubted be the crownin' glory of his c'reer. "after peets hangs up his bluff, we goes about strainin' eyes an' y'ears for any yells or signal smokes that denotes the advent of said changes. an', son, hard as it is to credit, it comes to pass like peets prognosticates. by next evenin' a great current of tenderness for dave goes over jennie all at once. she begins to call him 'davy'--a onheard of weakness!--an' hovers about him askin' whatever he thinks he needs; in fact, she becomes that devoted, it looks like the little enright peets'll want he'p next to play his hand for him. that's the trooth: jennie goes mighty clost to forgettin' enright peets now an' then in her wifely anxieties concernin' dave. "as for dave himse'f, he don't onderstand his sudden an' onmerited pop'larity; but wearin' a dazed grin of satisfied ignorance, that a-way, he accepts the sityooation without askin' reasons, an' proceeds to profit tharby. that household is the most reeconciled model fam'ly outfit in all broad arizona. an' it so continyoos to the end. "'whatever did you do or say, doc?' asks enright a month later, as we-all from across the street observes how jennie kisses dave good-bye at the door an' then stands an' looks after him like she can't b'ar to have him leave her sight; 'what's the secret of this second honeymoon of dave's?' "'which i don't say much,' says peets. 'i merely takes jennie one side an' exhorts her to brace up an' show herse'f a brave lady. then i explains that while i ain't told dave none--as his knowin' wouldn't do no good--i regyards it as my medical dooty to inform her so's she'll be ready to meet the shock. "the trooth is, missis tutt," i says, "pore dave's got heart disease, an' is booked to cash in any moment. i can't say when he'll die exactly; the only shore thing is he can't survive a year." she sheds torrents of tears; an' then i warns her she mustn't let dave see her grief or bushwhack anything but smiles on her face, or mightly likely it'll stop his clock right thar. "can't nothin' be done for dave?" she asks. "nothin'," i replies, "except be tender an' lovin' an' make dave's last days as pleasant an' easy as you can. we must jump in an' smooth the path to his totterin' moccasins with gentleness an' love," i says, "an' be ready, when the blow does fall, to b'ar it with what fortitoode we may." that's all i tells her. however, it looks like it's becomin' a case of overplay in one partic'lar; our pore young namesake, enright peets, is himse'f gettin' a trifle the worst of it, an' i'm figgerin' that to-morry, mebby, i'll look that infant over, an' vouchsafe the news thar's something mighty grievous the matter with his lungs.'" chapter xii. bill connors of the osages. "nacherally, if you-all is frettin' to hear about injuns," observed the old cattleman in reply to my latest request, "i better onfold how osage bill connors gets his wife. not that thar's trouble in roundin' up this squaw; none whatever. she comes easy; all the same said tale elab'rates some of them savage customs you're so cur'ous concernin'." my companion arose and kicked together the logs in the fireplace. this fireplace was one of the great room's comforts as well as ornaments. the logs leaped into much accession of flame, and crackled into sparks, and these went gossiping up the mighty chimney, their little fiery voices making a low, soft roaring like the talk of bees. "this chimley draws plenty successful," commented my friend. "which it almost breaks even with a chimley i constructs once in my log camp on the upper red. that red river floo is a wonder! draw? son, it could draw four kyards an' make a flush. but that camp of mine on the upper red is over eight thousand foot above the sea as i'm informed by a passel of surveyor sports who comes romancin' through the hills with a spyglass on three pegs; an' high altitoods allers proves a heap exileratin' to a fire. "but speakin' of bill connors: in wolfville--which them days is the only part of my c'reer whereof i'm proud an' reviews with onmixed satisfaction--doc peets is, like you, inquis'tive touchin' injuns. peets puts it up that some day he's doo to write books about 'em. which in off hours, an' when we-all is more or less at leesure over our valley tan, peets frequent comes explorin' 'round for details. shore, i imparts all i saveys about bill connors, an' likewise sech other aborigines as lives in mem'ry; still, it shakes my estimates of peets to find him eager over injuns, they bein' low an' debasin' as topics. i says as much to peets. "'never you-all mind about me,' says peets. 'i knows so much about white folks it comes mighty clost to makin' me sick. i seeks tales of injuns as a relief an' to promote a average in favor of the species.' "this bill connors' is a good-lookin' young buck when i cuts his trail; straight as a pine an' strong an' tireless as a bronco. it's about six years after the philanthrofists ropes onto bill an' drags him off to a school. you-all onderstands about a philanthrofist--one of these sports who's allers improvin' some party's condition in a way the party who's improved don't like. "'a philanthrofist,' says colonel sterett, one time when dan boggs demands the explanation at his hands; 'a philanthrofist is a gent who insists on you givin' some other gent your money.' "for myse'f, however, i regyards the colonel's definition as too narrow. troo philanthrofy has a heap of things to it that's jest as onreasonable an' which does not incloode the fiscal teachers mentioned by the colonel. "as i'm sayin'; these well-meanin' though darkened sports, the philanthrofists, runs bill down--it's mebby when he's fourteen, only injuns don't keep tab on their years none--an' immures him in one of the gov'ment schools. it's thar bill gets his name, 'bill connors.' before that he cavorts about, free an' wild an' happy onder the injun app'lation of the 'jack rabbit.' "shore! bill's sire--a savage who's 'way up in the picture kyards, an' who's called 'crooked claw' because of his left hand bein' put out of line with a ute arrow through it long ago--gives his consent to bill j'inin' that sem'nary. crooked claw can't he'p himse'f; he's powerless; the great father in washin'ton is backin' the play of the philanthrofists. "'which the great father is too many for crooked claw,' says this parent, commentin' on his helplessness. bill's gone canterin' to his old gent to remonstrate, not hungerin' for learnin', an' crooked claw says this to bill: 'the great father is too many for crooked claw; an' too strong. you must go to school as the great father orders; it is right. the longest spear is right.' "bill is re-branded, 'bill connors,' an' then he's done bound down to them books. after four years bill gradyooates; he's got the limit an' the philanthrofists takes bill's hobbles off an' throws him loose with the idee that bill will go back to his tribe folks an' teach 'em to read. bill comes back, shore, an' is at once the osage laughin'-stock for wearin' pale-face clothes. also, the medicine men tells bill he'll die for talkin' paleface talk an' sportin' a paleface shirt, an' these prophecies preys on bill who's eager to live a heap an' ain't ready to cash in. bill gets back to blankets an' feathers in about a month. "old black dog, a leadin' sharp among the osages, is goin' about with a dab of clay in his ha'r, and wearin' his most ornery blanket. that's because black dog is in mournin' for a squaw who stampedes over the big divide, mebby it's two months prior. black dog's mournin' has got dealt down to the turn like; an' windin' up his grief an' tears, osage fashion, he out to give a war-dance. shore; the savages rings in a war-dance on all sorts of cer'monies. it don't allers mean that they're hostile, an' about to spraddle forth on missions of blood. like i states, black dog, who's gone to the end of his mournful lariat about the departed squaw, turns himse'f on for a war-dance; an' he nacherally invites the osage nation to paint an' get in on the festiv'ties. "accordin' to the rooles, pore bill, jest back from school, has got to cut in. or he has his choice between bein' fined a pony or takin' a lickin' with mule whips in the hands of a brace of kettle-tenders whose delight as well as dooty it is to mete out the punishment. bill can't afford to go shy a pony, an' as he's loth to accept the larrupin's, he wistfully makes ready to shake a moccasin at the _baile_. an' as nothin' but feathers, blankets, an' breech-clouts goes at a war-dance--the same bein' osage dress-clothes--bill shucks his paleface garments an' arrays himse'f after the breezy fashion of his ancestors. bill attends the war dance an' shines. also, bein' praised by the medicine men an' older bucks for quittin' his paleface duds; an' findin' likewise the old-time blanket an' breech-clout healthful an' saloobrious--which bill forgets their feel in his four years at that sem'nary--he adheres to 'em. this lapse into aboriginal ways brews trouble for bill; he gets up ag'inst the agent. "it's the third day after black dog's war-dance, an' bill, all paint an' blankets an' feathers, is sa'nterin' about pawhusky, takin' life easy an' injun fashion. it's then the agent connects with bill an' sizes him up. the agent asks bill does he stand in on this yere black dog war-dance. "'don't they have no roast dog at that warjig?' asks dan boggs, when i'm relatin' these reminiscences in the red light. "'no,' i says; 'osages don't eat no dogs.' "'it's different with utes a lot,' says dan, 'which utes regyards dogs fav'rable, deemin' 'em a mighty sucyoolent an' nootritious dish. the time i'm with the utes they pulls off a shindig, "tea dance" it is, an', as what huggins would call "a star feacher" they ups an' roasts a white dog. that canine is mighty plethoric an' fat, an' they lays him on his broad, he'pless back an' shets off his wind with a stick cross-wise of his neck, an' two bucks pressin' on the ends. when he's good an' dead an' all without no suffoosion of blood, the utes singes his fur off in a fire an' bakes him as he is. i partakes of that dog--some. i don't nacherally lay for said repast wide-jawed, full-toothed an' reemorseless, like it's flapjacks--i don't gorge myse'f none; but when i'm in rome, i strings my chips with the romans like the good book says, an' so i sort o' eats baked dog with the utes. otherwise, i'd hurt their sens'bilities; an' i ain't out to harrow up no entire tribe an' me playin' a lone hand.' "that agent questions bill as to the war-dance carryin's on of old black dog. then he p'ints at bill's blankets an' feathers an' shakes his head a heap disapprobative. "'shuck them blankets an' feathers,' says the agent, 'an' get back into your trousers a whole lot; an' be sudden about it, too. i puts up with the divers an' sundry rannikabooisms of old an' case-hardened injuns who's savage an' ontaught. but you're different; you've been to school an' learned the virchoos of pants; wherefore, i looks for you to set examples.' "it's then bill gets high an' allows he'll wear clothes to suit himse'f. bill denounces trousers as foolish in their construction an' fallacious in their plan. bill declar's they're a bad scheme, trousers is; an' so sayin' he defies the agent to do his worst. bill stands pat on blankets an' feathers. "'which you will, will you!' remarks this agent. "then he claps bill in irons mighty decisive, an' plants him up ag'in the high face of a rock bluff which has been frownin' down on bird river since adam makes his first camp. havin' got bill posed to his notion, this earnest agent, puttin' a hammer into bill's rebellious hand, starts him to breakin' rock. "'which the issue is pants,' says the obdurate agent sport; 'an' i'll keep you-all whackin' away at them boulders while the cliff lasts onless you yields. thar's none of you young bucks goin' to bluff me, an' that's whatever!' "bill breaks rocks two days. the other osages comes an' perches about, sympathetic, an' surveys bill. they exhorts him to be firm; they gives it out in osage he's a patriot. "bill's willin' to be a patriot as the game is commonly dealt, but when his love of country takes the form of poundin' rocks, the noble sentiments which yeretofore bubbles in bill's breast commences to pall on bill an' he becomes none too shore but what trousers is right. by second drink time--only savages don't drink, a paternal gov'ment barrin' nosepaint on account of it makin' 'em too fitfully exyooberant--by second drink time the second evenin' bill lays down his hand--pitches his hammer into the diskyard as it were--an' when i crosses up with him, bill's that abject he wears a necktie. when bill yields, the agent meets him half way, an' him an' bill rigs a deal whereby bill arrays himse'f osage fashion whenever his hand's crowded by tribal customs. other times, bill inhabits trousers; an' blankets an' feathers is rooled out. "shore, i talks with bill's father, old crooked claw. this yere savage is the ace-kyard of osage-land as a fighter. no, that outfit ain't been on the warpath for twenty years when i sees 'em then it's with boggs' old pards, the utes. i asks crooked claw if he likes war. he tells me that he dotes on carnage like a jaybird, an' goes forth to battle as joobilant as a drunkard to a shootin' match. that is, crooked claw used to go curvin' off to war, joyful, at first. later his glee is subdooed because of the big chances he's takin'. then he lugs out 'leven skelps, all ute, an' eloocidates. "'this first maverick,' says crooked claw--of course, i gives him in the american tongue, not bein' equal to the reedic'lous broken osage he talks--'this yere first maverick,' an' he strokes the braided ha'r of a old an' smoke-dried skelp, 'is easy. the chances, that a-way, is even. number two is twice as hard; an' when i snags onto number three--i downs that hold-up over by the foot of fisher's peak--the chances has done mounted to be three to one ag'in me. so it goes gettin' higher an' higher, ontil when i corrals my 'leventh, it's 'leven to one he wins onless he's got killin's of his own to stand off mine. i don't reckon none he has though,' says crooked claw, curlin' his nose contemptuous. 'he's heap big squaw--a coward; an' would hide from me like a quail. he looks big an' brave an' strong, but his heart is bad--he is a poor knife in a good sheath. so i don't waste a bullet on him, seein' his fear, but kills him with my war-axe. still, he raises the chances ag'inst me to twelve to one, an' after that i goes careful an' slow. i sends in my young men; but for myse'f i sort o' hungers about the suburbs of the racket, takin' no resks an' on the prowl for a cinch,--some sech pick-up as a sleeper, mebby. but my 'leventh is my last; the great father in washin'ton gets tired with us an' he sends his walk-a-heaps an' buffalo soldiers'--these savages calls niggers 'buffalo soldiers,' bein' they're that woolly--'an' makes us love peace. which we'd a-had the utes too dead to skin if it ain't for the walk-a-heaps an' buffalo soldiers.' "an' at this crooked claw tosses the bunch of ute top-knots to one of his squaws, fills up his red-stone pipe with kinnikinick an' begins to smoke, lookin' as complacent as a catfish doorin' a joone rise. "bill connors has now been wanderin' through this vale of tears for mebby she's twenty odd years, an' accordin' to osage tenets, bill's doo to get wedded. no, bill don't make no move; he comports himse'f lethargic; the reesponsibilities of the nuptials devolves on bill's fam'ly. "it's one of the excellentest things about a injun that he don't pick out no wife personal, deemin' himse'f as too locoed to beat so difficult a game. "or mebby, as i observes to texas thompson one time in the red light when him an' me's discussin', or mebby it's because he's that callous he don't care, or that shiftless he won't take trouble. "'whatever's the reason,' says texas, on that o'casion, heavin' a sigh, 'thar's much to be said in praise of the custom. if it only obtains among the whites thar's one sport not onknown to me who would have shore passed up some heartaches. you can bet a hoss, no fam'ly of mine would pick out the lady who beats me for that divorce back in laredo to be the spouse of texas thompson. said household's got too much savey to make sech a break.' "while a osage don't select that squaw of his, still i allers entertains a theery that he sort o' saveys what he's ag'inst an' no he'pmeet gets sawed off on him objectionable an' blind. i figgers, for all he don't let on, that sech is the sityooation in the marital adventures of bill. his fam'ly picks the saucy willow out; but it's mighty likely he signs up the lady to some discreet member of his outfit before ever they goes in to make the play. "saucy willow for a savage is pretty--pretty as a pinto hoss. her parent, old strike axe, is a morose but common form of osage, strong financial, with a big bunch of cattle an' more'n two hundred ponies. bill gets his first glimpse, after he comes back from school, of the lovely saucy willow at a dance. this ain't no war-dance nor any other ceremonious splurge; it's a informal merrymakin', innocent an' free, same as is usual with us at the wolfville dance hall. shore, osages, lacks guitars an' fiddles, an' thar's no barkeep nor nosepaint--none, in trooth, of the fav'rable adjuncts wherewith we makes a evenin' in hamilton's hurdygurdy a season of social elevation, an' yet they pulls off their fandangoes with a heap of verve, an' i've no doubt they shore enjoys themse'fs. "for two hours before sundown the kettle-tenders is howlin' an' callin' the dance throughout the osage camp. thar's to be a full moon, an' the dance--the _ingraska_ it is; a dance the osages buys from the poncas for eight ponies--is to come off in a big, high-board corral called the 'round house.' "followin' the first yell of the kettle-tenders, the young bucks begins to paint up for the hilarity. you might see 'em all over camp, for it's august weather an' the walls of the tents an' teepees is looped up to let in the cool, daubin' the ocher on their faces an' braidin' the feathers into their ha'r. this organisin' for a _baile_ ain't no bagatelle, an' two hours is the least wherein any se'f-respectin' buck who's out to make a centre shot on the admiration of the squaws an' wake the envy of rival bucks, can lay on the pigments, so he paints away at his face, careful an' acc'rate, sizin' up results meanwhile in a jimcrow lookin' glass. at last he's as radiant as a rainbow, an' after garterin' each laig with a belt of sleigh-bells jest below the knee, he regyards himse'f with a fav'rable eye an' allows he's ondoubted the wildest wag in his set. "each buck arrives at the round house with his blanket wropped over his head so as not to blind the onwary with his splendours. it's mebby second drink time after sundown an' the full moon is swingin' above effulgent. the bucks who's doo to dance sets about one side of the round house on a board bench; the squaws--not bein' in on the proposed activities--occupies the other half, squattin' on the ground. some of 'em packs their papooses tied on to a fancy-ribboned, highly beaded board, an' this they makes a cradle of by restin' one end on the ground an' the other on their toe, rockin' the same meanwhile with a motion of the foot. thar's a half hoop over the head-end of these papoose boards, hung with bells for the papoose to get infantile action on an' amoose his leesure. "the bucks settin' about their side of the round house, still wrops themse'fs in their blankets so as not to dazzle the squaws to death preematoor. at last the music peals forth. the music confines itse'f to a bass drum--paleface drum it is--which is staked out hor'zontal about a foot high from the grass over in the centre. the orchestra is a decrepit buck with a rag-wropped stick; with this weepon he beats the drum, chantin' at the same time a pensive refrain. "mebby a half-dozen squaws, with no papooses yet to distract 'em, camps 'round this virchuoso with the rag-stick, an' yoonites their girlish howls with his. you-all can put down a bet it don't remind you none of nightingales or mockin' birds; but the injuns likes it. which their simple sperits wallows in said warblin's! but to my notion they're more calc'lated to loco a henhawk than furnish inspiration for a dance. "'tunk! tunk! tunk! tunk!' goes this rag-stick buck, while the squaws chorus along with, 'hy-yah! hy-yah! hy-yah-yah-yah! hy-yah! hy-yah! hy-yah-yah-yah!' an' all grievous, an' make no mistake! "at the first 'tunk!' the bucks stiffen to their feet and cast off the blankets. feathers, paint, an' bells! they blaze an' tinkle in the moonlight with a subdooed but savage elegance. they skates out onto the grass, stilt-laig, an' each buck for himse'f. they go skootin' about, an' weave an' turn an' twist like these yere water-bugs jiggin' it on the surface of some pond. sometimes a buck'll lay his nose along the ground while he dances--sleigh bells jinglin', feathers tossin'! then he'll straighten up ontil he looks like he's eight foot tall; an' they shore throws themse'fs with a heap of heart an' sperit. "it's as well they does. if you looks clost you observes a brace of bucks, and each packin' a black-snake whip. them's kettle-tenders,--floor managin' the _baile_ they be; an' if a buck who's dancin' gets preeoccupied with thinkin' of something else an' takes to prancin' an' dancin' listless, the way the kettle-tenders pours the leather into him to remind him his fits of abstraction is bad form, is like a religious ceremony. an' it ain't no bad idee; said kettle-tenders shore promotes what colonel sterett calls the _elan_ of the dancin' bucks no end. "after your eyes gets used to this whirlin' an' skatin' an' skootin' an' weavin' in an' out, you notes two bucks, painted to a finish an' feathered to the stars! who out-skoots an' out-whirls an' out-skates their fellow bucks like four to one. they gets their nose a little lower one time an' then stands higher in the air another, than is possible to the next best buck. them enthoosiasts ain't osages at all; which they're niggers--full-blood senegambians they be, who's done j'ined the tribe. these round house festivals with the paint, the feathers, an' the bells, fills their trop'cal hearts plumb full, an' forgettin' all about the white folks an' their gyarded ways, they're the biggest injuns to warm a heel that night. "saucy willow is up by the damaged rag-stick buck lendin' a mouthful or two of cl'ar, bell-like alto yelps to the harmony of the evenin'. bill who's a wonder in feathers an' bells, an' whose colour-scheme would drive a temp'rance lecturer to drink, while zippin' about in the moonlight gets his eye on her. mighty likely bill's smitten; but he don't let on, the fam'ly like i relates, allers ropin' up a gent's bride. it's good bettin' this yere saucy willow counts up bill. if she does, however,--no more than bill,--she never tips her hand. the saucy willow yelps on onconcerned, like her only dream of bliss is to show the coyotes what vocal failures they be. "it's a week after the _ingraska_, an' bill's fam'ly holds a round-up to pick bill out a squaw. he ain't present, havin' the savey to go squanderin' off to play injun poker with some creek sports he hears has money over on the polecat. bill's fam'ly makes quite a herd, bucks an' squaws buttin' in on the discussion permiscus an' indiscrim'nate. shore! the squaws has as much to say as the bucks among injuns. they owns their own ponies an' backs their own play an' is as big a injun as anybody, allowin' for that nacheral difference between squaw dooties an' buck dooties--one keeps camp while the other hunts, or doorin' war times when one protects the herds an' plunder while the other faces the foe. you hears that squaws is slaves? however is anybody goin' to be a slave where thar's as near nothin' to do in the way of work as is possible an' let a hooman live? son, thar ain't as much hard labour done in a injun camp in a week--ain't as much to do as gets transacted at one of them rooral oyster suppers to raise money for the preacher! "bill's fam'ly comes trailin' in to this powwow about pickin' out a squaw for bill. besides crooked claw, thar's bill's widow aunt, the wild cat--she's plumb cunnin', the wild cat is, an' jest then bein' cel'brated among the osages for smokin' ponies with black b'ar, a old buck, an' smokin' black b'ar out of his two best cayouses. besides these two, thar's the-man-who-bleeds, the-man-who-sleeps, tom six-killer, the-man-who-steps-high, an' a dozen other squaws an' bucks, incloosive of bill's mother who's called the silent comanche, an' is takin' the play a heap steady an' livin' up to her name. "the folks sets 'round an' smokes crooked claw's kinnikinick. then the wild cat starts in to deal the game. she says it's time bill's married, as a onmarried buck is a menace; at this the others grunts agreement. then they all turns in to overhaul the el'gible young squaws. which they shore shows up them belles! one after the other they're drug over the coals. at last the wild cat mentions the saucy willow jest as every savage present knows will be done soon or late from the jump. the saucy willow obtains a speshul an' onusual run for her money. but it's settled final that while the saucy willow ain't none too good, she's the best they can do. the saucy willow belongs to the elk clan, while bill belongs to the b'ar clan, an' that at least is c'rrect. injuns don't believe in inbreedin' so they allers marries out of their clan. "as soon as they settles on the saucy willow as bill's squaw, they turns in to make up the 'price.' the wild cat, who's rich, donates a kettle, a side of beef, an' the two cayouses she smokes outen the besotted black b'ar. the rest chucks in accordin' to their means, crooked claw comin' up strong with ten ponies; an' bill's mother, the silent comanche, showin' down with a bolt of calico, two buffalo robes, a sack of flour an' a lookin' glass. this plunder is to go to the saucy willow's folks as a 'price' for the squaw. no, they don't win on the play; the saucy willow's parents is out _dinero_ on the nuptials when all is done. they has to give bill their wickeyup. "when bill's outfit's fully ready to deal for blood they picks out some bright afternoon. the saucy willow's fam'ly is goin' about lookin' partic'lar harmless an' innocent; but they're coony enough to be in camp that day. a procession starts from the crooked claw camp. thar's the-man-who-steps-high at the head b'arin' a flag, union down, an' riotin' along behind is tom six-killer, the-man-who-sleeps, the wild cat and others leadin' five ponies an' packin' kettles, flour, beef, an' sim'lar pillage. they lays it all down an' stakes out the broncos about fifty yards from strike axe's camp an' withdraws. "then some old squaw of the strike axe outfit issues forth an' throws the broncos loose. that's to show that the saucy willow is a onusual excellent young squaw an' pop'lar with her folks, an' they don't aim to shake her social standin' by acceptin' sech niggard terms. "but the crooked claw outfit ain't dismayed, an' takes this rebuff phlegmatic. it's only so much ettyquette; an' now it's disposed of they reorganise to lead ag'in to win. this time they goes the limit, an' brings up fifteen ponies an' stacks in besides with blankets, robes, beef, flour, calico, kettles, skillets, and looking-glasses enough to fill eight waggons. this trip the old strike axe squaw onties the fifteen ponies an' takin' 'em by their ropes brings 'em in clost to the strike axe camp, tharby notifyin' the crooked claw band that their bluff for the saucy willow is regyarded as feasible an' the nuptials goes. with this sign, the crooked claws comes caperin' up to the strike axes an' the latter fam'ly proceeds to rustle a profoosion of grub; an' with that they all turns in an' eats old strike axe outen house an' home. the 'price' is split up among the strike axe bunch, shares goin' even to second an' third cousins. "mebby she's a week later when dawns the weddin' day. bill, who's been lookin' a heap numb ever since these rites becomes acoote, goes projectin' off alone onto the prairie. the saucy willow is hid in the deepest corner of strike axe's teepee; which if she's visible, however, you'd be shore amazed at the foolish expression she wears, but all as shy an' artless as a yearlin' antelope. "but it grows time to wind it up, an' one of the strike axe bucks climbs into the saddle an' rides half way towards the camp of crooked claw. strike axe an' crooked claw in antic'pation of these entanglements has done pitched their camps about half a mile apart so as to give the pageant spread an' distances. when he's half way, the strike axe buck fronts up an' slams loose with his winchester; it's a signal the _baile_ is on. "at the rifle crack, mounted on a pony that's the flower of the strike axe herd, the saucy willow comes chargin' for the crooked claws like a shootin' star. the saucy willow is a sunburst of osage richness! an' is packin' about five hundred dollars' worth of blankets, feathers, beads, calicoes, ribbons, an' buckskins, not to mention six pounds of brass an' silver jewelry. straight an' troo comes the saucy willow; skimmin' like a arrow an' as rapid as the wind! "as saucy willow embarks on this expedition, thar starts to meet her--afoot they be but on the run--tom six-killer an' a brace of squaw cousins of bill's. nacherally, bein' he out-lopes the cousins, tom six-killer runs up on the saucy willow first an' grabs her bronco by the bridle. the two young squaw cousins ain't far behind the six-killer, for they can run like rabbits, an' they arrives all laughter an' cries, an' with one move searches the saucy willow outen the saddle. in less time than it takes to get action on a drink of licker the two young squaws has done stripped the saucy willow of every feather, bead an' rag, an' naked as when she's foaled they wrops her up, precious an' safe in a blanket an' packs her gleefully into the camp of crooked claw. here they re-dresses the saucy willow an' piles on the gew-gaws an' adornments, ontil if anything she's more gorgeous than former. the pony which the saucy willow rides goes to the six-killer, while the two she-cousins, as to the balance of her apparel that a-way, divides the pot. "an' now like a landslide upon the crooked claws comes the strike axe household. which they're thar to the forty-'leventh cousin; savages keepin' exact cases on relatives a mighty sight further than white folks. the crooked claw fam'ly is ready. it's crooked claw's turn to make the feast, an' that eminent osage goes the distance. crooked claw shorely does himse'f proud, while bill's mother, the silent comanche, is hospitable, but dignified. it's a great weddin'. the wild cat is pirootin' about, makin' mean an' onfeelin' remarks, as becomes a widow lady with a knowledge of the world an' a bundle the size an' shape of a roll of blankets. the two fam'lies goes squanderin' about among each other, free an' fraternal, an' thar's never a cloud in the sky. "at last the big feed begins. son, you should have beheld them fool osages throw themse'fs upon the crooked claw's good cheer. it's a p'int of honour to eat as much as you can; an' b'arin' that in mind the revellers mows away about twenty pounds of beef to a buck--the squaws, not bein' so ardent, quits out on mighty likely it's the thirteenth pound. tom six-killer comes plenty clost to sacrificin' himse'f utter. "this last i knows, for the next day i sees the medicine men givin' some sufferer one of their aboriginal steam baths. they're on the bank of bird river. they've bent down three or four small saplin's for the framework of a tent like, an' thar's piled on 'em blankets an' robes a foot deep so she's plumb airtight. thar's a fire goin' an' they're heatin' rocks, same as colonel sterett tells about when they baptises his grandfather into the church. when the rocks is red-hot they takes 'em, one by one, an' drops 'em into a bucket of water to make her steam. then they shoves this impromptoo cauldron inside the little robe house where as i'm aware--for i onderstands the signs from the start--thar's a sick buck quiled up awaitin' relief. this yere invalid buck stays in thar twenty minutes. the water boils an' bubbles an' the steam gets that abundant not to say urgent she half lifts the robes an' blankets at the aiges to escape. the ailin' buck in the sweat tent stays ontil he can't stay no more, an' then with a yowl, he comes burstin' forth, a reek of sweat an' goes splashin' into the coolin' waters of bird river. it's the six-killer; that weddin' feast comes mighty near to downin' him--gives him a 'bad heart,' an' he ondergoes the steam bath for relief. "but we're strayed from that weddin'. bein' now re-arrayed in fullest feather the saucy willow is fetched into the ring an' receives a platter with the rest. then one of the bucks, lookin' about like he's amazed, says: 'wherever is the jack rabbit?' that bein' bill's osage title. crooked claw shakes his head an' reckons most likely the jack rabbit's rummagin' about loose some'ers, not knowin' enough to come in an' eat. a brace of bucks an' a young squaw starts up an' figgers they'll search about an' see if they can't round him up. they goes out an' thar's bill settin' off on a rock a quarter of a mile with his back to the camp an' the footure. "the two sharps an' the squaw herds bill into camp an' stakes him out, shoulder to shoulder, with the little saucy willow. neither bill nor the little saucy willow su'gests by word, screech or glance that they saveys either the game or the stakes, an' eats on, takin' no notice of themse'fs or any of the gluttons who surrounds 'em. both bill an' the little saucy willow looks that witless you-all would yearn to bat 'em one with the butt of a mule whip if onfortoonately you're present to be exasperated by sech exhibitions. at last, however, jest as the patience of the audience is plumb played, both bill an' the little saucy willow gives a start of surprise. which they're pretendin' to be startled to find they're feedin' off the same dish. thar you be; that makes 'em 'buck an' squaw'--'man an' wife;' an' yereafter, in osage circles they can print their kyards 'mister an' missis bill connors,' while bill draws an' spends the little saucy willow's annooty on payment day instead of strike axe." chapter xiii. when tutt first saw tucson. "an' speakin' of dooels," remarked the old cattleman, apropos of an anecdote of the field of honour wherewith i regaled his fancy, "speakin' of dooels, i reckons now the encounter dave tutt involves himse'f with when he first sees tucson takes onchallenged preecedence for utter bloodlessness. she's shore the most lamb's-wool form of single combat to which my notice is ever drawn. dave enlightens us concernin' its details himse'f, bein' incited tharunto by hearin' texas thompson relate about the austin shootin' match of that deaf smith. "'which this yere is 'way back yonder on the trail of time,' explains dave, 'an' i'm hardened a heap since then. i've jest come buttin' into tucson an' it's easy money i'm the tenderest an' most ontaught party that ever wears store-moccasins. what i misses knowin' would make as husky a library,--if it's printed down in books,--as ever lines up on shelves. also, i'm freighted to the limit with the tenderfoot's usual outfit of misinformation. it's sad, yet troo! that as i casts my gaze r'arward i identifies myse'f as the balmiest brand of shorthorn who ever leaves his parents' shelterin' roof.' "'all the same,' says dan boggs, plenty conceited, 'i'll gamble a hoss i'm a bigger eediot when i quits missouri to roam the cow country than ever you-all can boast of bein' in your most drivelin' hour.' "'do they lock you up?' asks dave. "'no,' says dan, 'they don't lock me up none, but----' "'then you lose,' insists dave, mighty prompt. "'but hold on,' says dan; 'don't get your chips down so quick. as i starts to explain, i ain't locked up; but it's because i'm in a camp like wolfville yere that ain't sunk to the level of no calaboose. but what comes to be the same, i'm taken captive an' held as sech ontil the roodiments of western sense is done beat into me. it takes the yoonited efforts of four of the soonest sharps that ever happens; an' final, they succeeds to a p'int that i'm deemed cap'ble of goin' about alone.' "'well,' retorts dave, 'i won't dispoote with you; an' even at that i regyards your present attitoode as one of bluff. i thinks you're shore the cunnin'est wolf in the territory, dan, an' allers is. but, as i'm sayin', when i first begins to infest tucson, i'm so ignorant it's a stain on that meetropolis. at this yere epock, tucson ain't spraddled to its present proud dimensions. a gent might have thrown the loop of a lariat about the outfit an' drug it after him with a pony. no one, however, performs this labour, as the camp is as petyoolant as a t'rant'ler an' any onauthorised dalliance with its sensibilities would have led to vivid plays. still, she ain't big, tucson ain't; an' i learns my way about from centre to suburbs in the first ten minutes. "'at the beginnin' i'm a heap timid. i suffers from the common eastern theery an' looks on arizona as a region where it's murder straight an' lynchin' for a place. you-all may jedge from that how erroneous is my idees. then, as now, the distinguishin' feacher of tucson existence is a heavenly ca'm. troo, thar's moments when the air nacherally fills up with bullets like they're a passel of swallow-birds, an' they hums an' sings their merry madrigals. however, these busy seasons don't set in so often nor last so long but peaceful folks has ample chance to breathe. "'never does i b'ar witness to as many as seven contemporaneous remainders but once; and then thar's cause. it's in a poker game; an' the barkeep brings the dealer a cold deck onder a tray whereon he purveys the drinks. which the discovery of this yere solecism, as you-all well imagines, arouses interest, earnest an' widespread like i deescribes. i counts up when the smoke lifts an' finds that seven has sought eternal peace. commonly two is the number; three bein' quite a shipment. shore, it's speshul sickly when as many as seven quits out together! "'bein' timid an' ignorant i takes good advice. it's in the oriental. thar's that old gray cimmaron hibernatin' about the bar whose name is jeffords. "'"be you-all conversant with that gun you packs?" asks jeffords. "'i feels the hot blush mountin' in my tender cheeks, but i concedes i ain't. "pard," i replies, "speakin' confidenshul an' between gent an' gent, this yere weepon is plumb novel to me." "'"which i allows as much," he says, "from the egreegious way you fidges with it. now let me pass you-all a p'inter from the peaks of experience. you caper back to the tavern an' take that weepon off. or what's as well, you pass it across to the barkeep. if you-all goes romancin' 'round with hardware at your belt it's even money it'll get you beefed. allers remember while in arizona that you'll never get plugged--onless by inadvertence--as long as you wander about in onheeled innocence. no gunless gent gets downed; sech is the onbreakable roole." "'after that i goes guiltless of arms; i ain't hungerin' for immortality abrupt. "'old jeffords is shore right; in the southwest if you aims to b'ar a charmed life, never wear a six-shooter. this maxim goes anywhere this side of the mississippi; east of that mighty river it's the other way. "'bein' nimble-blooded in them days, i'm a heap arduous about the dance-hall. i gets infatyooated with the good fellowship of that hurdygurdy; an' even after i leaves tucson an' is camped some miles away, i saddles up every other evenin', rides in an', as says the poet, "shakes ontirin' laig even into the wee small hours." "'right yere, gents,' an' dave pauses like he's prounced on by a solemn thought, 'i don't reckon i has to caution none of you-all not to go repeatin' these mem'ries of gay days done an' gone, where my wife tucson jennie cuts their trail. i ain't afraid of jennie; she's a kind, troo he'pmeet; but ever since that onfortunate entanglement with the english towerist lady her suspicions sets up nervous in their blankets at the mere mention of frivolities wherein she hears my name. i asks you, tharfore, not to go sayin' things to feed her doubts. with tucson jennie, my first business is to live down my past.' "'you-all can bet,' says texas thompson, while his brow clouds, 'that i learns enough while enjoyin' the advantages of livin' with my former wife to make sech requests sooperfluous in my case. speshully since if it ain't for what the neighbours done tells the lady she'd never go ropin' 'round for that divorce. no dave; your secrets is plumb safe with a gent who's suffered. "'which i saveys i'm safe with all of you,' says dave, his confidence, which the thoughts of tucson jennie sort o' stampedes, beginnin' to return. 'but now an' then them gusts of apprehensions frequent with married gents sweeps over me an' i feels weak. but comin' back to the dance-hall: as i su'gests thar's many a serene hour i whiles away tharin. your days an' your _dinero_ shore flows plenty swift in that temple of merriment; an' chilled though i be with the stiff dignity of a wedded middle age, if it ain't for my infant son, enright peets tutt, to whom i'm strivin' to set examples, i'd admire to prance out an' live ag'in them halcyon hours; that's whatever! "'thar's quite a sprinklin' of the _elite_ of tucson in the dance-hall the evenin' i has in mind. the bar is busy; while up an' down each side sech refreshin' pastimes as farobank, monte an' roulette holds prosperous sway. thar's no quadrille goin' at the moment, an' a lady to the r'ar is carollin' "rosalie, the prairie flower." "fair as a lily bloomin' in may, sweeter than roses, bright as the day! everyone who knows her feels her gentle power, rosalie the prairie flower." "'on this yere o'casion i'm so far fortunate as to be five drinks ahead an' tharfore would sooner listen to myse'f talk than to the warblin' of the cantatrice. as it is, i'm conversin' with a gent who's standin' hard by. "'at my elbow is posted a shaggy an' forbiddin' outlaw whose name is yuba tom, an' who's more harmonious than me. he wants to listen to "rosalie the prairie flower." of a sudden, he w'irls about, plenty peevish. "'stick a period to that pow-wow," observes yuba; "i wants to hear this prima donna sing." "'bein' gala with the five libations, i turns on yuba haughty. "if you're sobbin' to hear this songstress," i says, "go for'ard an' camp down at her feet. but don't come pawin' your way into no conversations with me. an' don't hang up no bluff." "'which if you disturbs me further," retorts yuba, "i'll turn loose for shore an' crawl your hump a lot." "'them foolhardy sports," i replies, "who has yeretofore attempted that enterprise sleeps in onknown graves; so don't you-all pester me, for the outlook's dark." "'it's now that yuba,--who's a mighty cautious sport, forethoughtful an' prone to look ahead,--regyards the talk as down to cases an' makes a flash for his gun. it's concealed by his surtoot an' i ain't noticed it none before. if i had, most likely i'd pitched the conversation in a lower key. however, by this time, i'm quarrelsome as a badger; an' a willin'ness for trouble subdooes an' sets its feet on my nacheral cowardice an' holds her down.' "'dave, you-all makes me nervous,' says boggs, with a flash of heat, 'settin' thar lyin' about your timidity that a-way. you're about as reluctant for trouble as a grizzly bar, an' you couldn't fool no gent yere on that p'int for so much as one white chip.' "'jest the same,' says dave, mighty dogmatic, 'i still asserts that in a concealed, inborn fashion, i'm timid absoloote. if you has ever beheld me stand up ag'in the iron it's because i'm 'shamed to quit. i'd wilt out like a jack-rabbit if i ain't held by pride. "'"you're plenty ready with that colt's," i says to yuba, an' my tones is severe. "that's because you sees me weeponless. if i has a gun now, i'd make you yell like a coyote." "'"s'pose you ain't heeled," reemonstrates yuba, "that don't give you no license to stand thar aboosin' me. be i to blame because your toilet ain't complete? you go frame yourse'f up, an' i'll wait;" an' with that, this yuba takes his hand from his artillery. "'thar's a footile party who keeps the dancehall an' who signs the books as colonel boone. he's called the "king of the cowboys"; most likely in a sperit of facetiousness since he's more like a deuce than a king. this boone's packin' a most excellent six-shooter loose in the waistband of his laiggin's. boone's passin' by as yuba lets fly his taunts an' this piece of ordnance is in easy reach. with one motion i secures it an' the moment followin' the muzzle is pressin' ag'inst a white pearl button on yuba's bloo shirt. "'"bein' now equipped," i says, "this war-dance may proceed." "'i'm that scared i fairly hankers for the privilege of howlin', but i realises acootely that havin' come this far towards homicide i must needs go through if yuba crowds my hand. but he don't; he's forbearin' an' stands silent an' still. likewise, i sees his nose, yeretofore the colour of a over-ripe violin, begin to turn sear an' gray. i recovers sperit at this as i saveys i'm saved. still i keeps the artillery on him. it's the innocence of the gun that holds yuba spellbound an' affects his nose, an' i feels shore if i relaxes he'll be all over me like a baggage waggon.' "'which i should say so!' says jack moore, drawin' a deep breath. 'you takes every chance, dave, when you don't cut loose that time!' "'when boone beholds me,' says dave, 'annex his gun he almost c'lapses into a fit. he makes a backward leap that shows he ain't lived among rattlesnakes in vain. then he stretches his hand towards me an' yuba, an' says, "don't shoot! let's take a drink; it's on the house!" "'yuba, with his nose still a peaceful gray, turns from the gun an' sidles for the bar; i follows along, thirsty, but alert. when we-all is assembled, boone makes a wailin' request for his six-shooter. "'"get his," i says, at the same time, animadvertin' at yuba with the muzzle. "'yuba passes his weepons over the bar an' i follows suit with boone's. then we drinks with our eyes on each other in silent scorn. "'"which we-all will see about this later,' growls yuba, as he leaves the bar. "'"go as far as you like, old sport," i retorts, for this last edition, as colonel sterett would term it, of valley tan makes me that brave i'm miseratin' for a riot. "'it's the next day before ever i'm firm enough, to come ag'in to tucson. this stage-wait in the tragedy is doo to fear excloosive. i hears how yuba is plumb bad; how he's got two notches on his stick; how he's filed the sights off his gun; an' how in all reespects he's a murderer of merit an' renown. sech news makes me timid two ways: i'm afraid yuba'll down me some; an' then ag'in i'm afraid he's so popular i'll be lynched if i downs him. shore, that felon yuba begins to assoome in my apprehensions the stern teachers of a whipsaw. at last i'm preyed on to that degree i'm desperate; an' i makes up my mind to invade tucson, cross up with yuba an' let him come a runnin'. the nervousness of extreme yooth doubtless is what goads me to this decision. "'it's about second drink time in the afternoon when, havin' donned my weepons, i rides into tucson. after leavin' my pony at the corral, i turns into the main street. it's scorchin' hot an' barrin' a dead burro thar's hardly anybody in sight. up in front of the oriental, as luck has it, stands yuba and a party of doobious morals who slays hay for the gov'ment, an' is addressed as lon gilette. as i swings into the causeway, gilette gets his eye on me an' straightway fades into the oriental leavin' yuba alone in the street. this yere strikes me as mighty ominous; i feels the beads of water come onder my hatband, an' begins to crowd my gun a leetle for'ard on the belt. i'm walkin' up on the opp'site side from yuba who stands watchin' my approach with a serene mien. "'"it's the ca'mness of the tiger crouchin' for a spring," thinks i. "'as i arrives opp'site, yuba stretches out his hand. "come on over," he sings out. "'"which he's assoomin' airs of friendship," i roominates, "to get me off my gyard." "'i starts across to yuba. i'm watchin' like a lynx; an' i'm that harrowed, if yuba so much as sneezes or drops his hat or makes a r'arward move of his hand, i'm doo to open on him. but he stands still as a hill an' nothin' more menacin' than grins. as i comes clost he offers his hand. it's prior to my shootin' quick an' ackerate with my left hand, so i don't give yuba my right, holdin' the same in reserve for emergencies an' in case thar's a change of weather. but yuba, who can see it's fear that a-way, is too p'lite to make comments. he shakes my left hand with well-bred enthoosiasm an' turns an' heads the way into the oriental. "'as we fronts the bar an' demands nosepaint yuba gives up his arms; an' full of a jocund lightheartedness as i realises that i ain't marked for instant slaughter i likewise yields up mine. we then has four drinks in happy an' successful alternation, an' next we seeks a table an' subsides into seven-up. "'"then thar ain't goin' to be no dooel between us?" i says to yuba. it's at a moment when he's turned jack an' i figgers he'll be more soft an' leenient. "it's to be a evenin' of friendly peace?" "'"an' why not?" says yuba. "i've shore took all the skelps that's comin' to me; an' as for you-all, you're young an' my counsel is to never begin. that pooerile spat we has don't count. i'm drinkin' at the time, an' i don't reckon now you attaches importance to what a gent says when he's in licker?" "'"not to what he says," i replies; "but i does to what he shoots. i looks with gravity on the gun-plays of any gent, an' the drunker he is the more ser'ous i regyards the eepisode." "'"well, she's a thing of the past now," explains yuba, "an' this evenin' you're as pop'lar with me as a demijohn at a camp-meetin'." "'both our bosoms so wells with joy, settin' thar as we do in a atmosphere of onexpected yet perfect fraternalism an' complete peace, that yuba an' me drinks a whole lot. it gets so, final, i refooses to return to my own camp; i won't be sep'rated from yuba. when we can no longer drink, we turns in at yuba's wickeyup an' sleeps. the next mornin' we picks up the work of reeconciliation where it slips from our tired hands the evenin' before. i does intend to reepair to my camp when we rolls out; but after the third conj'int drink both me an' yuba sees so many reasons why it's a fool play i gives up the idee utter. "'gents, it's no avail to pursoo me an' yuba throughout them four feverish days. we drifts from one drink-shop to the other, arm in arm, as peaceful an' pleased a pair of sots as ever disturbs the better element. which we're the scandal of tucson; we-all is that thickly amiable it's a insult to other men. thus ends my first dooel; a conflict as bloodless as she is victorious. how long it would have took me an' yuba to thoroughly cement our friendships will never be known. at the finish, we-all is torn asunder by the tucson marshal an' i'm returned to my camp onder gyard. me an' yuba before nor since never does wax that friendly with any other gent; we'd be like brothers yet, only the stranglers over to shakespear seizes on pore yuba one mornin' about a hoss an' heads him for his home on high.'" chapter xiv. the troubles of dan boggs. "this yere," remarked the old cattleman, at the heel of a half-hour lecture on life and its philosophy, "this yere is a evenin' when they gets to discussin' about luck. it's doorin' the progress of this dispoote when cherokee hall allows that luck don't alternate none, first good an' then bad, but travels in bunches like cattle or in flocks like birds. 'whichever way she comes,' says cherokee, 'good or bad, luck avalanches itse'f on a gent. that's straight!' goes on cherokee. 'you bet! i speaks from a voloominous experience an' a life that, whether up or down, white or black, ain't been nothin' but luck. which nacherally, bein' a kyard sharp that a-way, i studies luck the same as peets yere studies drugs; an' my discov'ries teaches that luck is plumb gregar'ous. like misery in that proverb, luck loves company; it shore despises to be lonesome.' "'cherokee, i delights to hear you talk,' says old man enright, as he signs up black jack for the valley tan. 'them eloocidations is meant to stiffen a gent's nerve an' do him good. shore; no one needs encouragement nor has to train for a conflict with good luck; but it's when he's out ag'inst the iron an' the bad luck's swoopin' an' stoopin' at him, beak an' claw like forty hawks, that your remarks is doo to come to his aid an' uplift his sperits some. an' as you says a moment back, thar's bound in the long run to be a equilibr'um. the lower your bad luck, the taller your good luck when it strikes camp. it's the same with the old rockies, an' wherever you goes it's ever a never-failin' case of the deeper the valley, the higher the hill! "'as is frequent with me,' says dan boggs, after we sets quiet a moment, meanwhiles tastin' our nosepaint thoughtful--for these outbursts of cherokee's an' enright's calls for consid'rations,--'as is frequent with me,' says dan, 'i reckons i'll string my chips with cherokee. the more ready since throughout my own checkered c'reer--an' i've done most everything 'cept sing in the choir,--luck has ever happened bunched like he asserts. which i gets notice of these pecooliarities of fortune early. while i'm simply doin' nothin' to provoke it, a gust of bad luck prounces on me an' thwarts me in a noble ambition, rooins my social standin' an busts two of my nigh ribs all in one week. "'i'm a colt at the time, an' jest about big enough to break. my folks is livin' in missouri over back of the sni-a-bar hills. by nacher i'm a heap moosical; so i ups--givin' that genius for harmony expression--an' yoonites myse'f with the "sni-a-bar silver cornet band." old hickey is leader, an' he puts me in to play the snare drum, the same bein' the second rung on the ladder of moosical fame, an' one rung above the big drum. old hickey su'gests that i start with the snare drum an' work up. gents, you-all should have heard me with that instrooment! i'd shore light into her like a storm of hail! "'for a spell the "sni-a-bar silver cornet band" used to play in the woods. this yere sni-a-bar commoonity is a mighty nervous neighbourhood, an' thar's folks whose word is above reproach who sends us notice they'll shoot us up if we don't; so at first we practises in the woods. but as time goes on we improves an' plays well enough so we don't scare children; an' then the sni-a-bar people consents to let us play now an' then along the road. all of us virchewosoes is locoed to do good work, so that sni-a-bar would get reeconciled, an' recognise us as a commoonal factor. "'well do i recall the day of our first public appearance. it's at a political meetin' an' everything, so far as we're concerned at least, depends on the impression we-all makes. if we goes to a balk or a break-down, the "sni-a-bar silver cornet band's" got to go back an' play in the woods. "'it's not needed that i tells you gents, how we-all is on aige. old hickey gets so perturbed he shifts me onto the big drum; an' catfish edwards, yeretofore custodian of that instrooment, is given the snare. this play comes mighty clost to breakin' my heart; for i'm ambitious, an' it galls my soul to see myse'f goin' back'ards that a-way. it's the beginnin' of my bad luck, too. thar's no chance to duck the play, however, as old hickey's word is law, so i sadly buckles on the giant drum. "'we're jest turnin' into the picnic ground where this meetin's bein' held an' i've got thoughts of nothin' but my art--as we moosicians says--an' elevatin' the local opinion of an' concernin' the meelodious merits of the band. we're playin' "number eighteen" at the time, an' i've got my eagle eye on the paper that tells me when to welt her; an' i'm shorely leatherin' away to beat a ace-flush. "'bein' i'm new to the big drum, an' onduly eager to succeed, i've got all my eyes picketed on the notes. it would have been as well if i'd reeserved at least one for scenery. but i don't; an' so it befalls that when we-all is in the very heart of the toone, an' at what it's no exaggeration to call a crisis in our destinies, i walks straddle of a stump. an' sech is my fatal momentum that the drum rolls up on the stump, an' i rolls up on the drum. that's the finish; next day the silver cornet band by edict of the sni-a-bar pop'lace is re-exiled to them woods. but i don't go; old hickey excloodes me, an' my hopes of moosical eminence rots down right thar. "'it's mebby two days later when i'm over by the postoffice gettin' the weekly paper for my old gent. thar's goin' to be a gander-pullin' by torchlight that evenin' over to hickman's mills with a dance at the heel of the hunt. but i ain't allowin' to be present none. i'm too deeply chagrined about my failure with that big drum; an' then ag'in, i'm scared to ask a girl to go. you-all most likely has missed noticin' it a heap--for i frequent forces myse'f to be gala an' festive in company--but jest the same, deep down onder my belt, i'm bashful. an' when i'm younger i'm worse. i'm bashful speshul of girls; for i soon discovers that it's easier to face a gun than a girl, an' the glance of her eye is more terrifyin' than the glimmer of a bowie. that's the way i feels. it's a fact; i remembers a time when my mother, gettin' plumb desp'rate over my hoomility, offers me a runnin' hoss if i'd go co't a girl; on which o'casion i feebly urges that i'd rather walk. "'on the evenin' of this yer dance an' gander-pullin' i'm pirootin' about the center when i meets up with jule james;--jule bein' the village belle. "goin' to the dance?" says jule. "no," says i. "why ever don't you go?" asks jule. "thar ain't no girl weak-minded enough to go with me," i replies; "i makes a bid for two or three but gets the mitten." this yere last is a bluff. "which i reckons now," says jule, givin' me a look, "if you'd asked me, i'd been fool enough to go." of course, with that i'm treed; i couldn't flicker, so i allows that if jule'll caper back to the house with me i'll take her yet. "'we-all gets back to my old gent's an' i proceeds to hitch up a dobbin hoss we has to a side-bar buggy. it's dark by now, an' we don't go to the house nor indulge in any ranikaboo uproar about it, as i figgers it's better not to notify the folks. not that they'd be out to put the kybosh on this enterprize; but they're powerful fond of talk my folks is, an' their long suit is never wantin' you to do whatever you're out to execoote. wherefore, as i ain't got no time for a j'int debate with my fam'ly over technicalities i puts jule into the side-bar where it's standin' in the dark onder a shed; an' then, hookin' up old dobbin a heap surreptitious, i gathers the reins an' we goes softly p'intin' forth for hickman's. "'as we-all is sailin' thoughtlessly along the trail, dobbin ups an' bolts. sech flights is onpreeceedented in the case of dobbin--who's that sedate he's jest alive--an' i'm shore amazed; but i yanks him up an' starts anew. it's twenty rods when dobbin bolts ag'in. this time i hears a flutter, an' reaches 'round jule some to see if her petticoats is whippin' the wheel. they ain't; but jule--who esteems said gesture in the nacher of a caress--seemin' to favour the idee, i lets my arm stay 'round. a moment later an' this yere villain dobbin bolts the third time, an' as i've sort o' got my one arm tangled up with jule, he lams into a oak tree. "'it's then, when we're plumb to a halt, i does hear a flutter. at that i gets down to investigate. gents, you-all may onderstand my horror when i finds 'leven of my shawl-neck game chickens roostin' on that side-bar's reach! they're thar when we pulls out. they've retired from the world an' its cares for the night an', in our ignorance of them chicken's domestic arrangements, we blindly takes 'em with us. now an' then, as we goes rackin' along, one of 'em gets jolted off. then he'd hang by his chin an' beat his wings; an' it's these frenzied efforts he makes to stay with the game that evolves them alarmin' flutterin's. "'jule--who don't own chickens an' who ain't no patron of cockfights neither--is for settin' the shawl-necks on the fence an' pickin' 'em up as we trails back from the gander-pullin'. "'"as long as it's dark," says jule, "they'll stay planted; an' we rounds 'em up on our return." "'but i ain't that optimistic. i knows these chickens an' they ain't so somnolent as all that. besides it's a cinch that a mink or a fox comes squanderin' 'round an' takes 'em in like gooseberries. 'leven shawl-necks! why, it would be a pick-up for a fox! "'"you're a fine injun to take a girl to a dance!" says jule at last, an' she's full of scorn. "'"injun or no injun," i retorts a heap sullen, "thar ain't no gander-pullin' goin' to jestify me in abandonin' my 'leven shawl-necks an' me with a main to fight next month over on the little bloo!" "'at that i corrals the chickens an' imprisons 'em in the r'ar of the side-bar an' goes a-weavin' back for camp, an' i picks up three more shawl-necks where they sets battin' their he'pless eyes in the road. "'but i shore hears jule's views of me as a beau! they're hot enough to fry meat! moreover, jule tells all sni-a-bar an' i'm at once a scoff an' jeer from the kaw to the gasconade. jule's old pap washes out his rifle an' signs a pledge to plug me if ever ag'in i puts my hand on his front gate. as i su'gests, it rooins my social c'reer in sni-a-bar. "'while i'm ground like a toad that a-way beneath the harrow of this double setback of the drum an' jule, thar's a circus shows up an' pitches its merry tent in sni-a-bar. i knows this caravan of yore--for i'm a master-hand for shows in my yooth an' allers goes--an' bein' by virchoo of my troubles ready to plunge into dissipation's mad an' swirlin' midst, i sa'nters down the moment the waggons shows up; an' after that, while that circus stays, folks who wants to see me, day or night, has to come to the show. "'the outfit is one of them little old jim-crow shows that charges two-bits an' stays a month; an' by the end of the first day, me an' the clown gets wropped up like brothers; which i'm like one of the fam'iy! i fetches water an' he'ps rub hosses an', speakin' gen'ral, does more nigger work than i ever crosses up with prior endoorin' my entire life. but knowin' the clown pays for all; sech trivial considerations as pullin' on tent ropes an' spreadin' sawdust disappears before the honour of his a'quaintance. it's my knowin' the clown that leads to disaster. "'this merrymaker, who's a "jocund wight" as colonel sterett says, gets a heap drunk one evenin' 'an' sleeps out in the rain, an' he awakes as hoarse as bull-frogs. he ain't able to sing his song in the ring. it's jest before they begins. "'"dan," he croaks, plenty dejected, "i wish you'd clown up an' go in an' sing that song." "'this cantata he alloodes to, is easy; it's "roll jurdan, roll," an' i hears it so much at nigger camp meetin's an' sim'lar distractions, that i carols it in my sleep. as the clown throws out his bluff i considers awhile some ser'ous. i feels like mebby i've cut the trail of a cunnin' idee. when jule an' old hickey an' the balance of them sni-a-bar outcasts sees me in a clown's yooniform, tyrannisin' about, singin' songs an' leadin' up the war-jig gen'ral, they'll regret the opinions they so freely expresses an' take to standin' about, hopin' i'll bow. they'll regyard knowin' me as a boon. with that, i tells the clown to be of good cheer. i'll prance in an' render that lay an' his hoarseness won't prove no setback to the gaiety of nations. "'but i don't sing after all; an' i don't pile up jule an' old hickey an' the sports of sni-a-bar neither in any all 'round jumble of amazement at my genius. "'"dan," says the ring master when we're in the dressin' room, "when the leapin' begins, you-all go on with the others an' do a somersault or two?" "'"shore!" i says. "'i feels as confidant as a kangaroo! which i never does try it none; but i supposes that all you has to do is hit the springboard an' let the springboard do the rest. that's where i'm barkin' at a knot! "'this yere leapin' comes first on the bill. i ain't been in the ring yet; the tumblin' business is where i makes my deeboo. i've got on a white clown soote with big red spots, an' my face is all flour. i'm as certain of my comin' pop'larity as a wet dog. i shore allows that when jule an' old hickey observes my graceful agility an' then hears me warble "roll jurdan, roll," i'll make 'em hang their heads. "'the tumblin' is about to begin; the band's playin', an' all us athletes is ranged injun file along a plank down which we're to run. i'm the last chicken on the roost. "'even unto this day it's a subject of contention in circus cirkles as to where i hits that springboard. some claims i hits her too high up; an' some says too low; for myse'f, i concedes i'm ignorant on the p'int. i flies down the plank like a antelope! i hears the snarl of the drums! i jumps an' strikes the springboard! "'it's at this juncture things goes queer. to my wonder i don't turn no flip-flap, but performs like a draw-shot in billiards. i plants my moccasins on the springboard; an' then instead of goin' on an' over a cayouse who's standin' thar awaitin' sech events, i shoots back'ard about fifteen foot an' lands in a ondistinguishable heap. an' as i strikes a plank it smashes a brace of my ribs. "'for a second i'm blurred in my intellects. then i recovers; an' as i'm bein' herded back into the dressin' room by the fosterin' hands of the ring master an' my pard, the clown, over in the audience i hears jule's silvery laugh an' her old pap allowin' he'd give a hoss if i'd only broke my neck. also, i catches a remark of old hickey; "which that boggs boy allers was a ediot!" says old hickey.'" chapter xv. bowlegs and major ben. "which this yere major ben," remarked the old cattleman, "taken in conjunction with his bosom pard, billy bowlaigs, frames up the only casooalty which gets inaug'rated in wolfville." "what!" i interjected; "don't you consider the divers killings,--the death of the stinging lizard and the dismissal of silver phil, to say nothing of the taking off of the man from red dog--don't you, i say, consider such bloody matters casualties?" "no, sir," retorted my friend, emitting the while sundry stubborn puffs of smoke, "no, sir; i regyards them as results. tharfore, i reiterates that this yere major ben an' bowlaigs accomplishes between 'em the only troo casooalty whereof wolfville has a record." at this he paused and surveyed me with an eye of challenge; after a bit, perceiving that i proposed no further contradiction, he went on: "this billy bowlaigs at first is a cub b'ar--a black cub b'ar: an' when he grows up to manhood, so to speak, he's as big, an' mighty near as strong physical, as dan boggs. nacherally, however, dan lays over bowlaigs mental like a ace-full. "it's dave tutt who makes bowlaigs captive; dave rounds bowlaigs up in his infancy one time when he's pesterin' about over in the foothills of the floridas lookin' for blacktail deer. dave meets up with bowlaigs an' the latter's mother who's out, evident, on a scout for grub. bowlaig's mother has jest upturned a rotten pine-log to give little bowlaigs a chance to rustle some of these yere egreegious white worms which looks like bald catapillars, that a-way, when all at once around a p'int of rocks dave heaves in view. this parent of bowlaigs is as besotted about her son as many hooman mothers; for while bowlaigs stands almost as high as she does an' weighs clost onto two hundred pounds, the mother b'ar still has the idee tangled up in her intelligence that bowlaigs is that small an' he'pless, day-old kittens is se'f-sustainin' citizens by compar'son to him. actin' on these yere errors, bowlaig's mother the moment she glimpses dave grabs young bowlaigs by the scruff of the neck an' goes caperin' off up hill with him. an' to give that parent b'ar full credit, she's gettin' along all right an' conductin' herse'f as though bowlaigs don't heft no more than one of them gooseha'r pillows, when, accidental, she bats pore bowlaigs ag'in the bole of a tree--him hangin' outen her mouth about three foot--an' while the collision shakes that monarch of the forest some, bowlaigs gets knocked free of her grip an' goes rollin' down the mountain-side ag'in like a sack of bran. it puts quite a crimp in bowlaigs. the mother b'ar, full of s'licitoode to save her offspring turns, an' charges dave; tharupon dave downs her, an' young bowlaigs becomes a orphan an' a pris'ner on the spot. "followin' the demise of bowlaig's mother, dave sort o' feels reesponsible for the cub's bringin' up an' he ties him hand an' foot, an' after peelin' the pelt from the old mother b'ar, packs the entire outfit into camp. dave's pony protests with green eyes ag'in carryin' sech a freight, but dave has his way as he usually does with everything except tucson jennie. "at first dave allows he'll let bowlaigs live with him a whole lot an' keep him ontil he grows up, an' construct a pet of him. but as i more than once makes plain, dave proposes but tucson jennie disposes; an' so it befalls that on the third day after the cub takes up his residence with her an' dave, jennie arms herse'f with a broom an' harasses the onfortunate bowlaigs from her wickeyup. jennie declar's that she discovers bowlaigs organisin' to devour her child enright peets tutt, who's at that epock comin' three the next spring round-up. "'i could read it in that bowlaigs b'ar's eyes,' says jennie, 'an' it's mighty lucky a parent's faculties is plumb keen. if i hadn't got in on the play with my broom, you can bet that inordinate bowlaigs would have done eat little enright peets all up. "shore, no one credits these yere apprehensions of jennie's; bowlaigs would no more have chewed up enright peets than he'd played table-stakes with him; but a fond mother's fears once stampeded is not to be headed off or ca'med, an' bowlaigs has to shift his camp a heap. "bowlaigs takes up his abode on the heels of him bein' run out by tucson jennie, over to the corral; that is, he bunks in thar temp'rary at least. an' he shore grows amazin', an' enlarges doorin' the next three months to sech a degree that when he stands up to the counter in the red light, acceptin' of some proffered drink, bowlaigs comes clost to bein' as tall as folks. he early learns throughout his wakeful moments--what i'd deescribe as his business hours--to make the red light a hang-out; it's the nosepaint he's hankerin' after, for in no time at all bowlaigs accoomulates a appetite for rum that's a fa'r match for that of either huggins or old monte, an' them two sots is for long known as far west as the colorado an' as far no'th as the needles as the offishul drunkards of arizona. no; bowlaigs ain't equal to pourin' down the raw nosepaint; but black jack humours his weakness an' bowlaigs is wont to take off his libations about two parts water to one of whiskey an' a lump of sugar in the bottom, outen one of these big tumbler glasses; meanwhiles standin' at the bar an' holdin' the glass between his two paws an' all as ackerate an' steady as the most talented inebriate. "'an' bowlaigs has this distinction,' says black jack, alloodin' to the sugar an' water; 'he's shore the only gent for whom i so far onbends from reg'lar rools as to mix drinks.' "existence goes flowin' onward like some glad sweet song for bowlaigs for mighty likely it's two months an' nothin' remarkable eventuates. he camps in over to the corral, an' except that new ponies, who ain't onto bowlaigs, commonly has heart-failure at the sight of him, he don't found no disturbances nor get in anybody's way. throughout his wakin' hours, as i su'gests former, bowlaigs ha'nts about the red light, layin' guileful an' cunnin' for invites to drink; an' he execootes besides small excursions to the o.k. restauraw for chuck, with now an' then a brief journey to the post office or the new york store. these visits of bowlaigs to the last two places, both because he don't get no letters at the post office an' don't demand no clothes at the store, i attribootes to motives of morbid cur'osity, that a-way. "the first real trouble that meets up with bowlaigs--who's got to be a y'ar old by now--since jennie fights the dooel with him with that broom, overtakes him at the o.k. restauraw. missis rucker for one thing ain't over fond of bowlaigs, allegin' as he grows older day by day he looks more an' more like rucker. of course, sech views is figments as much as the alarms of tucson jennie about bowlaigs meditatin' gettin' away with little enright peets; but missis rucker, in spite of whatever we gent folks can say in bowlaigs's behalf, believes firm in her own slanders. she asserts that bowlaigs as he onfolds looks like rucker; an' for her at least that settles the subject an' she assoomes towards bowlaigs attitoodes which, would perhaps have been proper had her charge been troo. "still, i'll say for that most esteemable lady, that missis rucker never lays for bowlaigs or assaults him ontil one afternoon when he catches the dinin'-room deserted an' off its gyard an' goes romancin' over, cat-foot an' surreptitious, an' cleans up the tables of what chuck has been placed thar in antic'pation of supper. the first news missis rucker has of the raid is when bowlaigs gets a half-hitch on the tablecloth an' winds up his play by yankin' the entire outfit of spoons, tin plates an' crockery off onto the floor. it's then missis rucker sallies from the kitchen an' puts bowlaigs to flight. "bowlaigs, who's plumb scared, comes lumberin' over to the red light an' puts himse'f onder our protection. enright squar's it for him; for when missis rucker appears subsequent with a winchester an' a knife an' gives it out cold she's goin' to get bowlaig's hide an' tallow an' sell 'em to pay even for that dinin'-room desolation of which he's the architect, enright counts up the damage an' pays over twenty-three dollars in full settlement. does bowlaigs know it? you can gamble the limit he knows it; for all the time missis rucker is prancin' about the red light denouncin' him, he secretes himse'f, shiverin', behind the bar; an' when that lady withdraws, mollified an' subdooed by the money, he creeps out, bowlaigs does, an' cries an' licks enright's hand. oh, he's a mighty appreciative b'ar, pore bowlaigs is; but his nerves is that onstrung by the perils he passes through with missis rucker it takes two big drinks to recover his sperits an' make him feel like the same b'ar. it's texas thompson who buys the drinks: "'for i, of all gents, bowlaigs,' says texas, as he invites the foogitive to the bar, 'onderstands what you-all's been through. it may be imagination, but jest the same thar's them times when missis rucker goes on the warpath when she reminds me a lot of my divorced laredo wife.' with that texas pours a couple of hookers of willow run into bowlaigs, an' the latter is a heap cheered an' his pulse declines to normal. "it's rum, however, which final is the deestruction of bowlaigs, same as it is of plenty of other good people who would have else lived in honour an' died respected an' been tearfully planted in manner an' form to do 'em proud. "excloosive of that casooalty which marks his wind-up, an' which he combines with major ben to commit, thar's but one action of bowlaigs a enemy might call a crime. he does prounce on a mail bag one evenin' when the post-master ain't lookin', an' shore rends an' worrits them letters scand'lous. "yes, bowlaigs gets arrested, an' the stranglers sort o' convenes informal to consider it. i allers remembers that session of the stranglers on account of doc peets an' colonel william greene sterett entertain' opp'site views an' the awful language they indulges in as they expresses an' sets 'em forth. "'which i claims that this bowlaigs b'ar,' says peets, combatin' a suggestion of dan boggs who's sympathisin' with an' urges that bowlaigs is 'ignorant of law an' tharfore innocent of offence,' 'which i claims that this bowlaig b'ar is guilty of rustlin' the mails an' must an' should be hanged. his ignorance is no defences, for don't each gent present know of that aphorism of the law, _ignoratis legia non excusat_!' "dan, nacherally, is enable to combat sech profound bluffs as this, an' i'm free to confess if it ain't for colonel sterett buttin' in with more latin, the same bein' of equal cogency with that of peet's, the footure would have turned plenty dark an' doobious for bowlaigs. as dan sinks back speechless an' played from peet's shot, the colonel, who bein' eddicated like peets to a feather aige is ondismayed an' cool, comes to the rescoo. "'that law proverb you quotes, doc,' says the colonel, 'is dead c'rrect, an' if argyment was to pitch its last camp thar, your deductions that this benighted bowlaigs must swing, would be ondeniable. but thar's a element lackin' in this affair without which no offence is feasible. the question is,--an' i slams it at you, doc, as a thoughtful eddicated sharp--does this yere bowlaigs open them letters an' bust into that mail bag _causa lucrae_? i puts this query up to you-all, doc, for answer. it's obv'ous that bowlaigs ain't got no notion of money bein' in them missives an' tharfore he couldn't have been moved by no thoughts of gain. wherefore i asserts that the deed is not done _causa lucrae_, an' that the case ag'in this he'pless bowlaigs falls to the ground.' "followin' this yere collision of the classics between two sech scientists as peets an' the colonel, we-all can be considered as hangin' mighty anxious on what reply doc peets is goin' to make. but after some thought, peets agrees with the colonel. he admits that this _causa lucrae_ is a bet he overlooks, an' that now the colonel draws his attention to it, he's bound to say he believes the colonel to be right, an' that bowlaigs should be made a free onfettered b'ar ag'in. we breathes easier at this, for the tension has been great, an' dan himse'f is that relieved he comes a heap clost to sheddin' tears. the trial closes with the customary drinks; bowlaigs gettin' his forty drops with the rest, on the hocks of which he signalises his reestoration to his rights an' freedom as a citizen by quilin' up in his corner an' goin' to sleep. "but the end is on its lowerin' way for bowlaigs. thar's a senile party who's packed his blankets into camp an' who's called 'major ben.' the major, so the whisper goes, used to be quartermaster over to fort craig or fort apache, or mebby now it's fort cummings or some'ers; an' he gets himse'f dismissed for makin' away with the bank-roll. be that as it may, the major's plenty drunk an' military while he lasts among us; an' he likewise has _dinero_ for whatever nosepaint an' food an' farobank he sees fit to go ag'inst. from the jump the major makes up to bowlaigs an' the two become pards. the major allows he likes bowlaigs because he can't talk. "'which if all my friends,' says the major, no doubt alloodin' to them witnesses ag'in him when he's cashiered, 'couldn't have talked no more than bowlaigs, i'd been happy yet.' "the major's got a diminyootive wickeyup out to the r'ar of the corral, an' him an' bowlaigs resides tharin. this habitat of the major an' bowlaigs ain't much bigger than a seegyar box; it's only eight foot by ten, is made of barn-boards an' has a canvas roof. that's the kind of ranch bowlaigs an' the major calls 'home'; the latter spreadin' his blankets on one side while bowlaigs sleeps on t'other on the board floor, needin' no blankets, havin' advantage over the major seein' he's got fur. "the dispoote between bowlaigs an' the major which results in both of 'em cashin' in, gets started erroneous. the major--who's sometimes too indolent an' sometimes too drunk to make the play himse'f--instructs bowlaig how to go over to the red light an' fetch a bottle of rum. the major would chuck a silver dollar in a little basket, an' bowlaigs would take it in his mouth same as you-all has seen dogs, an' report with the layout to black jack. that gent would make the shift, bottle for dollar, an' bowlaigs would reepair back ag'in to the major, when they'd both tank up ecstatic. "one mornin' after bowlaigs an' the major's been campin' together about four months, they wakes up mighty jaded. they've had a onusual spree the evenin' prior an' they feels like a couple of sore-head dogs. the major who needs a drink to line up for the day, gropes about in his blankets, gets a dollar, pitches it into the basket an' requests bowlaigs to caper over for the willow run. bowlaigs is nothin' loth; but as he's about to pick up the basket, he observes that the dollar has done bounced out an' fell through a crack in the floor. bowlaigs sees it through the same crack where it's layin' shinin' onder the house. "now this yere bowlaigs is a mighty sagacious b'ar, also froogal, an' so he goes wallowin' forth plenty prompt to recover the dollar. the major, who's ignorant of what's happened, still lays thar groanin' in his blankets, feelin' like a loser an' nursin' his remorse. "the first p'inter the major gets of a new deal in his destinies is a grand crash as the entire teepee upheaves an' goes over, kerwallop! on its side, hurlin' the major out through the canvas. it's the thoughtless bowlaigs does it. "when bowlaigs gets outside, he finds he can't crawl onder the teepee none, seein' it's settin' too clost to the ground; an' tharupon, bein' a one-ideed b'ar, he sort o' runs his right arm in beneath that edifice an' up-ends the entire shebang, same as his old mother would a log when she's grub-huntin' in the hills. bowlaigs is pickin' up the dollar when the major comes swarmin' 'round the ruins of his outfit, a bowie in his hand, an' him fairly locoed with rage. "shore, thar's a fight, an' the major gets the knife plumb to bowlaigs's honest heart with the first motion. but bowlaigs quits game; he turns with a warwhoop an' confers on the major a swat that would have broke the back of a bronco; an' then he dies with his teeth in the major's neck. "the major only lives a half hour after we gets thar. an' it's to his credit that he makes a statement exoneratin' bowlaigs. 'i don't want you-all gents,' says the major, 'to go deemin' hard of this innocent b'ar, for whatever fault thar is, is mine. since texas thompson picks up that dollar, this thing is made plain. what i takes for gratooitous wickedness on bowlaigs' part is nothin' but his efforts to execoote my desires. pore bowlaigs! it embitters my last moments as i pictures what must have been his opinions of me when i lams loose at him with that knife! bury us in one grave, gents; it'll save trouble an' show besides that thar's no hard feelin's between me an' bowlaigs over what--an' give it the worst name--ain't nothin' but a onfortunate mistake.'" chapter xvi. toad allen's elopement. "four days after that pinfeather person," remarked the old cattleman, while refilling his pipe, "four days after that pinfeather person gains old man enright's consent to make use of wolfville as a pivotal p'int in a elopement, him an' his loved one comes bulgin' into camp. they floats over in one of these yere mountain waggons, what some folks calls a 'buckboard'; the pinfeather person's drivin'. between him an' his intended--all three settin' on the one seat--perches a preacher gent, who it's plain from the look in his eyes is held in a sort o' captivity that a-way. what nacherally bolsters up this theory is that the maiden's got a six-shooter in her lap. "'which if thar's a wearied hectored gent in arizona,' observes the pinfeather party, as he descends outen the buckboard at the corral an' tosses the reins to a hoss-hustler, 'you-all can come weavin' up an' chance a yellow stack that i'm shore that gent.' "the preacher sharp, who's about as young an' new as the pinfeather party, looks like he yoonites with him in them views. as they onload themse'fs, the pinfeather person waves his hand to where we-all's gathered to welcome 'em, an' says by way of introduction: "'gents, yere's abby; or as this bible sport will say later in the cer'mony, abigail glegg.' "of course, we, who represents the wolfville public, comports ourse'fs as becomes gents of dignity, an' after takin' off our sombreros, plumb p'lite, enright su'gests the o.k. restauraw as a base of op'rations. "'don't you-all reckon,' says enright to the pinfeather party, 'that pendin' hostilities, abby had better go over to missis rucker's? thar she gets combs an' breshes an' goes over her make-up an' straightens out her game.' "the pinfeather party allows this yere is a excellent notion, only him an' abby don't seem cl'ar as to what oughter be done about the preacher sharp. "'you see, he don't want to come,' explains the pinfeather party, 'an' it's cost me an' abby a heap of trouble to round him up. i ain't none shore but he seizes on the first chance to go stampedin'; an' without him these rites we-all is bankin' on would cripple down.' "'no, friends,' says the preacher sharp; 'i will promise to abide by you an' embrace no openin' to escape. since i'm here i will yoonite you-all as you wish; the more readily because i trusts that as man an' wife you'll prove a mootual restraint one upon the other; an' also for that i deems you both in your single-footed capac'ty as a threat to the commoonity. fear not; prepare yourse'fs an' i'll bring you together in the happy bonds of matrimony at the drop of the hat.' "'you notes, dan,' says texas thompson, who's off to one side with dan boggs, 'you notes he talks like his heart's resentful. them culprits has r'iled him up; an' now he allows that the short cut to play even is to marry 'em as they deserves. which if you-all knows that former wife of mine, dan, you'll appreciate what i says.' "even after the preacher sharp gives his p'role, abby acts plenty doobious. she ain't shore it's wise to throw him loose. it's doc peets who reasshores her. "'my dear young lady,' says peets, at the same time bowin' to the ground, 'you may trust this maverick with me. i'll pledge my word to prodooce him at the moment when he's called for to make these nuptials win.' "'which i'm aheap obleeged to you, mister,' says abby to peets, sizing him up approvin'; 'an' now that i'm convinced thar's no chance of my footure sufferin' from any absenteeism on the part of this pastor, i reckons i better go over, like you-all hints, an' take a look or two in the glass. it ain't goin' to consoome a moment, however,--this yere titivation i plans; an' followin' said improvements we-all better pull off this play some prompt. my paw,--old ben glegg,--is on our trail not five miles behind; he'll land yere in half a hour an' i ain't none convinced he won't land shootin'.' an' with this bluff, an' confidin' the preacher sharp to peets, abby goes curvin' over to the o.k. restauraw. "however does this yere virgin look? son, i hes'tates to deescribe a lady onless the facts flows fav'rable for her. which i'll take chances an' lie a lot to say that any lady's beautiful, if you-all will only give me so much as one good feacher to go on. but i'm powerless in the instance of abby. that's a blizzard effect to her face; an' the best you can say is that if she don't look lovely, at least she looks convincin'. the gnurliest pineknot burns frequent the hottest, an' you can take my word for it, this abby girl has sperit. speakin' of her appearance, personal, missis rucker--who's a fair jedge--allows later to enright that if abby's a kyard in a faro game, she'd play her to lose. "'which she looks like a sick cat in the face, an' a greyhoun' in the waist,' says missis rucker; 'an' i ain't got mortal use for no sech spindlin' trollops as this yere abby girl is, nohow.' "'i don't know,' says enright, shakin' his head; 'i ain't been enriched with much practical experience with women, but i reckons now it's love that does it. whoever is that gent, peets, who says, "love is blind"? he knows his business, that sport does, an' about calls the turn.' "'i ain't none so shore neither,' says peets. 'love may be blind, but somehow, i don't sign up the play that way. thar's plenty of people, same as this pinfeather party, who discerns beauties in their sweethearts that's veiled to you an' me.' "of course, these yere discussions concernin' abby's charms takes place weeks later. on the weddin' day, wolfville's too busy trackin' 'round an' backin' abby's game to go makin' remarks. in this connection, however, it's only right to abby to say that her pinfeather beau don't share missis rucker's views. although abby done threatens him with a gun-play to make him lead her to the altar that time her old paw creases him, an' he begins to wax low-sperited about wedlock, still, the pinfeather party's enamoured of abby an' wropped up in her. "'shore! says this pinfeather party to texas thompson, who, outen pity for him, takes the bridegroom over to the red light, to be refreshed; 'shore! while thar's no one that egreegious to go claimin' that my abby's doo to grade as "cornfed," all the same she's one of the most fascinatin' ladies,--that is, an' give her a gun,--in all the len'th an' breadth of arizona. i knows; for i've seen my abby shoot.' "'excoose me, pard,' says texas, after surveyin' the pinfeather party plenty sympathetic; 'pardon my seemin' roodness, if i confers with the barkeep aside. on the level! now,' goes on texas to black jack as he pulls him off to a corner an' whispers so the pinfeather party don't hear; 'on the level, jack! ain't it my dooty--me who saveys what he's ag'inst--to go warn this victim ag'in matrimony in all its horrors?' "'don't you do it!' remonstrates black jack, an' his voice trembles with the emphasis he feels; 'don't you do it none! you-all stand paws off! which you don't know what you'll be answerable for! if this yere marriage gets broke off, who knows what new line of conduct this abby maiden will put out. she may rope onto boggs, or peets, or mebby even me. as long as abby ain't marryin' none of us, wolfville's attitoode oughter be one of dignified nootrality.' "texas sighs deep an' sad as he turns ag'in to the pinfeather party; but he sees the force of black jack's argyments an' yields without a effort to combat 'em. "'after all,' says texas bitterly to himse'f, 'others has suffered; wherefore, then, should this jaybird gent escape?' an' with that, texas hardens his heart an' gives up any notion of the pinfeather person's rescoo. "which abby now issues forth of the o.k. restauraw an' j'ines the pinfeather party when he emerges from the red light. "'this sky pilot,' says dan boggs, approachin' the happy couple, 'sends word by me that he's over in the new york store. in deefault of a shore-enough sanchooary, he allows he yootilises that depot of trade as a headquarters; an' he's now waitin', all keyed up an' ready to turn his little game. likewise, he's been complainin' 'round some querulous that you folks is harsh with him, an' abducts him an' threatens his skelp.' "'now, see thar!' ejac'lates abby, liftin' up her hands. 'does mortal y'ears ever before listen to sech folly! i suppose he takes that gun i has as threats! i'm a onprotected young female, an' nacherally, when i embarks on this yere elopement, i packs one of paw's guns. besides, this sweetheart of mine might get cold feet, an' try to jump the game, an' then i'd need said weepon to make good my p'sition. but it's never meant for that pastor! when i'm talkin' to him to prevail on him to come along, an' that gun in my hand at the time, i does sort o' make references to him with the muzzle. but he needn't go gettin' birdheaded over it; thar's nothin' hostile meant!' "'enright explains to him satisfact'ry,' says boggs. 'an' as you urges, it don't mean nothin'. folks on the brink of bein' married that a-way gets so joyfully bewildered it comes mighty near the same as bein' locoed.' "'well,' says the pinfeather party, who's been stackin' up a dust-cloud where some one's gallopin' along about three miles over on the trail, 'if i'm any dab at a guess that's your infuriated paw pirootin' along over yonder, an' we better get these matrimonial hobbles on without further onreasonable delays. that old murderer would plug me; an' no more hes'tation than if i'm a coyote! but once i'm moved up into p'sition as his son-in-law, a feelin' of nearness an' kinship mighty likely op'rates to stay his hand. blood's thicker than water, an' i'm in a hurry to get reelated to your paw.' "but enright has his notions of what's proper, an' he su'gests the services be delayed ontil old glegg gets in. meanwhile he despatches jack moore an' dan boggs as a gyard of honor to lead old glegg to our trystin' place in the new york store. "'an' the first thing you-all do, jack,' says enright, as jack an' dan rides away, 'you get that outcast's guns.' "it ain't no more'n time for one drink when jack an' dan returns in company of this glegg. he's a fierce, gray old gent with a eye like a wolf. jest before he arrives, enright advises the pinfeather person an' the bride abby, to go camp in the r'ar room so the sudden sight of 'em won't exasp'rate this parent glegg to madness. "'whatever's the meanin' of this yere concourse?' demands old glegg, as he comes into the new york store, an' p'intin' to where peets an' texas an' cherokee hall, along with enright, is standin' about; 'an' why does these hold-ups'--yere he indicates dan an' jack,--'denoode me of my hardware, i'd like to know?' "'these gents,' says enright, 'is a quorum of that respectable body known as the wolfville stranglers, otherwise a vig'lance committee; an' your guns was took so as to redooce the chances of hangin' you--the same bein' some abundant, nacheral,--to minimum. now who be you? also, what's your little game?' "'my name's benjamin glegg,' responds old glegg. 'i owns the sunflower brand an' ranch. as for my game: thar's a member of my fam'ly escapes this mornin'--comes streamin' over yere, i onderstands--an' i'm in the saddle tryin' to round her up. gents,' concloods old glegg, an' he displays emotion, 'i'm simply a harassed parent on the trail of his errant offspring.' "then enright makes old glegg a long, soft talk, an' seeks to imboo him with ca'mness. he relates how abby an' the pinfeather sport dotes on each other; an' counsels old glegg not to come pesterin' about with roode objections to the weddin'. "'which i says this as your friend,' remarks enright. "'it's as the scripter says,' replies old glegg, who's mollified a lot, 'it's as the good book says: a soft answer turneth away wrath; but more speshully when the opp'sition's got your guns. i begins to see things different. still, i hates to lose my abby that a-way. since my old woman dies, abby, gents, has been the world an' all to me.' "'is your wife dead?" asks enright, like he sympathises. "'shore!' says old glegg; 'been out an' gone these two years. she's with them cherubim in glory. but folks, you oughter seen her to onderstand my loss. five years ago we has a ranch over back of the tres hermanas by the mexico line. the injuns used to go lopin' by our ranch, no'th an' south, all the time. you-all recalls when they pays twenty-five dollars for skelps in tucson? my wife's that thrifty them days that she buys all her own an' my child abby's clothes with the injuns she pots. little abby used to scout for her maw. "yere comes another!" little abby would cry, as she stampedes up all breathless, her childish face aglow. with that, my wife would take her hands outen the wash-tub, snag onto that savage with her little old winchester, and quit winner twenty-five right thar.' "'which i don't marvel you-all mourns her loss,' says enright consolin'ly. "'she's shorely--missis glegg is--' says old glegg, shakin' his grizzly head; 'she's shore the most meteoric married lady of which hist'ry says a word. my girl abby's like her.' "'but whatever's your objection,' argues enright, 'to this young an' trusty sport who's so eager to wed abby?' "'i objects to him because he gambles,' says old glegg. 'i can see he gambles by him pickin' up the salt cellar between his thumb an' middle finger with the forefinger over the top like it's a stack of chips, one evenin' when he stays to supper an' i asks him to "pass the salt." then ag'in, he don't drink; he tells me so himse'f when i invites him to libate. i ain't goin' to have no teetotal son-in-law around, over-powerin' me in a moral way; i'd feel criticised an' i couldn't stand it, gents. lastly, i don't like this yere felon's name none.' "'whatever is his name, then?' asks enright. 'so far he don't confide no title to us.' "'an' i don't wonder none!' says old glegg. 'it shows he's decent enough to be ashamed. thar's hopes of him yet. gents, his name's toad allen. "allen" goes, but, gents, i flies in the air at "toad." do you-all blame me? i asks you, as onbiased sports, would you set ca'mly down while a party named "toad" puts himse'f in nom'nation to be your son-in-law?' "'none whatever!' says jack moore; an' dan an' cherokee an' texas echoes the remark. "'you-all camp down yere with a tumbler of valley tan,' says enright, 'an' make yourse'f comfortable with my colleagues, while i goes an' consults with our gretna green outfit in the r'ar room.' "enright returns after a bit, an' his face has that air of se'f-satisfaction that goes with a gent who's playin' on velvet. "'your comin' son-in-law,' says enright to old glegg, 'defends himse'f from them charges as follows: he agrees to quit gamblin'; he says he lies a whole lot when he tells you-all he don't drink none; an' lastly, deplorin' "toad" as a cognomen, an' explainin' that he don't assoome it of free choice but sort o' has it sawed off on him in he'pless infancy, he offers--you consentin' to the weddin'--to reorganise onder the name of "benjamin glegg allen."' "son, this yere last proposal wins over old glegg in a body. he not only withdraws all objections to the nuptials, but allows he'll make the pinfeather sport an' abby full partners in the sunflower. at this p'int, enright notifies the preacher sharp that all depends on him; an' that excellent teacher at once acquits himse'f so that in two minutes wolfville adds another successful weddin' to her list of triumphs. "'it 'lustrates too,' says enright, when two days later the weddin' party has returned to tucson, an' wolfville ag'in sinks to a normal state of slumbrous ease, 'it sort o' 'lustrates how open to argyments a gent is when once he's lost his weepons. now if he isn't disarmed that time, my eloquence wouldn't have had no more effect on old glegg than throwin' water on a drowned rat.'" chapter xvii. the clients of aaron green. "and so there were no lawyers in wolfville?" i said. the old cattleman filled his everlasting pipe, lighted it, and puffed experimentally. there was a handful of wordless moments devoted to pipe. then, as one satisfied of a smoky success, he turned attention to me and my remark. "lawyers in wolfville?" he repeated. "not in my day; none whatever! it's mighty likely though that some of 'em's done come knockin' along by now. them jurists is a heap persistent, not to say diffoosive, an' soon or late they shore trails into every camp. which we'd have had 'em among us long ago, but nacherally, an' as far as argyments goes, we turns 'em off. se'f-preservation is a law of nacher, an' these maxims applies to commoonities as much as ever they does to gents personal. wherefore, whenever we notices a law wolf scoutin' about an' tryin' to get the wind on us, we employs our talents for lyin', fills him up with fallacies, an' teaches him that to come to wolfville is to put down his destinies on a dead kyard; an' he tharupon abandons whatever of plans he's harbourin' ag'in us, seein' nothin' tharin. "it's jest before i leaves for the east when one of these coyotes crosses up with old man enright in tucson, an' submits the idee of his professional invasion of our camp. "'which i'm in the oriental at the time,' says enright, when he relates about his adventure, 'an' this maverick goes to jumpin' sideways at me in a friendly mood. bein' i'm a easy-mannered sport with strangers, he has no trouble gettin' acquainted. at last he allows that he aims to pitch his teepee in wolfville, hang out a shingle, an' plunge into joorisprudence. "i was thinkin'," says he, "of openin' a joint for the practice of law. as a condition prior advised by the barkeep, an' one which also recommends itse'f to me as dictated of the commonest proodence, i figgers on gainin' your views of these steps." "'"you does well," i replies, "to consult me on them p'ints. i sees you're shore a jo-darter of a lawyer; for you handles the language like a muleskinner does a blacksnake whip. but jest the same, don't for one moment think of breakin' in on wolfville. that outfit don't practice law none; she practices facts. it offers no openin' for your game. comin' to wolfville onder any conditions is ever a movement of gravity, an onless a gent is out to chase cattle or dandle kyards or proposes to array himse'f in the ranks of commerce by foundin' a s'loon, wolfville would not guarantee his footure any positive reward." "'"then i jest won't come a whole lot," says this law sharp. whereupon we engages in mootual drinks an' disperses to our destinies.' "'what you tells this sport,' says texas thompson, who's listenin' to enright, 'echoes my sentiments exact. anything to keep out law! it ain't alone the jedgments for divorce which my wife grabs off over in laredo, but it comes to me as the frootes of a experience which has been as wide as it has been plenty soon, that law is only another word for trouble in egreegious forms.' "'so i decides,' retorts enright. 'still, i'm proud to be endorsed by as good a jedge of public disorder an' its preventives as texas thompson. sech approvals ever tends to stiffen a gent's play. as i states, i reeverses this practitioner an' heads him t'other way. wolfville is the home of friendly confidence; the throne of yoonity an' fraternal peace. it must not be jeopardised. we-all don't want to incur no resks by abandonin' ourse'fs to real shore-enough law. it would debauch us: we'd get plumb locoed an' take to racin' wild an' cimarron up an' down the range, an' no gent could foresee results. it's better than even money, that with the advent of a law sharp into our midst, historians of this hamlet would begin their last chapter. they would head her: "wolfville's last days." "'it's twenty years ago,' goes on enright, 'while i'm that season in texas, that a sharp packs his blankets into yellow city an' puts it up he'll practice some law. no; he ain't wanted, but he never does give no gent a chance to say so. he comes trackin' in onannounced, an' the first we-all saveys, thar's his sign a-swingin', an' ashoorin' the sports of yellow city of the presence of aaron green, esq. attorney-at-law. "'nobody gets excited; for while we agrees to prevail on him ultimately to shift his camp a heap, the sityooation don't call for nothin' preecipitate. in fact, the idee of him or any other besotted person turnin' loose that a-way in yellow city, strikes us as loodicrous. thar's nothing for a law-gent to do. i've met up with a heap of camps in my day; an' i've witnessed the work of many a vig'lance committee; but i'm yere to state that for painstakin' ardour an' a energy that never sleeps, the stranglers of yellow city is a even break with the best. they uses up a bale of half-inch rope a year; an' as for law an' order an' a scene of fragrant peace, that outfit is comparable only with flower gyardens on a quiet hazy august afternoon. "'this aaron green who prounces thus on yellow city, intendin' to foment litigations an' go ropin' 'round for fees, is plenty young; but he's that grave an' dignified that owls is hilarious to him. one after the other, he tackles us in a severe onmitigated way, an' shoves his professional kyard onto each an' tells him that whenever he feels ill-used to come a-runnin' an' have his rights preserved. shore! the boys meets this law person half way. they drinks with him an' fills him up with licker an' fictions alternate, an' altogether regyards him as a mighty yoomerous prop'sition. "'also, observin' how tender he is, an' him takin' in their various lies like texts of holy writ, they names him "easy aaron." which he don't look on "easy aaron" none too well as a title, an' insists on bein' called "jedge green" or even "squar' green." but yellow city won't have it; she sticks to "easy aaron"; an' as callin' down the entire camp offers prospects full of fever an' oncertainty, he at last passes up the insult an' while he stays among us, pays no further heed. "'doorin' the weeks he harbours with us, a gen'ral taste deevelops to hear this easy aaron's eloquence. thar's a delegation waits on him an' requests easy aaron to come forth an' make a speech. we su'gests that he can yootilise the burnt boot saloon as a auditorium, an' offers as a subject "texas: her glorious past, her glitterin' present, an' her transcendent footure!" "'"thar's a topic!" says shoestring griffith to easy aaron--shoestring is the cha'rman of the committee,--"thar's a burnin' topic for you! an' if you-all will only come surgin' over to the burnt boot right now while you're warm for the event, i offers two to one you makes cicero look like seven cents." "'but easy aaron waves 'em arrogantly away. he declines to go barkin' at a knot. he says it'll be soon enough to onbuckle an' swamp yellow city with a flood of eloquence when proper legal o'casion enfolds. "'in the room to the r'ar of the apartments where this easy aaron holds forth as a practitioner, thar's a farobank as is nacheral enough. it's about second drink time in the afternoon, bein' a time of day when the faro game is dead. a passel of conspirators, with shoestring griffith in the lead, goes to this room an' reelaxes into a game of draw. easy aaron can hear the flutter of the chips through the partition--the same bein' plenty thin--where he's camped like a spider in its web an' waitin' for some sport who needs law to show up. easy aaron listens careless an' indifferent to shoestring an' his fellow blacklaigs as they deals an' antes an' raises an' rakes in pots, an' everybody mighty joobilant as is frequent over poker. "'of a suddent, roars an' yells an' reecriminations yoosurps the place of merriment. then the guns! an' half the lead comes spittin' an' splittin' through that intervenin' partition like she's kyardboard. the bullets flies high enough to miss easy aaron, but low enough to invoke a gloomy frame of mind. "'this yere artillery practice don't continyoo long before yellow city descends on shoestring an' his band of homicides; an' when they've got 'em sorted out, thar's billy goodnight too defunct to skin, an' shoestring griffith does it. "'thar's no time lost; the stranglers convenes in the burnt boot, an' exact jestice stands on expectant tiptoe for its prey. but shoestring raises objections. "'"which before ever you-all reptiles takes my innocent life," says shoestring, "i wants a lawyer. i swings off in style or i don't swing. you hear me! send across for easy aaron. you can gamble, i'm going to interpose a defense." "'"that's but right," says waco anderson who's the chief of the stranglers. "assembled as we be to revenge the ontimely pluggin' of the late billy goodnight, still this shoestring may demand a even deal. if some gent will ramble over an' round up easy aaron, as shoestring desires, it will be regyarded by the committee, an' this lynchin' can then proceed." "'easy aaron is onearthed from onder his desk where he's still quiled up, pale an' pantin', by virchoo of the bullets. jim wise, who goes for him, explains that the shower is over; an' also that he's in enormous demand to save shoestring for beefin' billy goodnight. at this, easy aaron gets up an' coughs 'round for a moment or two, recoverin' his nerve; then he buttons his surtoot, assoomes airs of sagacity, tucks the texas statootes onder his arm, reepairs to the burnt boot an' allows he's ready to defend shoestring from said charges. "'"but not onless my fees is paid in advance," says this easy aaron. "'at that, we-all passes the hat an' each chucks in a white chip or two, an' when waco anderson counts up results it shows wellnigh eighty-five dollars. easy aaron shakes his head like it's mighty small; but he takes it an' casts himse'f loose. an', gents, he's shore verbose! he pelts an' pounds that committee with a hailstorm of observations, ontil all they can do is set thar an' wag their y'ears an' bat their eyes. waco anderson himse'f allows, when discussin' said oration later, that he ain't beheld nothin' so muddy an' so much since the last big flood on the brazos. "'after easy aaron holds forth for two hours, waco preevails on him with a six-shooter to pause for breath. waco's tried twenty times to get easy aaron to stop long enough to let the stranglers get down a verbal bet, but that advocate declines to be restrained. he treats waco's efforts with scorn an' rides him down like he, easy aaron, is a bunch of cattle on a stampede. thar's no headin' or holdin' him ontil waco, in desperation, takes to tyrannisin' at him with his gun. "'"it's this," says waco, when easy aaron's subdooed. "if the eminent gent will quit howlin' right yere an' never another yelp, the committee is willin' to throw this villain shoestring loose. every one of us is a slave to dooty, but we pauses before personal deestruction in a awful form. billy goodnight is gone; ondoubted his murderer should win the doom meted out for sech atrocities; but dooty or no dooty, this committee ain't called on to be talked to death in its discharge. yellow city makes no sech demands of its servants; wherefore, i repeats, that if this easy aaron sits mute where he is, we agrees to cut shoestring's bonds an' restore him to that freedom whereof he makes sech florid use." "'at this, easy aaron stands up, puffs out his chest, bows to waco an' the others, an' evolves 'em a patronisin' gesture signifyin' that their bluff is called. shoestring griffith is saved. "'doorin' the subsequent line-up at the bar which concloods the ceremonies, easy aaron waxes indignant an' is harrowed to observe billy goodnight imbibin' with the rest. "'"i thought you-all dead!" says easy aaron, in tones of wrathful reproach. "'"which i was dead," says billy, sort o' apol'getic, "but them words of fire brings me to." "'easy aaron don't make no answer, but as he jingles the fee the sour look relaxes. "'as i remarks, easy aaron ain't with us over long. yellow city is that much worse off than wolfville that she has a little old 'doby calaboose that's been built since the old mexico days. thar's no shore-enough jedge an' jury ever comes to yellow city; an' if the kyards was so run that we has a captive which the stranglers deems beneath 'em, he would be drug 'way over yonder to some county seat. it's but fair to say that no sech contretemps presents itse'f up to the advent of easy aaron; an' while thar's now an' then a small accoomulation of felons doorin' sech seasons as the boys is off on the ranges or busy with the roundups, thar never fails to come a clean-up in plenty of time. the stranglers comes back; jestice resoomes her sway, an' the calaboose is ag'in as empty as a church. "'it befalls, however, that doorin' the four or five weeks to follow the acquittal of that homicide shoestring, an' while waco anderson an' a quorum of the committee is away teeterin' about in their own affairs, the calaboose gets filled up with two white men and either four or five mexicans--i can't say the last for shore, as i ain't got a good mem'ry for mexicans. these parties is held for divers malefactions from shootin' up a greaser dance-hall to stealin' a cow over on the honeymoon. "'to his joy, easy aaron is reetained to defend this crim'nal herd. it's shore pleasant to watch him! i never sees the sport who's that proudly content. easy aaron visits these yere clients of his every day; an' when he has time, he walks out onto the plains so far that you-all can't hear his tones, an' rehearses the speeches he's aimin' to make when he gets them cut-throats before a jury. we-all could see him prancin' up an' down, tossin' his hands an' all in the most locoed way. as i states, he's too far off to be heard none; but he's in plain view from the front windows of the burnt boot, an' we-all finds them antics plumb divertin.' "'"these cases," says easy aaron to me, for he's that happy an' enthoosiastic he's got to open up on some gent; "these cases is bound to fix my fame as the modern demosthenes. you knows how eloquent i am about shoestring? that won't be a marker to the oration i'll frame up for these miscreants in the calaboose. for why? shoestring's time i ain't organised; also, i'm more or less shook by the late bullets buzzin' an' hummin' like a passel of bloo-bottle flies about my office. but now will be different. i'll be ready, an' i'll be in a cool frenzy, the same bein' a mood which is excellent, partic'lar if a gent is out to break records for rhetoric. i shore regyards them malefactors as so many rungs for my clamberin' up the ladder of fame." an' with that this easy aaron goes pirootin' forth upon the plains ag'in to resoome his talking at a mark. "'it's mebby a week after this exultation of easy aaron's, an' waco anderson an' the others is in from the ranges. yellow city is onusual vivacious an' lively. you-all may jedge of the happy prosperity of local feelin' when i assoores you that the average changed in at farobank each evenin' ain't less than twenty thousand dollars. as for easy aaron, he's goin' about in clouds of personal an' speshul delight. it's now crowdin' along towards the time when him an' his clients will adjourn over to that county seat an' give easy aaron the opportoonity to write his name on the deathless calendars of fame. "'but black disapp'intment gets easy aaron squar' in the door. one morning he reepairs to the calaboose to consult with the felons on whose interests he's ridin' herd. horror seizes him; he finds the cells as vacant as a echo. "'"where's these clients?" asks easy aaron, while his face grows white. "'"vamosed!" says the mexican who carries the calaboose keys; an' with that he turns in mighty composed, to roll a cigarette. "'"vamoosed, where at?" pursoos easy aaron. "'"_por el inferno_!" says the mexican; he's got his cigarette lighted, an' is puffin' as contented as hoss-thieves. "see thar, _amigo_!" goes on the greaser, indicatin' down the street. "'easy aaron gazes where the mexican p'ints, an' his heart turns to water. thar swayin' an' swingin' like tassels in the mornin' breeze, an' each as dead as gen'ral taylor, he beholds his entire docket hangin' to the windmill. easy aaron approaches an' counts 'em up. which they're all thar! the stranglers shorely makes a house cleanin'. as easy aaron looks upon them late clients, he wrings his hands. "'"thar hangs fame!" says easy aaron; "thar hangs my chance of eminence! that eloquence, wherewith my heart is freighted, an' which would have else declar'd me the erskine of the brazos, is lynched with my clients." then wheelin' on waco anderson who strolls over, easy aaron demands plenty f'rocious: "whoever does this dastard deed?" "'"which this agitated sport," observes waco coldly to shoestring griffith, who comes loungin' up likewise, "asks whoever does these yere dastard deeds! does you-all recall the fate, shoestring, of the last misguided shorthorn who gives way to sech a query? my mem'ry is never ackerate as to trifles, an' i'm confoosed about whether he's shot or hung or simply burned alive." "'"that prairie dog is hanged a lot," says shoestring. "which the boys was goin' to burn him, but on its appearin' that he puts the question more in ignorance than malice, they softens on second thought to that degree they merely gets a rope, adds him to the windmill with the others, an' lets the matter drop." "'easy aaron don't crowd his explorations further. he can see thar's what you-all might call a substratum of seriousness to the observations of waco an' shoestring, an' his efforts to solve the mystery that disposes of every law case he has, an' leaves him to begin life anew, comes to a halt! "'but it lets pore easy aaron out. he borrys a hoss from the corral, packs the texas statootes an' his extra shirt in the war-bags, an' with that the only real law wolf who ever makes his lair in yellow city, p'ints sadly no'thward an' is seen no more. as he's about to ride away, easy aaron turns to me. he's sort o' got the notion i ain't so bad as waco, shoestring, an' the rest. "i shall never return," says easy aaron, an' he shakes his head plenty disconsolate. "genius has no show in yellow city. this outfit hangs a gent's clients as fast as ever he's retained an' offers no indoocements--opens no opportoonities, to a ambitious barrister."'" chapter xviii colonel sterett relates marvels. "as i asserts frequent," observed the old cattleman, the while delicately pruning a bit of wood he'd picked up on his walk, "the funds of information, gen'ral an' speshul, which colonel william greene sterett packs about would freight a eight-mule team. it's even money which of 'em saveys the most, him or doc peets. for myself, after careful study, i inclines to the theery that colonel sterett's knowledge is the widest, while peets's is the most exact. both is college gents; an' yet they differs as to the valyoo of sech sem'naries. the colonel coppers colleges, while peets plays 'em to win. "'them temples of learnin',' says the colonel, 'is a heap ornate; but they don't make good.' this is doubted by peets. "one evenin' dan boggs, who's allers tantalisin' 'round askin' questions--it looks like a sleepless cur'osity is proned into dan--ropes at peets concernin' this topic: "'whatever do they teach in colleges, doc?' asks dan. "'they teaches all of the branches," retorts peets. "'an' none of the roots,' adds colonel sterett, 'as a cunnin' yank once remarks on a o'casion sim'lar.' "no, the colonel an' peets don't go lockin' horns in these differences. both is a mighty sight too well brought up for that; moreover, they don't allow to set the camp no sech examples. they entertains too high a regyard for each other to take to pawin' about pugnacious, verbal or otherwise. "the colonel's information is as wide flung as a buzzard's wing. thar's mighty few mysteries he ain't authorised to eloocidate. an' from time to time, accordin' as the colonel's more or less in licker, he enlightens wolfville on a multitoode of topics. which the colonel is a profound eddicational innocence; that's whatever! "it's one evenin' an' the moon is swingin' high in the bloo-black heavens an' looks like a gold doorknob to the portals of the eternal beyond. texas thompson fixes his eyes tharon, meditative an' pensive, an' then he wonders: "'do you-all reckon, now, that folks is livin' up thar?' "'whatever do you think yourse'f, colonel?' says enright, passin' the conundrum over to the editor of the _coyote_. 'do you think thar's folks on the moon?' "'do i think thar's folks on the moon?' repeats the colonel as ca'mly confident as a club flush. 'i don't think,--i knows.' "'whichever is it then?' asks dan boggs, whose ha'r already begins to bristle, he's that inquisitive. 'simply takin' a ignorant shot in the dark that away, i says, "no." that moon looks like a mighty lonesome loominary to me.' "'jest the same,' retorts the colonel, an' he's a lot dogmatic, 'that planet's fairly speckled with people. an' if some gent will recall the errant fancies of black jack to a sense of dooty, i'll onfold how i knows. "'it's when i'm crowdin' twenty,' goes on the colonel, followin' the ministrations of black jack, 'an' i'm visitin' about the meetropolis of looeyville. i've been sellin' a passel of runnin' hosses; an' as i rounds up a full peck of doubloons for the fourteen i disposes of, i'm feelin' too contentedly cunnin' to live. it's evenin' an' the moon is shinin' same as now. i jest pays six bits for my supper at the galt house, an' lights a ten cent seegyar--oh! i has the bridle off all right!--an' i'm romancin' leesurly along the street, when i encounters a party who's ridin' herd on one of these yere telescopes, the same bein' p'inted at the effulgent moon. gents, she's shorely a giant spy-glass, that instrooment is; bigger an' longer than the smokestack of any steamboat between looeyville an' noo orleans. she's swung on a pa'r of shears; each stick a cl'ar ninety foot of norway pine. as i goes pirootin' by, this gent with the telescope pipes briskly up. "'"take a look at the moon?" "'"no," i replies, wavin' him off some haughty, for that bag of doubloons has done puffed me up. "no, i don't take no interest in the moon." "'as i'm comin' back, mebby it's a hour later, this astronomer is still swingin' an' rattlin' with the queen of night. he pitches his lariat ag'in an' now he fastens. "'"you-all better take a look; they're havin' the time of their c'reers up thar." "'"whatever be they doin'?" "'"tellin' wouldn't do no good," says the savant; "it's one of them rackets a gent has to see to savey." "'"what's the ante?" i asks, for the fires of my cur'osity begins to burn. "'"four bits! an' considerin' the onusual doin's goin' for'ard, it's cheaper than corn whiskey." "'no; i don't stand dallyin' 'round, tryin' to beat this philosopher down in his price. that ain't my style. when i'm ready to commit myse'f to a enterprise, i butts my way in, makes good the tariff, an' no delays. tharfore, when this gent names four bits, i onpouches the _dinero_ an' prepares to take a astronomic peek. "'"how long do i gaze for four bits?" i asks, battin' my right eye to get it into piercin' shape. "'"go as far as you likes," retorts the philosopher; "thar's no limit." "'gents,' says the colonel, pausin' to renoo his valley tan, while dan an' texas an' even old man enright hitches their cha'rs a bit nearer, the interest is that intense; 'gents, you-all should have took a squint with me through them lenses. which if you enjoys said privilege, you can gamble dan an' texas wouldn't be camped 'round yere none tonight, exposin' their ignorance an' lettin' fly croode views concernin' astronomy. that telescope actooally brings the moon plumb into kaintucky;--brings her within the reach of all. you could stretch to her with your hand, she's that clost.' "'but is thar folks thar?' says dan, who's excited by the colonel's disclosures. 'board the kyard, colonel, an' don't hold us in suspense." "'folks!' returns the colonel. 'i wishes i has two-bit pieces for every one of 'em! the face of that orb is simply festered with folks! she teems with life; ant-hills on election day means desertion by compar'son. thar's thousands an' thousands of people, mobbin' about indiscrim'nate; i sees 'em as near an' plain as i sees dan.' "'an' whatever be they doin'?' asks dan. "'they're pullin' off a hoss race,' says the colonel, lookin' steady in dan's eye. 'an' you hears me! i never sees sech bettin' in my life.' "nacherally we-all feels refreshed with these experiences of colonel sterett's, for as enright observes, it's by virchoo of sech casooal chunks of information that a party rounds out a eddication. "'it ain't what a gent learns in schools,' says enright, 'that broadens him an' stiffens his mental grip; it's knowledge like this yere moon story from trustworthy sources that augments him an' fills him full. go on, colonel, an' onload another marvel or two. you-all must shore have witnessed a heap!' "'them few sparse facts touchin' the moon,' returns colonel sterett, 'cannot be deemed wonders in any proper sense. they're merely interestin' details which any gent gets onto who brings science to his aid. but usin' the word "wonders," i does once blunder upon a mir'cle which still waits to be explained. that's a shore-enough marvel! an' to this day, all i can state is that i sees it with these yere eyes.' "'let her roll!' says texas thompson. 'that moon story prepares us for anything.' "'texas,' observes the colonel, a heap severe, 'i'd hate to feel that your observations is the jeerin' offspring of distrust.' "'me distrust!' replies texas, hasty to squar' himse'f. 'i'd as soon think of distrustin' that laredo divorce of my former he'pmeet! an' as the sheriff drives off two hundred head of my cattle by way of alimony, i deems the fact of that sep'ration as fixed beyond cavil. no, colonel, you has my fullest confidence. i'd go doubtin' the evenhanded jestice of cherokee's faro game quicker than distrustin' you.' "'an' i'm present to say,' returns the colonel mighty complacent, 'that i looks on sech assoorances as complimentary. to show which i onhesitatin'ly reels off that eepisode to which i adverts. "'i'm only a child; but i retains my impressions as sharp cut an' cl'ar as though she happens yesterday. it's a time when one of these legerdemain sharps pastes up his bills in our village an' lets on he'll give a show in liberty hall on the comin' saturday evenin'. an' gents, to simply read of the feats he threatens to perform would loco you! besides, thar's a picture of satan, black an' fiery an' frightful, where he's he'pin' this gifted person to foist said mir'cles upon the age. i don't exaggerate none when i asserts that the moment our village gets its eye on these three-sheets it comes to a dead halt. "'old squar' alexanders is the war chief of the hamlet, an' him an' the two other selectmen c'llects themse'fs over their toddies an' canvasses whether they permits this wizard to give his fiendish exhibitions in our midst. they has it pro an' con ontil the thirteenth drink, when squar' alexanders who's ag'in the wizard brings the others to his views; an' as they staggers forth from the tavern it's the yoonanimous decision to bar that satan-aided show. "'"witches, wizards, elves, gnomes, bull-beggars, fiends, an' devils is debarred the bloo grass country," says squar' alexanders, speakin' for himse'f an' his fellow selectmen, "an' they're not goin' to be allowed to hold their black an' sulphurous mass meetin's yere." "'it comes saturday evenin' an' the necromancer is in the tavern eatin' his supper. shore! he looks like common folks at that! squar' alexanders is waitin' for him in the bar. when he shows up, carelessly pickin' his teeth, it's mebby half a hour before the show, squar' alexanders don't fritter away no time, but rounds up the wizard. "'"thar's no show which has satan for a silent partner goin' to cut itse'f loose in this village," says squar' alexanders. "'"what's this talk about satan?" responds the wizard. "i don't savey no more about satan than i does about you." "'"look at them bills," says squar' alexanders, an' he p'ints to where one is hangin' on the barroom wall. it gives a picture of the foul fiend, with pitchfork, spear-head tail an' all. "whatever do you call that?" "'"that's a bluff," says the wizard. "if kaintucky don't get tangled up with satan ontil i imports him to her fertile shores, you cimmarons may regyard yourse'fs as saved." "'"be you-all goin' to do the sundry deeds you sets forth in the programmes?" asks squar' alexanders after a pause. "'"which i shorely be!" says the wizard, "an' if i falls down or fails you can call me a ab'litionist." "'"then all i has to say is this," returns squar' alexanders; "no gent could do them feats an' do 'em on the level. you'd have to have the he'p of demons to pull em off. an' that brings us back to my first announcement; an' stranger, your show don't go." "'at this the wizard lets on he's lost patience with squar' alexanders an' declares he won't discuss with him no more. also, he gives it out that, satan, or no satan, he'll begin to deal his game at eight o'clock. "'"very well!" rejoins squar' alexanders. "since you refooses to be warned i shall shore instruct the constable to collar you on the steps of liberty hall." as he says this, squar' alexanders p'ints across to chet kishler, who's the constable, where he's restin' hhnse'f in front of baxter's store. "'this yere chet is a giant an' clost onto eight foot high. it's a warm evenin', an' as the wizard glances over at chet, he notices how that offishul is lazily fannin' himse'f with a barn-door which he's done lifted off the hinges for that coolin' purpose. the wizard don't say nothin', but he does turn a mite pale; he sees with half a eye that satan himse'f would be he'pless once chet gets his two paws on him. however, he assoomes that he's out to give the show as per schedoole. "'it's makin' toward eight when the wizard lights a seegyar, drinks four fingers of willow run, an' goes p'intin' out for liberty hall. chet gets up, hangs the barn-door back on its hinges, an' sa'nters after. squar' alexanders has posted chet as to his dooties an' his orders is to prounce on the necromancer if he offers to enter the hall. that's how the cavalcade lines up: first, the wizard; twenty foot behind is chet; an' twenty foot behind our constable comes the public in a body. "'about half way to liberty hall the wizard begins to show nervous an' oncertain. he keeps lookin' back at chet; an' even in my childish simplicity i sees that he ain't pleased with the outlook. at last he weakens an' abandons his idee of a show. gents, as i fills my glass, i asks you-all however now do you reckon that wizard beats a retreat?' "thar's no reply. dan, texas, an' the others, while colonel sterett acquires his licker, shakes their heads dumbly as showin' they gives it up. "'which you'd shorely never guess!' retorts the colonel, wipin' his lips. 'of a sudden, this wizard tugs somethin' outen his pocket that looks like a ball of kyarpet-rags. holdin' one end, quick as thought he tosses the ball of kyarpet-rags into the air. it goes straight up ontil lost to view, onwindin' itse'f in its flight because of the wizard holdin' on. "'gents, that ball of kyarpet-rags never does come down no-more! an' it's all done as easy as a set-lock rifle! the wizard climbs the danglin' string of kyarpet-rags, hand over hand; then he drifts off an' up'ards ontil he don't look bigger than a bumble-bee; an' then he's lost in the gatherin' shadows of the jooly night. "'squar' alexanders, chet, an' the village stands strainin' their eyes for twenty minutes. but the wizard's vamosed; an' at last, when each is convinced tharof, the grown folks led by squar' alexanders reepairs back into the tavern an' takes another drink.' "'that's a mighty marvellous feat your necromancer performs, colonel,' remarks enright, an' the old chief is grave as becomes the colonel's revelations; 'he's a shore-enough wonder-worker, that wizard is!' "but i ain't got to the wonders none as yet,' reemonstrates the colonel, who spunks up a bit peevish for him. 'an' from the frequent way wherein i'm interrupted, it don't look much like i will. goin' sailin' away into darklin' space with that ball of enchanted kyarpet-rags,--that ain't the sooper-nacheral part at all! shore! ondoubted it's some hard to do as a feat, but still thar's other feachers which from the standp'int of the marvellous overpowers it like four kings an' a ace. that wonder is this: it's quarter to eight when the wizard takes his flight by means of the kyarpet-rags. gents, at eight o'clock sharp the same evenin' he walks on the stage an' gives a show at st. looey, hundreds of miles away.'" chapter xix. the luck of hardrobe. "which i tells this yere narrative first, back in one of them good old red light evenin's when it's my turn to talk." the old cattleman following this remark, considered me for a moment in silence. i had myself been holding the floor of discussion in a way both rambling and pointless for some time. i had spoken of the national fortune of indians, their superstitions, their ill-luck, and other savage subjects various and sundry. my discourse had been remarkable perhaps for emphasis rather than accuracy; and this too held a purpose. it was calculated to rouse my raconteur and draw him to a story. did what i say lack energy, he might go to sleep in his chair; he had done this more than once when i failed of interest. also, if what i told were wholly true and wanting in ripple of romantic error, even though my friend did me the compliment of wakefulness, he would make no comment. neither was he likely to be provoked to any recital of counter experiences. at last, however, he gave forth the observation which i quote above and i saw that i had brought him out. i became at once wordless and, lighting a cigar, leaned back to listen. "as i observes," he resumed, following a considerable pause which i was jealous to guard against word or question of my own; "i tells this tale to colonel sterett, old man enright, an' the others one time when we're restin' from them wolfville labours of ours an' renooin' our strength with nosepaint in the red light bar. jest as you does now, dan boggs takes up this question of luck where cherokee hall abandons it, an' likewise the subject of savages where texas thompson lays 'em down, an' after conj'inin' the two in fashions i deems a heap weak, allows that luck is confined strictly to the paleface; aborigines not knowin' sufficient to become the target of vicissitoodes, excellent or otherwise. "'injuns is too ignorant to have what you-all calls "luck,"' says dan. 'that gent who's to be affected either up or down by "luck" has got to have some mental cap'bilities. an' as injuns don't answer sech deescriptions, they ain't no more open to "luck" than to enlight'ment. "luck" an' injuns when took together, is preepost'rous! it's like talkin' of a sycamore tree havin' luck. gents, it ain't in the deck!' an' tharupon dan seals his views by demandin' of black jack the bottle with glasses all 'round. "'when it comes to that, boggs,' says colonel sterett, as he does dan honour in four fingers of valley tan, 'an' talkin' of luck, i'm yere to offer odds that the most poignant hard-luck story on the list is the story of injuns as a race. an' i won't back-track their game none further than columbus at that. the savages may have found life a summer's dream prior to the arrival of that eytalian mariner an' the ornery spainiards he surrounds himse'f with. but from the looks of the tabs, the deal since then has gone ag'inst 'em. the injuns don't win once. white folks, that a-way, is of themse'fs bad luck incarnate to injuns. the savage never so much as touches 'em or listens to 'em or imitates 'em, but he rots down right thar. which the pale-face shorely kills said injuns on the nest! as my old grand-dad used to say.' "'when i recalls the finish of hardrobe,' i remarks, sort o' cuttin' into the argyment, the same bein' free an' open to all, 'an' i might add by way of a gratootity in lines of proof, the finish of his boy, bloojacket, i inclines to string my chips with colonel sterett.' "'give us the details concernin' this hardrobe,' says doc peets. 'for myse'f, i'm prone an' eager to add to my information touchin' injuns at every openin'.' "as enright an' the rest makes expression sim'lar, i proceeds to onbuckle. i don't claim much for the tale neither. still, i wouldn't copper it none for it's the trooth, an' the trooth should allers be played 'open' every time. i'll tell you-all this hardrobe story as i onfolds it to them." it was here my friend began looking about with a vaguely anxious eye. i saw his need and pressed the button. "i was aimin' to summon my black boy, tom," he said. when a moment later his favourite decanter appeared in the hands of one of the bar-boys of the hostelry, who placed it on a little table at his elbow and withdrew, the necessity for "tom" seemed to disappear, and recurring to hardrobe, he went on. "hardrobe is a injun--a osage buck an' belongs to the war clan of his tribe. he's been eddicated east an' can read in books, an' pow-wows american mighty near as flooent as i does myse'f. an' on that last p'int i'll take a chance that i ain't tongue-tied neither. "which this yere is a long time ago. them is days when i'm young an' lithe an' strong. i can heft a pony an' i'm six foot two in my moccasins. no, i ain't so tall by three inches now; old age shortens a gent up a whole lot. "my range is on the south bank of red river--over on the texas side. across on the no'th is the nation--what map folks call the 'injun territory.' in them epocks we experiences injuns free an' frequent, as our drives takes us across the nation from south to no'th the widest way. we works over the old jones an' plummer trail, which thoroughfare i alloodes to once or twice before. i drives cattle over it an' i freights over it,--me an' my eight-mule team. an' i shorely knows where all the grass an' wood an' water is from the red river to the flint hills. "speakin' of the jones an' plummer trail, i once hears a dance-hall girl who volunteers some songs over in a tucson hurdygurdy, an' that maiden sort o' dims my sights some. first, she gives us _the dying ranger_, the same bein' enough of itse'f to start a sob or two; speshul when folks is, as colonel sterett says, 'a leetle drinkin'.' then when the public clamours for more she sings something which begins: "'thar's many a boy who once follows the herds, on the jones an' plummer trail; some dies of drink an' some of lead, an' some over kyards, an' none in bed; but they're dead game sports, so with naught but good words, we gives 'em "farewell an' hail."' "son, this sonnet brings down mem'ries; and they so stirs me i has to _vamos_ that hurdygurdy to keep my emotions from stampedin' into tears. shore, thar's soft spots in me the same as in oilier gents; an' that melody a-makin' of references to the old jones an' plummer days comes mighty clost to meltin' everything about me but my guns an' spurs. "this yere cattle business ain't what it used to be; no more is cow-punchers. things is gettin' effete. these day it's a case of chutes an' brandin' pens an' wire fences an' ten-mile pastures, an' thar's so little ropin' that a boy don't have practice enough to know how to catch his pony. "in the times i'm dreamin' of all this is different. i recalls how we frequent works a month with a beef herd, say of four thousand head, out on the stark an' open plains, ropin' an' throwin' an' runnin' a road-brand onto 'em. thar's a dozen different range brands in the bunch, mebby, and we needs a road-brand common to 'em all, so in case of stampedes on our trip to the no'th we knows our cattle ag'in an' can pick 'em out from among the local cattle which they takes to minglin' with. it's shorely work, markin' big strong steers that-away! throwin' a thousand-pound longhorn with a six hundred-pound cayouse is tellin' on all involved an' a gent who's pitchin' his rope industrious will wear down five broncos by sundown. "it's a sharp winter an' cattle dies that fast they simply defies the best efforts of ravens an' coyotes to get away with the supply. it's been blowin' a blizzard of snow for weeks. the gales is from the no'th an' they lashes the plains from the bad lands to the rio grande. when the storm first prounces on the cattle up yonder in the yellowstone country, the he'pless beasts turns their onprotestin' tails and begins to drift. for weeks, as i remarks, that tempest throws itse'f loose, an' night an' day, what cattle keeps their feet an' lives, comes driftin' on. "nacherally the boys comes with 'em. their winter sign-camps breaks up an' the riders turns south with the cattle. no, they can't do nothin'; you-all couldn't turn 'em or hold 'em or drive 'em back while the storm lasts. but it's the dooty of the punchers to keep abreast of their brands an' be thar the moment the blizzard abates. "it's shore a spectacle! for a wild an' tossin' front of five hundred miles, from west to east, the storm-beat herds comes driftin'. an' ridin' an' sw'arin' an' plungin' about comes with 'em the boys on their broncos. they don't have nothin' more'n the duds on their backs, an' mebby their saddle blankets an' slickers. but they kills beef to eat as they needs it, an' the ponies paws through the snow for grass, an' they exists along all right. for all those snow-filled, wind-swept weeks they're ridin' an' cussin'. they comes spatterin' through the rivers, an' swoopin' an' whoopin' over the divides that lays between. they crosses the heart an' the cannon ball an' the cheyenne an' the white an' the niobrara an' the platte an' the republican an' the solomon an' the smoky an' the arkansaw, to say nothin' of the hundreds of forks an' branches which flows an' twines an' twists between; an' final, you runs up on boys along the canadian who's come from the upper missouri. an' as for cattle! it looks like it's one onbroken herd from fort elliot to where the canadian opens into the arkansaw! "the chuck waggons of a thousand brands ain't two days behind the boys, an' by no time after that blizzard simmers, thar's camp-fires burnin' an' blinkin' between the canadian an' the red all along from the choctaw country as far west as the panhandle. shore, every cow-puncher makes for the nearest smoke, feeds up an' recooperates; and then he with the others begins the gatherin' of the cattle an' the slow northern drive of the return. which the spring overtakes 'em an' passes 'em on it's way to the no'th, an' the grass is green an' deep before ever they're back on their ranges ag'in. "it's a great ride, says you? son, i once attends where a lecture sharp holds forth as to napoleon's retreat from moscow. as was the proper thing i sets silent through them hardships. but i could, it i'm disposed to become a disturbin' element or goes out to cut loose cantankerous an' dispootatious in another gent's game, have showed him the french experiences that moscow time is sunday school excursions compared with these trips the boys makes when on the breath of that blizzard they swings south with their herds. them yooths, some of 'em, is over eight hundred miles from their home-ranch; an' she's the first an' only time i ever meets up with a yellowstone brand on the canadian. "you-all can put down a bet i'm no idle an' listless looker-on that blizzard time; an' i grows speshul active at the close. it behooves us red river gents of cattle to stir about. the wild hard-ridin' knight-errants of the rope an' spur who cataracts themse'fs upon us with their driftin' cattle doorin' said tempest looks like they're plenty cap'ble of drivin' our steers no'th with their own, sort o' makin' up the deeficiencies of the storm. "i brands over four thousand calves the spring before, which means i has at least twenty thousand head,--or five times what i brands--skallihootin' an' hybernatin' about the ranges. an' bein' as you-all notes some strong on cattle, an' not allowin' none for them yellowstone adventurers to drive any of 'em no'th, i've got about 'leven outfits at work, overhaulin' the herds an' round-ups, an' ridin' round an' through 'em, weedin' out my brand an' throwin' 'em back on my red river range. i has to do it, or our visitin' yellowstone guests would have stole me pore as job's turkey. "whatever is a 'outfit' you asks? it's a range boss, a chuck waggon with four mules an' a range cook, two hoss hustlers to hold the ponies, eight riders an' a bunch of about seventy ponies--say seven to a boy. these yere 'leven outfits i speaks of is scattered east an' west mebby she's a-hundred miles along the no'th fringe of my range, a-combin' an' a-searchin' of the bunches an' cuttin' out all specimens of my brand when found. for myse'f, personal, i'm cavortin' about on the loose like, stoppin' some nights at one camp' an' some nights at another, keepin' cases on the deal. "it's at one of my camps one evenin' when i crosses up first with this yere hardrobe. his boy, bloojacket, is with him. hardrobe himse'f is mebby goin' on fifty, while bloojacket ain't more'n say twenty-one. shore, they're out for cattle, too; them savages has a heap of cattle, an' since they finds their brands an' bunches same as the rest of us all tangled up with the yellowstone aliens doorin' the blizzard, hardrobe an' his boy bloojacket rides up an' asks can they work partners with a outfit of mine. "as i explains previous i'm averse to injuns, but this hardrobe is a onusual injun; an' as he's settin' in ag'inst a stiff game the way things is mixed up, an' bein' only him an' his boy he's too weak to protect himse'f, i yields consent, i yields the more pleasant for fear,--since i drives through the osage country now an' then--this hardrobe an' his heir plays even by stampedin' my cattle some evenin' if i don't. thar's nothin' like a dash of se'f-interest to make a gent urbane, an' so i invites hardrobe an' bloojacket to make my camp their headquarters like i'd been yearnin' for the chance. "as you-all must have long ago tracked up on the information, it's sooperfluous for me to su'gest that a gent gets used to things. moreover he gets used frequent to things that he's born with notions ag'inst; an' them aversions will simmer an' subside ontil he's friendly with folks he once honed to shoot on sight. it turns out that a-way about me an' this hardrobe an' his boy bloojacket. what he'ps, no doubt, is they're capar'soned like folks, with big hats, bloo shirts, trousers, cow-laiggin's, boots an' spurs, fit an' ready to enter a civilised parlour at the drop of the handkerchief. ceasin' to rope for reasons, however, it's enough to say these savages an' me waxes as thick as m'lasses. both of 'em's been eddicated at some injun school which the gov'ment--allers buckin' the impossible, the gov'ment is,--upholds in its vain endeavours to turn red into white an' make folks of a savage. "bloojacket is down from the bad land country himself not long prior, bein' he's been servin' his great father as one of gen'ral crook's scouts in the sittin' bull campaign. this young bloojacket,--who's bubblin' over with sperits--has a heap of interestin' stories about the 'grey fox.' it's doo to bloojacket to say he performs them dooties of his as a scout like a clean-strain sport, an' quits an' p'ints back for the paternal camp of hardrobe in high repoote. thar's one feat of fast hard ridin' that injun performs, which i hears from others, an' which you-all might not find oninterestin' if i saws it onto you. "merritt with three hundred cavalry marches twenty-five miles one mornin'. thar's forty injun scouts along, among 'em this bloojacket; said copper-hued auxiliaries bein' onder the command of gen'ral stanton, as game an' good a gent as ever packs a gun. it's at noon; merritt an' his outfit camps at the rawhide buttes. thar's a courier from crook overtakes 'em. he says that word comes trailin' in that the cheyennes at the red cloud agency is makin' war medicine an' about to go swarmin' off to hook up with sittin' bull an' crazy hoss in the sioux croosades. crook tells merritt to detach a band of his scouts to go flutterin' over to red cloud an' take a look at the cheyennes's hand. "stanton tells off four of his savages an' lines out with them for the red cloud agency; bloojacket bein' one. from the rawhide buttes to the red cloud agency is one hundred even miles as a bullet travels. what makes it more impressive, them one hundred miles is across a trailless country, the same bein' as rocky as red dog whiskey an' rough as the life story of a mule. which stanton, bloojacket an' the others makes her in twelve hours even, an' comes up, a crust of dust an' sweat, to the red cloud agency at midnight sharp. the cheyennes has already been gone eight hours over the great northern trail. "stanton, who's a big body of a man an' nacherally tharfore some road-weary, camps down the moment he's free of the stirrups an' writes a letter on the agency steps by the light of a lantern. he tells merritt to push on to the war bonnet an' he'll head the cheyennes off. then he sends the red cloud interpreter an' four local injuns with lead hosses to pack this information back to merritt who's waitin' the word at the rawhide buttes. bloojacket, for all he's done a hundred miles, declar's himse'f in on this second excursion to show the interpreter the way. "'but you-all won't last through,' says stanton, where he sets on the steps, quaffin' whiskey an' reinvig'ratin' himse'f. "'which if i don't, i'll turn squaw!' says bloojacket, an' gettin' fresh hosses with the others he goes squanderin' off into the midnight. "son, them savages, havin' lead hosses, rides in on merritt by fifth drink time or say, 'leven o'clock that mornin';--one hundred miles in 'leven hours! an' bloojacket some wan an' weary for a savage is a-leadin' up the dance. mighty fair ridin' that boy bloojacket does! two hundred miles in twenty-three hours over a clost country ain't bad! which it's me who says so: an' one time an' another i shore shoves plenty of scenery onder the hoofs of a cayouse myse'f. "about the foogitive cheyennes? merritt moves up to the war bonnet like stanton su'gests, corrals 'em, kills their ponies an' drives 'em back to the agency on foot. thar's nothin' so lets the whey outen a hoss-back injun like puttin' him a-foot: an the cheyennes settles down in sorrow an' peace immediate. "while hardrobe an' his boy bloojacket is with me, i'm impressed partic'lar by the love they b'ars each other. i never does cut the trail of a father an' son who gives themse'fs up to one another like this hardrobe an' his bloojacket boy. i can see that bloojacket regyards old hardrobe like he's the no'th star; an' as for hardrobe himse'f, he can't keep his eyes off that child of his. you'd have had his life long before he'd let you touch a braid of bloojacket's long ha'r. both of 'em's plenty handsome for injuns; tall an' lean an' quick as coyotes, with hands an' feet as little as a woman's. "while i don't go pryin' 'round this hardrobe's private affairs--savages is mighty sensitive of sech matters--i learns, incidental, that hardrobe is fair rich. he's rich even for osages; an' they're as opulent savages as ever makes a dance or dons a feather. later, i finds out that hardrobe's squaw--bloojacket's mother--is dead. "'see thar?' says hardrobe one day. we're in the southern border of the osage country on the grayhoss at the time, an' he p'ints to a heap of stones piled up like a oven an' chimley, an' about four foot high. i saveys thar's a defunct osage inside. you-all will behold these little piles of burial stones on every knoll an' hill in the osage country. 'see thar,' says this hardrobe, p'intin'. 'that's my squaw. mighty good squaw once; but heap dead now.' "then hardrobe an' bloojacket rides over an' fixes a little flag they've got in their war-bags to a pole which sticks up'ards outen this tomb, flyin' the ensign as injuns allers does, upside down. "it's six months later, mebby--an' it's now the hard luck begins--when i hears how hardrobe weds a dance-hall girl over to caldwell. this maiden's white; an' as beautiful as a flower an' as wicked as a trant'ler. hardrobe brings her to his ranch in the osage country. "the next tale i gets is that bloojacket, likewise, becomes a victim to the p'isenous fascinations of this caldwell dance-hall damsel, an' that him an' hardrobe falls out; hardrobe goin' on the warpath an' shootin' bloojacket up a lot with a winchester. he don't land the boy at that; bloojacket gets away with a shattered arm. also, the word goes that hardrobe is still gunnin' for bloojacket, the latter havin' gone onder cover some'ers by virchoo of the injured pinion. "as colonel sterett says, these pore aborigines experiences bad luck the moment ever they takes to braidin' in their personal destinies with a paleface. i don't blame 'em none neither. i sees this caldwell seraph on one o'casion myse'f; she's shore a beauty! an' whenever she throws the lariat of her loveliness that a-way at a gent, she's due to fasten. "it's a month followin' this division of the house of hardrobe when i runs up on him in person. i encounters him in one of the little jim-crow restauraws you-all finds now an' then in the injun country. hardrobe an' me shakes, an' then he camps down ag'in at a table where he's feedin' on fried antelope an' bakin' powder biscuit. "i'm standin' at the counter across the room. jest as i turns my back, thar's the crack! of a rifle to the r'ar of the j'int, an' hardrobe pitches onto the floor as dead as ever transpires in that tribe. in the back door, with one arm in a sling, an' a gun that still smokes, ca'm an' onmoved like injuns allers is, stands bloojacket. "'my hand is forced,' he says, as he passes me his gun; 'it's him or me! one of us wore the death-mark an' had to go.' "'couldn't you-all have gone with crook ag'in?' i says. 'which you don't have to infest this yere stretch of country. thar's no hobbles or sidelines on you; none whatever!' "bloojacket makes no reply, an' his copper face gets expressionless an' inscrootable. i can see through, however; an' it's the hobbles of that caldwell beauty's innocence that's holdin' him. "bloojacket walks over to where hardrobe's layin' dead an' straightens him round--laigs an' arms--an' places his big white cow hat over his face. thar's no more sign of feelin', whether love or hate, in the eyes of bloojacket while he performs these ceremonies than if hardrobe's a roll of blankets. but thar's no disrespects neither; jest a great steadiness. when he has composed him out straight, bloojacket looks at the remainder for mebby a minute. then he shakes his head. "'he was a great man,' says bloojacket, p'intin' at his dead father, with his good hand; 'thar's no more like him among the osages.' "tharupon bloojacket wheels on the half-breed who runs the deadfall an' who's standin' still an' scared, an' says: "'how much does he owe?' then he pays hardrobe's charges for antelope steaks an' what chuck goes with it, an' at the close of these fiscal op'rations, remarks to the half-breed--who ain't sayin' no more'n he can he'p,--'don't touch belt nor buckle on him; you-all knows me!' an' i can see that half-breed restauraw party is out to obey bloojacket's mandates. "bloojacket gives himse'f up to the osages an' is thrown loose on p'role. but bloojacket never gets tried. "a week rides by, an' he's standin' in front of the agency, sort o' makin' up some views concernin' his destinies. he's all alone; though forty foot off four osage bucks is settin' together onder a cottonwood playin' injun poker--the table bein' a red blanket spread on the grass,--for two bits a corner. these yere sports in their blankets an' feathers, an' rifflin' their greasy deck, ain't sayin' nothin to bloojacket an' he ain't sayin' nothin' to them. which jest the same these children of nacher don't like the idee of downin' your parent none, an' it's apparent bloojacket's already half exiled. "as he stands thar roominatin,' with the hot august sun beatin' down, thar's a atmosphere of sadness to go with bloojacket. but you-all would have to guess at it; his countenance is as ca'm as on that murderin' evenin' in the half-breed's restauraw. "bloojacket is still thar, an' the sports onder the cottonwood is still gruntin' joyously over their poker, when thar comes the patter of a bronco's hoofs. thar's a small dust cloud, an' then up sweeps the caldwell beauty. she comes to a pull-up in front of bloojacket. that savage glances up with a inquirin' eye an' the glance is as steady as the hills about him. the caldwell beauty--it seems she disdains mournin'--is robed like a rainbow; an' she an' bloojacket, him standin', she on her bronco, looks each other over plenty intent. "which five minutes goes by if one goes by, an' thar the two stares into each other's eyes; an' never a word. the poker bucks keeps on with their gamble over onder the cottonwood, an' no one looks at the two or seems like they heeds their existence. the poker savages is onto every move; but they're troo to the injun idee of p'liteness an' won't interfere with even so much as the treemor of a eyelash with other folks's plays. "bloojacket an' the caldwell beauty is still gazin'. at last the caldwell beauty's hand goes back, an' slow an' shore, brings to the front a eight-inch six-shooter. bloojacket, with his eye still on her an' never a flicker of feelin', don't speak or move. "the caldwell beauty smiles an' shows her white teeth. then she lays the gun across her left arm, an' all as solid as a church. her pony's gone to sleep with his nose between his knees; an' the caldwell beauty settles herse'f in the saddle so's to be ready for the plunge she knows is comin'. the caldwell beauty lays out her game as slow an' delib'rate as trees; bloojacket lookin' on with onwinkin' eye, while the red-blanket bucks plays along an' never a whisper of interest. "'which this yere pistol overshoots a bit!' says the caldwell beauty, as she runs her eye along the sights. 'i must aim low or i'll shore make ragged work.' "bloojacket hears her, but offers no retort; he stands moveless as a stachoo. thar's a flash an' a crash an' a cloud of bloo smoke; the aroused bronco makes a standin' jump of twenty foot. the caldwell beauty keeps her saddle, an' with never a swerve or curve goes whirlin' away up the brown, burnt august trail, bloojacket lays thar on his face; an' thar's a bullet as squar' between the eyes as you-all could set your finger-tip. which he's dead--dead without a motion, while the poker bucks plays ca'mly on." my venerable friend came to a full stop. after a respectful pause, i ventured an inquiry. "and the caldwell beauty?" i said. "it ain't a week when she's ag'in the star of that caldwell hurdygurdy where she ropes up hardrobe first. her laugh is as loud an' as' free, her beauty as profoundly dazzlin' as before; she swings through twenty quadrilles in a evenin' from 'bow-to-your-partners' to 'all-take-a-drink-at-the-bar'; an' if she's preyed on by them osage tragedies you shore can't tell it for whiskey, nor see if for powder an' paint." chapter xx. colonel coyote clubbs. "which as a roole," said the old cattleman, "i speaks with deference an' yields respects to whatever finds its source in nacher, but this yere weather simply makes sech attitoode reedic'lous, an' any encomiums passed thar-on would sound sarkastic." here my friend waved a disgusted hand towards the rain-whipped panes and shook his head. "thar's but one way to meet an' cope successful with a day like this," he ran on, "an' that is to put yourse'f in the hands of a joodicious barkeep--put yourse'f in his hands an' let him pull you through. actin' on this idee i jest despatches my black boy tom for a pitcher of peach an' honey, an', onless you-all has better plans afoot, you might as well camp an' wait deevelopments, same as old man wasson does when he's treed by the b'ar." promptly came the peach and honey, and with its appearance the pelting storm outside lost power to annoy. my companion beamingly did me honour in a full glass. after a moment fraught of silence and peach and honey, and possibly, too, from some notion of pleasing my host with a compliment, i said: "that gentleman with whom you were in converse last evening told me he never passed a more delightful hour than he spent listening to you. you recall whom i mean?" "recall him? shore," retorted my friend as he recurred to the pitcher for a second comforter. "you-all alloodes to the little gent who's lame in the nigh hind laig. he appeals to me, speshul, as he puts me in mind of old colonel coyote clubbs who scares up doc peets that time. old coyote is lame same as this yere person." "frighten peets!" i exclaimed, with a great air; "you amaze me! give me the particulars." "why, of course," he replied, "i wouldn't be onderstood that peets is terrorised outright. still, old colonel coyote shore stampedes him an' forces peets to fly. it's either _vamos_ or shoot up pore coyote; an' as peets couldn't do the latter, his only alternative is to go scatterin' as i states. "this yere coyote has a camp some ten miles to the no'th an' off to one side of the trail to tucson. old coyote lives alone an' has built himse'f a dugout--a sort o' log hut that's half in an' half outen the ground. his mission on earth is to slay coyotes--'wolfin'' he calls it--for their pelts; which coyote gets a dollar each for the furs, an' the new york store which buys 'em tells coyote to go as far as he likes. they stands eager to purchase all he can peel offen them anamiles. "no; coyote don't shoot these yere little wolves; he p'isens 'em. coyote would take about twelve foot, say, of a pine tree he's cut down--this yere timber is mebby eight inches through--an' he'll bore in it a two-inch auger hole every two foot. these holes is some deep; about four inches it's likely. old coyote mixes his p'isen with beef tallow, biles them ingredients up together a lot, an' then, while she's melted that a-way, he pours it into these yere auger holes an' lets it cool. it gets good an' hard, this arsenic-tallow does, an' then coyote drags the timber thus reg'lated out onto the plains to what he regyards as a elegible local'ty an' leaves it for the wolves to come an' batten on. old coyote will have as many as a dozen of these sticks of timber, all bored an' framed up with arsenic-tallow, scattered about. each mornin' while he's wolfin', coyote makes a round-up an' skins an' counts up his prey. an' son, you hear me! he does a flourishin' trade. "why don't coyote p'isen hunks of meat you asks? for obvious reasons. in sech events the victim bolts the piece of beef an' lopes off mebby five miles before ever he succumbs. with this yere augur hole play it's different. the wolf has to lick the arsenic-tallow out with his tongue an' the p'isen has time an' gets in its work. that wolf sort o' withers right thar in his tracks. at the most he ain't further away than the nearest water; arsenic makin' 'em plenty thirsty, as you-all most likely knows. "old coyote shows up in wolfville about once a month, packin' in his pelts an' freightin' over to his wickeyup whatever in the way of grub he reckons he needs. which, if you was ever to see coyote once, you would remember him. he's shore the most egreegious person, an' in appearance is a cross between a joke, a disaster an' a cur'osity. i don't reckon now pore coyote ever sees the time when he weighs a hundred pound; an' he's grizzled an' dried an' lame of one laig, while his face is like a squinch owl's face--kind o' wide-eyed an' with a expression of ignorant wonder, as if life is a never-endin' surprise party. "most likely now what fixes him firmest in your mind is, he don't drink none. he declines nosepaint in every form; an' this yere abstinence, the same bein' yoonique in wolfville, together with coyote conductin' himse'f as the p'litest an' best-mannered gent to be met with in all of arizona, is apt to introode on your attention. colonel sterett once mentions coyote's manners. "'which he could give chesterfield, coyote could, kyards an' spades,' observes the colonel. i don't, myse'f, know this chesterfield none, but i can see by the fashion in which colonel sterett alloodes to him that he's a kaintuckian an' a jo-darter on manners an' etiquette. "as i says, a pecooliar trait of coyote is that he won't drink nothin' but water. despite this blemish, however, when the camp gets so it knows him it can't he'p but like him a heap. he's so quiet an' honest an' ignorant an' little an' lame, an' so plumb p'lite besides, he grows on you. i can almost see the weasened old outlaw now as he comes rockin' into town with his six or seven burros packed to their y'ears with pelts! "this time when coyote puts doc peets in a toomult is when he's first pitched his dug-out camp an' begins to honour wolfville with his visits. as yet none of us appreciates pore coyote at his troo worth, an' on account of them guileless looks of his sech humourists as dan boggs an' texas thompson seizes on him as a source of merriment. "it's coyote's third expedition into town, an' he's hoverin' about the new york store waitin' for 'em to figger up his wolf pelts an' cut out his plunder so he freights it back to his dug-out. dan an' texas is also procrastinatin' 'round, an' they sidles up allowin' to have their little jest. old coyote don't know none of 'em--quiet an' sober an' p'lite like i relates, he's slow gettin' acquainted--an' dan an' texas, as well as doc peets, is like so many onopened books to him. for that matter, while none of them pards of mine knows coyote, they manages to gain a sidelight on some of his characteristics before ever they gets through. doc peets later grows ashamed of the part he plays, an' two months afterwards when coyote is chewed an' clawed to a standstill by a infooriated badger which he mixes himse'f up with, peets binds him up an' straightens out his game, an' declines all talk of recompense complete. "'it's merely payin' for that outrage i attempts on your feelin's when you rebookes me so handsome,' says peets, as he turns aside coyote's _dinero_ an' tells him to replace the same in his war-bags. "however does coyote get wrastled by that badger? it's another yarn, but at least she's brief an' so i'll let you have it. badgers, you saveys, is sour, sullen, an' lonesome. an' a badger's feelin's is allers hurt about something; you never meets up with him when he ain't hostile an' half-way bent for war. which it's the habit of these yere morose badgers to spend a heap of their time settin' half in an' half outen their holes, considerin' the scenery in a dissatisfied way like they has some grudge ag'inst it. an' if you approaches a badger while thus employed he tries to run a blazer on you; he'll show his teeth an' stand pat like he meditates trouble. when you've come up within thirty feet he changes his mind an' disappears back'ard into his hole; but all malignant an' reluctant. "now, while coyote saveys wolves, he's a heap dark on badgers that a-way. an' also thar's a badger who lives clost to coyote's dug-out. one day while this yere ill-tempered anamile is cocked up in the mouth of his hole, a blinkin' hatefully at surroundin' objects. coyote cuts down on him with a sharp's rifle he's got kickin' about his camp an' turns that weepon loose. "he misses the badger utter, but he don't know it none. comin' to the hole, coyote sees the badger kind o' quiled up at the first bend in the burrow, an' he exultin'ly allows he's plugged him an' tharupon reaches in to retrieve his game. that's where coyote makes the mistake of his c'reer; that's where he drops his watermelon! "that badger's alive an' onhurt an' as hot as a lady who's lost money. which he's simply retired a few foot into his house to reconsider coyote an' that sharp's rifle of his. nacherally when the ontaught coyote lays down on his face an' goes to gropin' about to fetch that badger forth the latter never hes'tates. he grabs coyote's hand with tooth and claw, braces his back ag'in the ceilin' of his burrow an' stands pat. "badgers is big people an' strong as ponies too. an' obdurate! son, a badger is that decided an' set in his way that sech feather-blown things as hills is excitable an' vacillatin' by comparison. this yere particular badger has the fam'ly weaknesses fully deeveloped, an' the moment he cinches onto coyote, he shore makes up his mind never to let go ag'in in this world nor the next. "as i tells you, coyote is little an' weak, an' he can no more move that hardened badger, nor yet fetch himse'f loose, than he can sprout wings an' soar. that badger's got coyote; thar he holds him prone an' flat ag'in the ground for hours. an' at last coyote swoons away. "which he'd shore petered right thar, a prey to badgers, if it ain't for a cowpuncher--he's one of old man enright's riders--who comes romancin' along an' is attracted to the spot by some cattle who's prancin' an' waltzin' about, sizin' coyote up as he's layin' thar, an' snortin' an' curvin' their tails in wonder at the spectacle. which the visitin' cow sharp, seein' how matters is headed, shoves his six-shooter in along-side of coyote's arm, drills this besotted badger, an' coyote is saved. it's a case of touch an' go at that. but to caper back to where we leaves dan an' texas on the verge of them jocyoolarities. "'no, gentlemen,' coyote is sayin', in response to some queries of dan an' texas; 'i've wandered hither an' yon a heap in my time, an' now i has my dug-out done, an' seein' wolves is oncommon plenty, i allows i puts in what few declinin' days remains to me right where i be. i must say, too, i'm pleased with wolfville an' regyards myse'f as fortunate an' proud to be a neighbour to sech excellent folks as you-all." "'which i'm shore sorry a lot,' says dan, 'to hear you speak as you does. thar's a rapacious sport about yere who the instant he finds how you makes them dug-out improvements sends on an' wins out a gov'ment patent an' takes title to that identical quarter-section which embraces your camp. now he's allowin' to go squanderin' over to tucson an' get a docyment or two from the jedge an' run you out.' "son, this pore innocent coyote takes in dan's fictions like so much spring water; he believes 'em utter. but the wonder is to see how he changes. he don't say nothin', but his-eyes sort o' sparks up an' his face gets as gray as his ha'r. it's now that doc peets comes along. "'yere is this devourin' scoundrel now,' says texas thompson, p'intin' to peets. 'you-all had better talk to him some about it.' then turnin' to peets with a wink, texas goes on: 'me an' mister boggs is tellin' our friend how you gets a title to that land he's camped on, an' that you allows you'll take possession mebby next week.' "'why, shore,' says peets, enterin' into the sperit of the hoax, an' deemin' it a splendid joke; 'be you-all the maverick who's on that quarter-section of mine?' "'which i'm colonel coyote clubbs,' says coyote, bowin' low while his lips trembles, 'an' i'm at your service.' "'well,' says peets, 'it don't make much difference about your name, all you has to do is hit the trail. i needs that location you've done squatted on because of the water.' "'an' do i onderstand, sir,' says coyote some agitated, 'that you'll come with off'cers to put me outen my dug-out?' "'shore,' says peets, in a case-hardened, pitiless tone, 'an' why not? am i to be debarred of my rights by some coyote-slaughterin' invader an' onmurmurin'ly accede tharto? which i should shore say otherwise.' "'then i yereby warns you, sir,' says coyote, gettin' pale as paper. 'i advises you to bring your coffin when you comes for that land, for i'll down you the moment you're in range.' "'in which case,' says peets, assoomin' airs of blood-thirsty trucyoolence, 'thar's scant use to wait. if thar's goin' to be any powder burnin' we might better burn it now.' "'i've no weepon, sir,' says coyote, limpin' about in a circle, 'but if ary of these gentlemen will favour me with a gun i'll admire to put myse'f in your way.' "which the appearance of coyote when he utters this, an' him showin' on the surface about as war-like as a prairie-dog, convulses dan an' texas. it's all they can do to keep a grave front while pore coyote in his ignorance calls the bluff of one of the most deadly an' gamest gents who ever crosses the missouri--one who for nerve an' finish is a even break with cherokee hall. "'follow me,' says peets, frownin' on coyote like a thunder cloud; 'i'll equip you with a weepon myse'f. i reckons now that your death an' deestruction that a-way is after all the best trail out. "peets moves off a heap haughty, an' coyote limps after him. peets goes over where his rooms is at. 'take a cha'r,' says peets, as they walks in, an' coyote camps down stiffly in a seat. peets crosses to a rack an' searches down a -inch colt's. then he turns towards coyote. 'this yere discovery annoys me,' says peets, an' his words comes cold as ice, 'but now we're assembled, i finds that i've only got one gun.' "'well, sir,' says coyote, gettin' up an' limpin' about in his nervous way, his face workin' an' the sparks in his eyes beginnin' to leap into flames; 'well, sir, may i ask what you aims to propose?' "'i proposes to beef you right yere,' says peets, as f'rocious as a grizzly. 'die, you miscreant!' an' peets throws the gun on coyote, the big muzzle not a foot from his heart. "peets, as well as dan an' texas, who's enjoyin' the comedy through a window, ondoubted looks for coyote to wilt without a sigh. an' if he had done so, the joke would have been both excellent an' complete. but coyote never wilts. he moves so quick no one ever does locate the darkened recess of his garments from which he lugs out that knife; the first p'inter any of 'em gets is that with the same breath wherein peets puts the six-shooter on him, coyote's organised in full with a bowie. "'make a centre shot, you villyun!' roars coyote, an' straight as adders he la'nches himse'f at peets's neck. "son, it's the first an' last time that doc peets ever runs. an' he don't run now, he flies. peets comes pourin' through the door an' into the street, with coyote frothin' after him not a yard to spar'. the best thing about the whole play is that coyote's a cripple; it's this yere element of lameness that lets peets out. he can run thirty foot to coyote's one, an' the result occurs in safety by the breadth of a ha'r. "it takes two hours to explain to coyote that this eepisode is humour, an' to ca'm him an' get his emotions bedded down. at last, yoonited wolfville succeeds in beatin' the trooth into him, an' he permits peets to approach an' apol'gise. "'an' you can gamble all the wolves you'll ever kill an' skin,' says doc peets, as he asks coyote to forgive an' forget, 'that this yere is the last time i embarks in jests of a practical character or gives way to humour other than the strickly oral kind. barkeep, my venerated friend, yere will have a glass of water; but you give me valley tan.'" chapter xxi. long ago on the rio grande. "which books that a-way," observed the old cattleman, "that is, story-books, is onfrequent in wolfville." he was curiously examining stevenson's "treasure island," that he had taken from my hand. "the nearest approach to a wolfville cirk'latin' library i recalls is a copy of 'robinson crusoe,' an' that don't last long, as one time when texas thompson leaves it layin' on a cha'r outside while he enters the red light for the usual purpose, a burro who's loafin' loose about the street, smells it, tastes it, approoves of it, an' tharupon devours it a heap. after that i don't notice no volumes in the outfit, onless it's some drug books that doc peets has hived over where he camps. it's jest as well, for seein' a gent perusin' a book that a-way, operates frequent to make dan boggs gloomy; him bein' oneddicated like i imparts to you-all yeretofore. "whatever do we do for amoosements? we visits the dance hall; not to dance, sech frivol'ties bein' for younger an' less dignified sports. we goes over thar more to give our countenance an' endorsements to hamilton who runs the hurdy-gurdy, an' who's a mighty proper citizen. we says 'how!' to hamilton, libates, an' mebby watches 'em 'balance all,' or 'swing your partners,' a minute or two an' then proceeds. then thar's huggins's bird cage op'ry house, an' now an' then we-all floats over thar an' takes in the dramy. but mostly we camps about the red light; the same bein' a common stampin'-ground. it's thar we find each other; an' when thar's nothin' doin', we upholds the hours tellin' tales an' gossipin' about cattle an' killin's, an' other topics common to a cow country. now an' then, thar's a visitin' gent in town who can onfold a story. in sech event he's made a lot of, an' becomes promptly the star of the evenin'. "thar's a major sayres we meets up with once in wolfville,--he's thar on cattle matters with old man enright--an' i recalls how he grows absorbin' touchin' some of his adventures in that war. "thar's a passel of us, consistin' of boggs, tutt, cherokee, an' texas thompson, an' me, who's projectin' 'round the red light when enright introdooces this major sayres. him an' enright's been chargin' about over by the cow springs an' has jest rode in. this major is easy an' friendly, an' it ain't longer than the third drink before he shows symptoms of bein' willin' to talk. "'which i ain't been in the saddle so long,' says the major, while him an' enright is considerin' how far they goes since sunup, 'since mister lee surrenders.' "'you takes your part, major,' says enright, who's ropin' for a reminiscence that a-way, 'in the battles of the late war, i believes.' "'i should shorely say so,' says the major. 'i'm twenty-two years old, come next grass, when texas asserts herse'f as part of the confed'racy, an' i picks up a hand an' plays it in common with the other patriotic yooths of my region. yes, i enters the artillery, but bein' as we don't have no cannon none at the jump i gets detailed as a aide ontil something resemblin' a battery comes pokin' along. i goes through that carnage from soup to nuts, an' while i'm shot up some as days go by, it's allers been a source of felic'tation to me, personal, that i never slays no man myse'f. shore, i orders my battery to fire, later when i gets a battery; an' ondoubted the bombardments i inaug'rates adds to an' swells the ghost census right along. but of my own hand it's ever been a matter of congratoolations to me that i don't down nobody an' never takes a skelp. "'as i turns the leaves of days that's gone i don't now remember but one individyooal openin' for blood that ever presents itse'f. an' after considerin' the case in all its b'arin's, i refooses the opportunity an' the chance goes glidin' by. as a result thar's probably one more yank than otherwise; an' now that peace is yere an' we-all is earnestly settlin' to be brothers no'th and south, i regyards that extra yank as a advantage. shore, he's a commoonal asset.' "'tell us how you fails to c'llect this yankee, major,' says faro nell: 'which i'm plumb interested every time that some one don't get killed.' "'i reecounts that exploit with pleasure,' says, the major, bowin' p'lite as noo orleans first circles an' touchin' his hat to nell. 'it's one day when we're in a fight. the line of battle is mebby stretched out half a mile. as i su'gests, i'm spraddlin' 'round permiscus with no stated arena of effort, carryin' despatches an' turnin' in at anything that offers, as handy as i can. i'm sent final with a dispatch from the left to the extreme right of our lines. "'when we goes into this skrimmage we jumps the lincoln people somewhat onexpected. they has their blankets an' knapsacks on, an' as they frames themse'fs up for the struggle they casts off this yere baggage, an' thar it lays, a windrow of knapsacks, blankets an' haversacks, mighty near a half mile in length across the plain. as we-all rebs has been pushin' the yankees back a lot, this windrow is now to our r'ar, an' i goes canterin' along it on my mission to the far right. "'without a word of warnin' a yank leaps up from where he's been burrowin' down among this plunder an' snaps a enfield rifle in my face. i pulls my boss back so he's almost settin' on his hocks; an' between us, gents, that onexpected sortie comes mighty near surprisin' me plumb out of the saddle. but the enfield don't go off none; an' with that the yank throws her down an' starts to' run. he shorely does _vamos_ with the velocity of jackrabbits! "'as soon as me an' my hoss recovers our composure we gives chase. bein' the pore yank is afoot, i runs onto him in the first two hundred yards. as i comes up, i've got my six-shooter in my hand. i puts the muzzle on him, sort o' p'intin' between the shoulders for gen'ral results; but when it comes to onhookin' my weepon i jest can't turn the trick. it's too much like murder. meanwhile, the flyin' yank is stampedin' along like he ain't got a thing on his mind an' never turnin' his head. "'i calls on him to surrender. he makes a roode remark over his shoulder at this military manoover an' pelts ahead all onabated. then i evolves a scheme to whack him on the head with my gun. i pushes my hoss up ontil his nose is right by that no'thern party's y'ear. steadyin' myse'f, i makes a wallop at him an' misses. i invests so much soul in the blow that missin' that a-way, i comes within' a ace of clubs of goin' off my hoss an' onto my head. an' still that exasperatin' yank goes rackin' along, an' if anything some faster than before. at that i begins to lose my temper ag'in. "'i reorganises,--for at the time i nearly makes the dive outen the stirrups, i pulls the hoss to a stop,--an' once more takes up the pursoot of my locoed prey. he's a pris'ner fair enough, only he's too obstinate to admit it. as i closes on him ag'in, i starts for the second time to drill him, but i can't make the landin'. i'm too young; my heart ain't hard enough; i rides along by him for a bit an' for the second time su'gests that he surrender. the yank ignores me; he keeps on runnin'. "'which sech conduct baffles me! it's absolootely ag'in military law. by every roole of the game that yank's my captive; but defyin' restraint he goes caperin' on like he's free. "'as i gallops along about four foot to his r'ar i confess i begins to feel a heap he'pless about him. i'm too tender to shoot, an' he won't stop, an' thar we be. "'while i'm keepin' him company on this retreat, i reflects that even if i downs him, the war would go on jest the same; it wouldn't stop the rebellion none, nor gain the south her independence. the more i considers, too, the war looks bigger an' the life of this flyin' yank looks smaller. likewise, it occurs to me that he's headed no'th. if he keeps up his gait an' don't turn or twist he'll have quitted southern territory by the end of the week. "'after makin' a complete round-up of the sityooation i begins to lose interest in this yank; an' at last i leaves him, racin' along alone. by way of stim'lant, as i pauses i cracks off a couple of loads outen my six-shooter into the air. they has a excellent effect; from the jump the yank makes at the sound i can see the shots puts ten miles more run into him shore. he keeps up his gallop ontil he's out of sight, an' i never after feasts my eyes on him. "'which i regyards your conduct, major, as mighty hoomane,' says dan boggs, raisin' his glass p'litely. 'i approves of it, partic'lar.' "the major meets dan's attentions in the sperit they're proposed. after a moment enright speaks of them cannons. "but you-all got a battery final, major?' says enright. "'six brass guns,' says the major, an' his gray eyes beams an' he speaks of 'em like they was six beautiful women. 'six brass guns, they be,' he says. we captured 'em from the enemy an' i'm put in command. gents, i've witnessed some successes personal, but i never sees the day when i'm as satisfied an' as contentedly proud as when i finds myse'f in command of them six brass guns. i was like a lover to every one of 'em. "'i'm that headlong to get action--we're in middle loosiana at the time--that i hauls a couple of 'em over by the mississippi an' goes prowlin' 'round ontil i pulls on trouble with a little yankee gun boat. it lasts two hours, an' i shore sinks that naval outfit an' piles the old mississippi on top of 'em. i'm so puffed up with this yere exploit that a pigeon looks all sunk in an' consumptif beside me. "'thar's one feacher of this dooel with the little gun boat which displeases me, however. old butler's got noo orleans at the time, an' among other things he's editin' the papers. i reads in one of 'em a month later about me sinkin' that scow. it says i'm a barb'rous villain, the story does, an' shoots up the boat after it surrenders, an' old butler allows he'll hang me a whole lot the moment ever he gets them remarkable eyes onto me. i don't care none at the time much, only i resents this yere charge. i shore never fires a shot at that gunboat after it gives up; i ain't so opulent of amm'nition as all that. as time goes on, however, thar's a day when i'm goin' to take the determination of old butler more to heart. "'followin' the gun-boat eepisode i'm more locoed than ever to get my battery into a fight. an' at last i has my hopes entirely fulfilled. it's about four o'clock one evenin' when we caroms on about three brigades of yanks. thar's mebby twelve thousand of us rebs an' all of fourteen thousand of the lincoln people. my battery is all the big guns we-all has, while said yanks is strong with six full batteries. "'the battle opens up; we're on a old sugar plantation, an' after manooverin' about a while we settles down to work. it's that day i has my dreams of carnage realised in full. i turns loose my six guns with verve an' fervour, an' it ain't time for a second drink before i attracts the warmest attention from every one of the yankee batteries. she's shore a scandal the way them gents in bloo does shoot me up! jest to give you-all a idee: the yankees slams away at me for twenty minutes; they dismounts two of my guns; they kills or creases forty of my sixty-six men; an' when they gets through you-all could plant cotton where my battery stands, it's that ploughed up. "'it's in the midst of the _baile_, an' i'm standin' near my number-one gun. thar's a man comes up with a cartridge. a piece of a shell t'ars him open, an' he falls across the gun, limp as a towel, an' then onto the ground. i orders a party named williams to the place. something comes flyin' down outen the heavens above an' smites williams on top the head; an' he's gone. i orders up another. he assoomes the responsibilities of this p'sition jest in time to get a rifle bullet through the jaw. he lives though; i sees him after the war. "'as that's no more men for the place, i steps for'ard myse'f. i'm not thar a minute when i sinks down to the ground. i don't feel nothin' an' can't make it out. "'while i'm revolvin' this yere phenomenon of me wiltin' that a-way an' tryin to form some opinions about it, thar's a explosion like forty battles all in one. for a moment, i reckons that somehow we-all has opened up a volcano inadvertent, an' that from now on loosiana can boast a hecla of her own. but it ain't no volcano. it's my ammunition waggons which, with two thousund rounds is standin' about one hundred yards to my r'ar. the yanks done blows up the whole outfit with one of their shells. "'it's strictly the thing, however, which lets my battery out. the thick smoke of the two thousand cartridges drifts down an' blankets what's left of us like a fog. the yanks quits us; they allows most likely they've lifted me an' my six brass guns plumb off the earth. thar's some roodiments of trooth in the theery for that matter. "'these last interestin' details sort o' all happens at once. i've jest dropped at the time when my ammunition waggons enters into the sperit of the o'casion like i describes. as i lays thar one of my men comes gropin' along down to me in the smoke. "'"be you hurt, major?" he says. "'"i don't know," i replies: "my idee is that you better investigate an' see." "'he t'ars open my coat; thar's no blood on my shirt. he lifts one arm an' then the other; they're sound as gold pieces. then i lifts up my left laig; i've got on high hoss-man boots. "'"pull off this moccasin," i says. "'he pulls her off an' thar's nothin' the matter thar. i breaks out into a profoose sweat; gents, i'm scared speechless. i begins to fear i ain't plugged at all; that i've fainted away on a field of battle an' doo to become the scandal of two armies. i never feels so weak an' sick! "'i've got one chance left an' trembles as i plays it; i lifts up my right boot. i win; about a quart of blood runs out. talk of reprievin' folks who's sentenced to death! gents, their emotions is only imitations of what i feels when i finds that the yanks done got me an' nary doubt. it's all right--a rifle bullet through my ankle! "'that night i'm mowed away, with twenty other wounded folks, in a little cabin off to one side, an' thar's a couple of doctors sizin' up my laig. "'"joe," says one, that a-way, "we've got to cut it off." "'but i votes "no" emphatic; i'm too young to talk about goin shy a laig. with that they ties it up as well as ever they can, warnin' me meanwhile that i've got about one chance in a score to beat the game. then they imparts a piece of news that's a mighty sight worse than my laig. "'"joe," says this doctor, when he's got me bandaged, "our army's got to rustle out of yere a whole lot. she's on the retreat right now. them yanks outheld us an' out-played us an' we've got to go stampedin'. the worst is, thar's no way to take you along, an' we'll have to leave you behind." "'"then the yanks will corral me?" i asks. "'"shore," he replies, "but thar's nothin' else for it." "'it's then it comes on me about that gunboat an' the promises old butler makes himse'f about hangin' me when caught. which these yere reflections infooses new life into me. i makes the doctor who's talkin' go rummagin' about ontil he rounds up a old nigger daddy, a mule an' a two-wheel sugar kyart. it's rainin' by now so's you-all could stand an' wash your face an' hands in it. as that medical sharp loads me in, he gives me a bottle of this yere morphine, an' between jolts an' groans i feeds on said drug until mornin.' "'that old black daddy is dead game. he drives me all night an' all day an' all night ag'n, an' i'm in shreveport; my ankle's about the size of a bale of cotton. thar's one ray through it all, however; i misses meetin' old man butler an' i looks on that as a triumph which shore borders on relief.' "'an' i reckons now,' says dan boggs, 'you severs your relations with the war?' "'no,' goes on the major; 'i keeps up my voylence to the close. when i grows robust enough to ride ag'in i'm in texas. thar's a expedition fittin' out to invade an' subdoo noo mexico, an' i j'ines dogs with it as chief of the big guns. thar's thirty-eight hundred bold and buoyant sperits rides outen austin on these military experiments we plans, an' as evincin' the luck we has, i need only to p'int out that nine months later we returns with a scant eight hundred. three thousand of 'em killed, wounded an' missin' shows that efforts to list the trip onder the head of "picnics" would be irony. "'comin', as we-all does, from one thousand miles away, thar ain't one of us who saveys, practical, as much about the sand-blown desert regions we invades as we does of what goes on in the moon. that gen'ral canby, who later gets downed by the modocs, is on the rio grande at fort craig. while we're pirootin' about in a blind sort o' fashion we ropes up one of canby's couriers who's p'intin' no'th for fort union with despatches. this gen'ral canby makes the followin' facetious alloosion: after mentionin' our oninvited presence in the territory, he says: "'"but let 'em alone. we'll dig the potatoes when they're ripe." "'gents, we was the toobers!' an' yere the major pauses for a drink. 'we was the potatoes which canby's exultin' over! we don't onderstand it at the time, but it gets cl'arer as the days drifts by. "'i'm never in a more desolate stretch of what would be timber only thar ain't no trees. thar's nothin' for the mules an' hosses; half the time thar ain't even water. an' then it's alkali. an' our days teems an' staggers with disgustin' experiences. once we're shy water two days. it's the third day about fourth drink time in the evenin'. the sun has two hours yet to go. my battery is toilin' along, sand to the hubs of gun-carriages an' caissons, when i sees the mules p'int their y'ears for'ard with looks of happy surprise. then the intelligent anamiles begins a song of praise; an' next while we-all is marvellin' thereat an' before ever a gent can stretch hand to bridle to stop 'em, the mules begins to fly. they yanks my field pieces over the desert as busy an' full of patriotic ardour as a drunkard on 'lection day. the whole battery runs away. gents, the mules smells water. it's two miles away,--a big pond she is,--an' that locoed battery never stops, but rushes plumb in over its y'ears; an' i lose sixteen mules an' two guns before ever i'm safe ag'in on terry firmy. "'it's shore remarkable,' exclaims the major, settin' down his glass, 'how time softens the view an' changes bitter to sweet that a-way. as i brings before me in review said details thar's nothin' more harassin' from soda to hock than that campaign on the rio grande. thar's not one ray of sunshine to paint a streak of gold in the picture from frame to frame; all is dark an' gloom an' death. an' yet, lookin' back'ard through the years, the mem'ry of it is pleasant an' refreshing a heap more so than enterprises of greater ease with success instead of failure for the finish. "'thar's one partic'lar incident of this explorin' expeditions into noo mexico which never recurs to my mind without leavin' my eyes some dim. i don't claim to be no expert on pathos an' i'm far from regyardin' myse'f as a sharp on tears, but thar's folks who sort o' makes sadness a speshulty, women folks lots of 'em, who allows that what i'm about to recount possesses pecooliar elements of sorrow. "'thar's a young captain--he ain't more'n a boy--who's brought a troop of lancers along with us. this boy captain hails from some'ers up 'round waco, an' thar ain't a handsomer or braver in all pres'dent davis's army. this captain--whose name is edson,--an' me, bein' we-all is both young, works ourse'fs into a clost friendship for each other; i feels about him like he's my brother. nacherally, over a camp fire an' mebby a stray bottle an' a piece of roast antelope, him an' me confides about ourse'fs. this captain edson back in waco has got a old widow mother who's some rich for texas, an' also thar's a sweetheart he aims to marry when the war's over an' done. i reckons him an' me talks of that mother an' sweetheart of his a hundred times. "'it falls out that where we fords the pecos we runs up on a mexican plaza--the "plaza chico" they-all calls it--an' we camps thar by the river a week, givin' our cattle a chance to roll an' recooperate up on the grass an' water. "'then we goes p'intin' out for the settin' sun ag'in, allowin' to strike the rio grande some'ers below albuquerque. captain edson, while we're pesterin' 'round at the plaza chico, attaches to his retinoo a mexican boy; an' as our boogles begins to sing an' we lines out for that west'ard push, this yere boy rides along with edson an' the lancers. "'our old war chief who has charge of our wanderin's is strictly stern an' hard. an' i reckons now he's the last gent to go makin' soft allowances for any warmth of yooth, or puttin' up with any primrose paths of gentle dalliance, of any an' all who ever buckles on a set of side arms. it thus befalls that when he discovers on the mornin' of the second day that this mexican boy is a mexican girl, he goes ragin' into the ambient air like a eagle. "'the old man claps edson onder arrest an' commands the girl to saddle up an' go streakin' for the plaza chico. as it's only a slow day's march an' as these mexicans knows the country like a coyote, it's a cinch the girl meets no harm an' runs no resks. but it serves to plant the thorns of wrath in the heart of captain edson. "'the old man makes him loose an' gives him back his lancers before ever we rides half a day, but it don't work no mollifications with the young captain. he offers no remarks, bein' too good a soldier; but he never speaks to the old man no more, except it's business. "'"joe," he says to me, as we rides along, or mebby after we're in camp at night, "i'll never go back to texas. i've been disgraced at the head of my troop an' i'll take no sech record home." "'"you oughter not talk that a-way, ed," i'd say, tryin' to get his sensibilities smoothed down. "if you don't care none for yourse'f or for your footure, you-all should remember thar's something comin' to the loved ones at home. moreover, it's weak sayin' you-all ain't goin' back to texas. how be you goin' to he'p it, onless you piles up shore-enough disgrace by desertin' them lancers of yours?" "'"which if we has the luck," says this captain edson, "to cross up with any yanks who's capable of aimin' low an' shootin' half way troo, i'll find a way to dodge that goin' back without desertin'." "'no, i don't make no argyments with him; it's hopeless talkin' to a gent who's melancholly an' who's pride's been jarred; thar's nothing but time can fix things up for him. an' i allers allows that this boy captain would have emerged from the clouds eventooal, only it happens he don't get the time. his chance comes too soon; an' he shore plays it desperate. "'our first offishul act after reachin' the rio grande is to lay for a passel of yank cavalry--thar's two thousand of 'em i reckons. we rides up on these yere lively persons as we sounds a halt for the evenin'. it looks like our boogles is a summons, for they comes buttin' into view through a dry arroya an' out onto the wide green bottoms of the rio grande at the first call. they're about a mile away, an' at sight of us they begins in a fashion of idle indifference to throw out a line of battle. they fights on foot, them bloo folks do; dismounting with every fourth man to hold the hosses. they displays a heap of insolence for nothin' but cavalry an' no big guns; but as they fights like infantry an' is armed with spencer seven-shooters besides, the play ain't so owdacious neither. "'thar's mebby a hour of sun an' i'm feelin' mighty surly as i gets my battery into line. i'm disgusted to think we've got to fight for our night's camp, an' swearin' to myse'f in a low tone, so's not to set profane examples to my men, at the idee that these yere yanks is that preecip'tate they can't wait till mornin' for their war-jig. but i can't he'p myse'f. that proverb about it takin' two to make a fight is all a bluff. it only takes one to make a fight. as far as we-all rebs is concerned that evenin' we ain't honin' for trouble, leastwise, not ontil mornin'; but them inordinate yanks will have it, an' thar you be. the fight can't be postponed. "'thar's no tumblin' hurry about how any of us goes to work. both sides has got old at the game an' war ain't the novelty she is once. the yanks is takin' their p'sition, an' we're locatin' our lines an' all as ca'mly an' with no more excitement than if it's dress p'rade. the yanks is from colorado. my sergeant speaks of 'em to me the next day an' gives his opinion touchin' their merits. "'"where did you say them yankees comes from, major?" says my serjeant. "'"colorado," i replies. "'"which thar's about thirty minutes last evenin'," says my serjeant, "when i shorely thinks they're recrooted in hell," an' my serjeant shakes his head. "'while i'm linin' up my battery mighty discontented an' disgruntled, an orderly pulls my sleeve. "'"look thar, major!" he says. "'i turns, an' thar over on our right, all alone, goes captain edson an' his lancers. without waiting an' without commands, captain edson has his boogler sound a charge; an' thar goes the lancers stampedin' along like they're a army corps an' cap'ble of sweepin' the two thousand cool an' c'llected yankees off the rio grande. "'for a moment all we does is stand an' look; the surprise of it leaves no idee of action. the lancers swings across the grassy levels. thar's not a shot fired; edson's people ain't got nothin' but them reedic'lous spears, an' the yanks, who seems to know it, stands like the rest of us without firin' an' watches 'em come. it's like a picture, with the thin bright air an' the settin' sun shinin' sideways over the gray line of mountains fifty miles to the west. "'i never sees folks more placid than the yanks an' at the same time so plumb alert. mountain lions is lethargic to 'em. when captain edson an' his lancers charges into 'em the yanks opens right an' left, each sharp of 'em gettin' outen the way of that partic'lar lancer who's tryin' to spear him; but all in a steady, onruffled fashion that's as threatenin' as it is excellent. the lancers, with captain edson, goes through, full charge, twenty rods to the r'ar of the yankee line. an', gents, never a man comes back. "'as edson an' his troop goes through, the yanks turns an' opens on 'em. the voices of the spencers sounds like the long roll of a drum. hoss an' man goes down, dead an' wounded; never a gent of 'em all rides back through that awful yankee line. pore edson shore has his wish; he's cut the trail of folks who's cap'ble of aimin' low an' shootin' half way troo. "'these sperited moves i've been relatin' don't take no time in the doin'. the hairbrain play of captain edson forces our hands. the old man orders a charge, an' we pushes the yanks back onto their hosses an' rescoos what's left of edson an' his lancers. after skirmishin' a little the yanks draws away an' leaves us alone on the field. they earns the encomiums of my serjeant, though, before ever they decides to _vamos_. "'edson's been shot hard and frequent; thar's no chance for him. he looks up at me, when we're bringin' him off, an' says: "'"joe," an' he smiles an' squeezes my hand, while his tones is plenty feeble, "joe, you notes don't you that while i ain't goin' back to texas, i don't have to desert." "'that night we beds down our boy captain in a sol'tary mexican 'doby. he's layin' on a pile of blankets clost by the door while the moon shines down an' makes things light as noonday. he's been talkin' to me an' givin' me messages for his mother an' the rest of his outfit at waco, an' i promises to carry 'em safe an' deliver 'em when i rides in ag'in on good old texas. then he wants his mare brought up where he can pet her muzzle an' say _adios_ to her. "'"for, joe," he says, "i'm doo to go at once now, an' my days is down to minutes." "'"the medicine man, ed," i says, "tells me that you-all has hours to live." "'"but, joe," he replies, "i knows. i'm a mighty good prophet you recalls about my not goin' back, an' you can gamble i'm not makin' any mistakes now. it's down to minutes, i tells you, an' i wants to see my mare." "'which the mare is brought up an' stands thar with her velvet nose in his face; her name's "ruth," after edson's sweetheart. the mare is as splendid as a picture; pure blood, an' her speed an' bottom is the wonder of the army. usual a hoss is locoed by the smell of blood, but it don't stampede this ruth; an' she stays thar with him as still an' tender as a woman, an' with all the sorrow in her heart of folks. as edson rubs her nose with his weak hand an' pets her, he asks me to take this ruth back to his sweetheart with all his love. "'"which now i'm goin'," he whispers, "no one's to mention that eepisode of the pecos an' the little mexican girl of plaza chico!" "'edson is still a moment; an' then after sayin' "good-by," he lets on that he desires me to leave him alone with the mare. "'"i'll give ruth yere a kiss an' a extra message for my sweetheart," he says, "an' then i'll sleep some." "'i camps down outside the 'doby an' looks up at the moon an' begins to let my own thoughts go grazin' off towards texas. it's perhaps a minute when thar's the quick _crack_! of a six-shooter, an' the mare ruth r'ars up an' back'ard ontil she's almost down. but she recovers herse'f an' stands sweatin' an' shiverin' an' her eyes burnin' like she sees a ghost. shore, it's over; pore edson won't wait; he's got to his guns, an' thar's a bullet through his head.'" the end. note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustrations in color. see -h.htm or -h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/ / -h/ -h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/ / -h.zip) mr. munchausen [illustration] mr. munchausen _being a true account of some of the recent adventures beyond the styx of the late hieronymus carl friedrich, sometime baron munchausen of bodenwerder, as originally reported for the sunday edition of the gehenna gazette by its special interviewer the late mr. ananias formerly of jerusalem and now first transcribed from the columns of that journal by_ john kendrick bangs embellished with drawings by peter newell [illustration] boston: _printed for noyes, platt & company and published by them at their offices in the pierce building in copley square_, a.d. copyright, , by noyes, platt & company, (incorporated) entered at stationers' hall the lithographed illustrations are printed in eight colours by george h. walker and company, boston press of riggs printing and publishing co. albany, n. y., u. s. a. editor's apology _and_ dedication _in order that there may be no misunderstanding as to the why and the wherefore of this collection of tales it appears to me to be desirable that i should at the outset state my reasons for acting as the medium between the spirit of the late baron munchausen and the reading public. in common with a large number of other great men in history baron munchausen has suffered because he is not understood. i have observed with wondering surprise the steady and constant growth of the idea that baron munchausen was not a man of truth; that his statements of fact were untrustworthy, and that as a realist he had no standing whatsoever. just how this misconception of the man's character has arisen it would be difficult to say. surely in his published writings he shows that same lofty resolve to be true to life as he has seen it that characterises the work of some of the high apostles of realism, who are writing of the things that will teach future generations how we of to-day ordered our goings-on. the note of veracity in baron munchausen's early literary venturings rings as clear and as true certainly as the similar note in the charming studies of manx realism that have come to us of late years from the pen of mr. corridor walkingstick, of gloomster abbey and london. we all remember the glow of satisfaction with which we read mr. walkingstick's great story of the love of the clergyman, john stress, for the charming little heroine, glory partridge. here was something at last that rang true. the picture was painted in the boldest of colours, and, regardless of consequences to himself, mr. walkingstick dared to be real when he might have given rein to his imagination. mr. walkingstick was, thereupon, lifted up by popular favour to the level of an apostle--nay, he even admitted the soft impeachment--and now as a moral teacher he is without a rival in the world of literature. yet the same age that accepts this man as a moral teacher, rejects baron munchausen, who, in different manner perhaps, presented to the world as true and life-like a picture of the conditions of his day as that given to us by mr. walkingstick in his deservedly popular romance, "episcopalians i have met." of course, i do not claim that baron munchausen's stories in bulk or in specified instances, have the literary vigour that is so marked a quality of the latter-day writer, but the point i do wish to urge is that to accept the one as a veracious chronicler of his time and to reject the other as one who indulges his pen in all sorts of grotesque vagaries, without proper regard for the facts, is a great injustice to the man of other times. the question arises, _why_ is this? how has this wrong upon the worthy realist of the eighteenth century been perpetrated? is it an intentional or an unwitting wrong? i prefer to believe that it is based upon ignorance of the baron's true quality, due to the fact that his works are rarely to be found within the reach of the public: in some cases, because of the failure of librarians to comprehend his real motives, his narratives are excluded from public and sunday-school libraries; and because of their extreme age, they are not easily again brought into vogue. i have, therefore, accepted the office of intermediary between the baron and the readers of the present day, in order that his later work, which, while it shows to a marked degree the decadence of his literary powers, may yet serve to demonstrate to the readers of my own time how favourably he compares with some of the literary idols of to-day, in the simple matter of fidelity to fact. if these stories which follow shall serve to rehabilitate baron munchausen as a lover and practitioner of the arts of truth, i shall not have made the sacrifice of my time in vain. if they fail of this purpose i shall still have the satisfaction of knowing that i have tried to render a service to an honest and defenceless man._ _meanwhile i dedicate this volume, with sentiments of the highest regard, to that other great realist_ mr. corridor walkingstick _of_ gloomster abbey j. k. b. contents i. i encounter the old gentleman ii. the sporting tour of mr. munchausen iii. three months in a balloon iv. some hunting stories for children v. the story of jang vi. he tells the twins of fire-works vii. saved by a magic lantern viii. an adventure in the desert ix. decoration day in the cannibal islands x. mr. munchausen's adventure with a shark xi. the baron as a runner xii. mr. munchausen meets his match xiii. wriggletto xiv. the poetic june-bug, together with some remarks on the gillyhooly bird xv. a lucky stroke list of illustrations portrait of mr. munchausen "there was the whale, drawn by magnetic influence to the side of _the lyre_" "as their bullets got to their highest point and began to drop back, i reached out and caught them" "i got nearer and nearer my haven of safety, the bellowing beasts snorting with rage as they followed" "jang buzzed over and sat on his back, putting his sting where it would do the most good" "out of what appeared to be a clear sky came the most extraordinary rain storm you ever saw" "'i am your slave,' he replied to my greeting, kneeling before me, 'i yield all to you'" "i reached the giraffe, raised myself to his back, crawled along his neck and dropped fainting into the tree" "they were celebrating decoration day, strewing flowers on the graves of departed missionaries" "i laughed in the poor disappointed thing's face, and with a howl of despair he rushed back into the sea" "this brought my speed down ten minutes to the mile which made it safe for me to run into a haystack" "at the first whoop mr. bear jumped ten feet and fell over backward on the floor" "he used to wind his tail about a fan and he'd wave it to and fro by the hour" "most singular of all was the fact that, consciously or unconsciously, the insect had butted out a verse" "again i swung my red-flagged brassey in front of the angry creature's face, and what i had hoped for followed" mr. munchausen an account of his recent adventures i i encounter the old gentleman there are moments of supreme embarrassment in the lives of persons given to veracity,--indeed it has been my own unusual experience in life that the truth well stuck to is twice as hard a proposition as a lie so obvious that no one is deceived by it at the outset. i cannot quite agree with my friend, caddy barlow, who says that in a tight place it is better to lie at once and be done with it than to tell the truth which will need forty more truths to explain it, but i must confess that in my forty years of absolute and conscientious devotion to truth i have found myself in holes far deeper than any my most mendacious of friends ever got into. i do not propose, however, to desert at this late hour the goddess i have always worshipped because she leads me over a rough and rocky road, and whatever may be the hardships involved in my wooing i intend to the very end to remain the ever faithful slave of mademoiselle veracité. all of which i state here in prefatory mood, and in order, in so far as it is possible for me to do so, to disarm the incredulous and sniffy reader who may be inclined to doubt the truth of my story of how the manuscript of the following pages came into my possession. i am quite aware that to some the tale will appear absolutely and intolerably impossible. i know that if any other than i told it to me i should not believe it. yet despite these drawbacks the story is in all particulars, essential and otherwise, absolutely truthful. the facts are briefly these: it was not, to begin with, a dark and dismal evening. the snow was not falling silently, clothing a sad and gloomy world in a mantle of white, and over the darkling moor a heavy mist was not rising, as is so frequently the case. there was no soul-stirring moaning of bitter winds through the leafless boughs; so far as i was aware nothing soughed within twenty miles of my bailiwick; and my dog, lying before a blazing log fire in my library, did not give forth an occasional growl of apprehension, denoting the presence or approach of an uncanny visitor from other and mysterious realms: and for two good reasons. the first reason is that it was midsummer when the thing happened, so that a blazing log fire in my library would have been an extravagance as well as an anachronism. the second is that i have no dog. in fact there was nothing unusual, or uncanny in the whole experience. it happened to be a bright and somewhat too sunny july day, which is not an unusual happening along the banks of the hudson. you could see the heat, and if anything had soughed it could only have been the mercury in my thermometer. this i must say clicked nervously against the top of the glass tube and manifested an extraordinary desire to climb higher than the length of the tube permitted. incidentally i may add, even if it be not believed, that the heat was so intense that the mercury actually did raise the whole thermometer a foot and a half above the mantel-shelf, and for two mortal hours, from midday until two by the monastery clock, held it suspended there in mid-air with no visible means of support. not a breath of air was stirring, and the only sounds heard were the expanding creaks of the beams of my house, which upon that particular day increased eight feet in width and assumed a height which made it appear to be a three instead of a two story dwelling. there was little work doing in the house. the children played about in their bathing suits, and the only other active factor in my life of the moment was our hired man who was kept busy in the cellar pouring water on the furnace coal to keep it from spontaneously combusting. we had just had luncheon, burning our throats with the iced tea and with considerable discomfort swallowing the simmering cold roast filet, which we had to eat hastily before the heat of the day transformed it into smoked beef. my youngest boy willie perspired so copiously that we seriously thought of sending for a plumber to solder up his pores, and as for myself who have spent three summers of my life in the desert of sahara in order to rid myself of nervous chills to which i was once unhappily subject, for the first time in my life i was impelled to admit that it was intolerably warm. and then the telephone bell rang. "great scott!" i cried, "who in thunder do you suppose wants to play golf on a day like this?"--for nowadays our telephone is used for no other purpose than the making or the breaking of golf engagements. "me," cried my eldest son, whose grammar is not as yet on a par with his activity. "i'll go." the boy shot out of the dining room and ran to the telephone, returning in a few moments with the statement that a gentleman with a husky voice whose name was none of his business wished to speak with me on a matter of some importance to myself. i was loath to go. my friends the book agents had recently acquired the habit of approaching me over the telephone, and i feared that here was another nefarious attempt to foist a thirty-eight volume tabloid edition of _the world's worst literature_ upon me. nevertheless i wisely determined to respond. "hello," i said, placing my lips against the rubber cup. "hello there, who wants nepperhan?" "is that you?" came the answering question, and, as my boy had indicated, in a voice whose chief quality was huskiness. "i guess so," i replied facetiously;--"it was this morning, but the heat has affected me somewhat, and i don't feel as much like myself as i might. what can i do for you?" "nothing, but you can do a lot for yourself," was the astonishing answer. "pretty hot for literary work, isn't it?" the voice added sympathetically. "very," said i. "fact is i can't seem to do anything these days but perspire." "that's what i thought; and when you can't work ruin stares you in the face, eh? now i have a manuscript--" "oh lord!" i cried. "don't. there are millions in the same fix. even my cook writes." "don't know about that," he returned instantly. "but i do know that there's millions in my manuscript. and you can have it for the asking. how's that for an offer?" "very kind, thank you," said i. "what's the nature of your story?" "it's extremely good-natured," he answered promptly. i laughed. the twist amused me. "that isn't what i meant exactly," said i, "though it has some bearing on the situation. is it a henry james dandy, or does it bear the mark of caine? is it realism or fiction?" "realism," said he. "fiction isn't in my line." "well, i'll tell you," i replied; "you send it to me by post and i'll look it over. if i can use it i will." "can't do it," said he. "there isn't any post-office where i am." "what?" i cried. "no post-office? where in hades are you?" "gehenna," he answered briefly. "the transportation between your country and mine is all one way," he added. "if it wasn't the population here would diminish." "then how the deuce am i to get hold of your stuff?" i demanded. "that's easy. send your stenographer to the 'phone and i'll dictate it," he answered. the novelty of the situation appealed to me. even if my new found acquaintance were some funny person nearer at hand than gehenna trying to play a practical joke upon me, still it might be worth while to get hold of the story he had to tell. hence i agreed to his proposal. "all right, sir," said i. "i'll do it. i'll have him here to-morrow morning at nine o'clock sharp. what's your number? i'll ring you up." "never mind that," he replied. "i'm merely a tapster on your wires. i'll ring _you_ up as soon as i've had breakfast and then we can get to work." "very good," said i. "and may i ask your name?" "certainly," he answered. "i'm munchausen." "what? the baron?" i roared, delighted. "well--i used to be baron," he returned with a tinge of sadness in his voice, "but here in gehenna we are all on an equal footing. i'm plain mr. munchausen of hades now. but that's a detail. don't forget. nine o'clock. good-bye." "wait a moment, baron," i cried. "how about the royalties on this book?" "keep 'em for yourself," he replied. "we have money to burn over here. you are welcome to all the earthly rights of the book. i'm satisfied with the returns on the asbestos edition, already in its th thousand. good-bye." there was a rattle as of the hanging up of the receiver, a short sharp click and a ring, and i realised that he had gone. the next morning in response to a telegraphic summons my stenographer arrived and when i explained the situation to him he was incredulous, but orders were orders and he remained. i could see, however, that as nine o'clock approached he grew visibly nervous, which indicated that he half believed me anyhow, and when at nine to the second the sharp ring of the 'phone fell upon our ears he jumped as if he had been shot. "hello," said i again. "that you, baron?" "the same," the voice replied. "stenographer ready?" "yes," said i. the stenographer walked to the desk, placed the receiver at his ear, and with trembling voice announced his presence. there was a response of some kind, and then more calmly he remarked, "fire ahead, mr. munchausen," and began to write rapidly in short-hand. two days later he handed me a type-written copy of the following stories. the reader will observe that they are in the form of interviews, and it should be stated here that they appeared originally in the columns of the sunday edition of the _gehenna gazette_, a publication of hades which circulates wholly among the best people of that country, and which, if report saith truly, would not print a line which could not be placed in the hands of children, and to whose columns such writers as chaucer, shakespeare, ben jonson, jonah and ananias are frequent contributors. indeed, on the statement of mr. munchausen, all the interviews herein set forth were between himself as the principal and the hon. henry b. ananias as reporter, or were scrupulously edited by the latter before being published. ii the sporting tour of mr. munchausen "good morning, mr. munchausen," said the interviewer of the _gehenna gazette_ entering the apartment of the famous traveller at the hotel deville, where the late baron had just arrived from his sporting tour in the blue hills of cimmeria and elsewhere. "the interests of truth, my dear ananias," replied the baron, grasping me cordially by the hand, "require that i should state it as my opinion that it is not a good morning. in fact, my good friend, it is a very bad morning. can you not see that it is raining cats and dogs without?" "sir," said i with a bow, "i accept the spirit of your correction but not the letter. it is raining indeed, sir, as you suggest, but having passed through it myself on my way hither i can personally testify that it is raining rain, and not a single cat or canine has, to my knowledge, as yet fallen from the clouds to the parched earth, although i am informed that down upon the coast an elephant and three cows have fallen upon one of the summer hotels and irreparably damaged the roof." mr. munchausen laughed. "it is curious, ananias," said he, "what sticklers for the truth you and i have become." "it is indeed, munchausen," i returned. "the effects of this climate are working wonders upon us. and it is just as well. you and i are outclassed by these twentieth century prevaricators concerning whom late arrivals from the upper world tell such strange things. they tell me that lying has become a business and is no longer ranked among the arts or professions." "ah me!" sighed the baron with a retrospective look in his eye, "lying isn't what it used to be, ananias, in your days and mine. i fear it has become one of the lost arts." "i have noticed it myself, my friend, and only last night i observed the same thing to my well beloved sapphira, who was lamenting the transparency of the modern lie, and said that lying to-day is no better than the truth. in our day a prevarication had all of the opaque beauty of an opalescent bit of glass, whereas to-day in the majority of cases it is like a great vulgar plate-glass window, through which we can plainly see the ugly truths that lie behind. but, sir, i am here to secure from you not a treatise upon the lost art of lying, but some idea of the results of your sporting tour. you fished, and hunted, and golfed, and doubtless did other things. you, of course, had luck and made the greatest catch of the season; shot all the game in sight, and won every silver, gold and pewter golf mug in all creation?" "you speak truly, ananias," returned mr. munchausen. "my luck _was_ wonderful--even for one who has been so singularly fortunate as i. i took three tons of speckled beauties with one cast of an ordinary horse whip in the blue hills, and with nothing but a silken line and a minnow hook landed upon the deck of my steam yacht a whale of most tremendous proportions; i shot game of every kind in great abundance and in my golf there was none to whom i could not give with ease seven holes in every nine and beat him out." "seven?" said i, failing to see how the ex-baron could be right. "seven," said he complacently. "seven on the first, and seven on the second nine; fourteen in all of the eighteen holes." "but," i cried, "i do not see how that could be. with fourteen holes out of the eighteen given to your opponent even if you won all the rest you still would be ten down." "true, by ordinary methods of calculation," returned the baron, "but i got them back on a technicality, which i claim is a new and valuable discovery in the game. you see it is impossible to play more than one hole at a time, and i invariably proved to the greens committee that in taking fourteen holes at once my opponent violated the physical possibilities of the situation. in every case the point was accepted as well taken, for if we allow golfers to rise above physical possibilities the game is gone. the integrity of the card is the soul of golf," he added sententiously. "tell me of the whale," said i, simply. "you landed a whale of large proportions on the deck of your yacht with a simple silken line and a minnow hook." "well it's a tough story," the baron replied, handing me a cigar. "but it is true, ananias, true to the last word. i was fishing for eels. sitting on the deck of _the lyre_ one very warm afternoon in the early stages of my trip, i baited a minnow hook and dropped it overboard. it was the roughest day at sea i had ever encountered. the waves were mountain high, and it is the sad fact that one of our crew seated in the main-top was drowned with the spray of the dashing billows. fortunately for myself, directly behind my deck chair, to which i was securely lashed, was a powerful electric fan which blew the spray away from me, else i too might have suffered the same horrid fate. suddenly there came a tug on my line. i was half asleep at the time and let the line pay out involuntarily, but i was wide-awake enough to know that something larger than an eel had taken hold of the hook. i had hooked either a leviathan or a derelict. caution and patience, the chief attributes of a good angler were required. i hauled the line in until it was taut. there were a thousand yards of it out, and when it reached the point of tensity, i gave orders to the engineers to steam closer to the object at the other end. we steamed in five hundred yards, i meanwhile hauling in my line. then came another tug and i let out ten yards. 'steam closer,' said i. 'three hundred yards sou-sou-west by nor'-east.' the yacht obeyed on the instant. i called the captain and let him feel the line. 'what do you think it is?' said i. he pulled a half dozen times. 'feels like a snag,' he said, 'but seein' as there ain't no snags out here, i think it must be a fish.' 'what kind?' i asked. i could not but agree that he was better acquainted with the sea and its denizens than i. 'well,' he replied, 'it is either a sea serpent or a whale.' at the mere mention of the word whale i was alert. i have always wanted to kill a whale. 'captain,' said i, 'can't you tie an anchor onto a hawser, and bait the flukes with a boa constrictor and make sure of him?' he looked at me contemptuously. 'whales eats fish,' said he, 'and they don't bite at no anchors. whales has brains, whales has.' 'what shall we do?' i asked. 'steam closer,' said the captain, and we did so." munchausen took a long breath and for the moment was silent. "well?" said i. "well, ananias," said he. "we resolved to wait. as the captain said to me, 'fishin' is waitin'.' so we waited. 'coax him along,' said the captain. 'how can we do it?' i asked. 'by kindness,' said he. 'treat him gently, persuasive-like and he'll come.' we waited four days and nobody moved and i grew weary of coaxing. 'we've got to do something,' said i to the captain. 'yes,' said he, 'let's _make_ him move. he doesn't seem to respond to kindness.' 'but how?' i cried. 'give him an electric shock,' said the captain. 'telegraph him his mother's sick and may be it'll move him.' 'can't you get closer to him?' i demanded, resenting his facetious manner. 'i can, but it will scare him off,' replied the captain. so we turned all our batteries on the sea. the dynamo shot forth its bolts and along about four o'clock in the afternoon there was the whale drawn by magnetic influence to the side of _the lyre_. he was a beauty, ananias," munchausen added with enthusiasm. "you never saw such a whale. his back was as broad as the deck of an ocean steamer and in his length he exceeded the dimensions of _the lyre_ by sixty feet." "and still you got him on deck?" i asked,--i, ananias, who can stand something in the way of an exaggeration. "yes," said munchausen, lighting his cigar, which had gone out. "another storm came up and we rolled and rolled and rolled, until i thought _the lyre_ was going to capsize." "but weren't you sea-sick?" i asked. "didn't have a chance to be," said munchausen. "i was thinking of the whale all the time. finally there came a roll in which we went completely under, and with a slight pulling on the line the whale was landed by the force of the wave and laid squarely upon the deck." "great sapphira!" said i. "but you just said he was wider and longer than the yacht!" [illustration: "there was the whale drawn by magnetic influence to the side of _the lyre_." _chapter ii._] "he was," sighed munchausen. "he landed on the deck and by sheer force of his weight the yacht went down under him. i swam ashore and the whole crew with me. the next day mr. whale floated in strangled. he'd swallowed the thousand yards of line and it got so tangled in his tonsils that it choked him to death. come around next week and i'll give you a couple of pounds of whalebone for mrs. ananias, and all the oil you can carry." i thanked the old gentleman for his kind offer and promised to avail myself of it, although as a newspaper man it is against my principles to accept gifts from public men. "it was great luck, baron," said i. "or at least it would have been if you hadn't lost your yacht." "that was great luck too," he observed nonchalantly. "it cost me ten thousand dollars a month keeping that yacht in commission. now she's gone i save all that. why it's like finding money in the street, ananias. she wasn't worth more than fifty thousand dollars, and in six months i'll be ten thousand ahead." i could not but admire the cheerful philosophy of the man, but then i was not surprised. munchausen was never the sort of man to let little things worry him. "but that whale business wasn't a circumstance to my catch of three tons of trout with a single cast of a horse-whip in the blue hills," said the baron after a few moments of meditation, during which i could see that he was carefully marshalling his facts. "i never heard of its equal," said i. "you must have used a derrick." "no," he replied suavely. "nothing of the sort. it was the simplest thing in the world. it was along about five o'clock in the afternoon when with my three guides and my valet i drove up the winding roadway of great sulphur mountain on my way to the blue mountain house where i purposed to put up for a few days. i had one of those big mountain wagons with a covered top to it such as the pioneers used on the american plains, with six fine horses to the fore. i held the reins myself, since we were in the midst of a terrific thunderstorm and i felt safer when i did my own driving. all the flaps of the leathern cover were let down at the sides and at the back, and were securely fastened. the roads were unusually heavy, and when we came to the last great hill before the lake all but i were walking, as a measure of relief to the horses. suddenly one of the horses balked right in the middle of the ascent, and in a moment of impatience i gave him a stinging flick with my whip, when like a whirlwind the whole six swerved to one side and started on a dead run upward. the jolt and the unexpected swerving of the wagon threw me from my seat and i landed clear of the wheels in the soft mud of the roadway, fortunately without injury. when i arose the team was out of sight and we had to walk the remainder of the distance to the hotel. imagine our surprise upon arriving there to find the six panting steeds and the wagon standing before the main entrance to the hotel dripping as though they had been through the falls of niagara, and, would you believe it, ananias, inside that leather cover of the wagon, packed as tightly as sardines, were no less than three thousand trout, not one of them weighing less than a pound and some of them getting as high as four. the whole catch weighed a trifle over six thousand pounds." "great heavens, baron," i cried. "where the dickens did they come from?" "that's what i asked myself," said the baron easily. "it seemed astounding at first glance, but investigation showed it after all to be a very simple proposition. the runaways after reaching the top of the hill turned to the left, and clattered on down toward the bridge over the inlet to the lake. the bridge broke beneath their weight and the horses soon found themselves struggling in the water. the harness was strong and the wagon never left them. they had to swim for it, and i am told by a small boy who was fishing on the lake at the time that they swam directly across it, pulling the wagon after them. naturally with its open front and confined back and sides the wagon acted as a sort of drag-net and when the opposite shore was gained, and the wagon was pulled ashore, it was found to have gathered in all the fish that could not get out of the way." the baron resumed his cigar, and i sat still eyeing the ample pattern of the drawing-room carpet. "pretty good catch for an afternoon, eh?" he said in a minute. "yes," said i. "almost too good, baron. those horses must have swam like the dickens to get over so quickly. you would think the trout would have had time to escape." "oh i presume one or two of them did," said munchausen. "but the majority of them couldn't. the horses were all fast, record-breakers anyhow. i never hire a horse that isn't." and with that i left the old gentleman and walked blushing back to the office. i don't doubt for an instant the truth of the baron's story, but somehow or other i feel that in writing it my reputation is in some measure at stake. note--mr. munchausen, upon request of the editor of the _gehenna gazette_ to write a few stories of adventure for his imp's page, conducted by sapphira, contributed the tales which form the substance of several of the following chapters. iii three months in a balloon mr. munchausen was not handsome, but the imps liked him very much, he was so full of wonderful reminiscences, and was always willing to tell anybody that would listen, all about himself. to the heavenly twins he was the greatest hero that had ever lived. napoleon bonaparte, on mr. munchausen's own authority, was not half the warrior that he, the late baron had been, nor was cæsar in his palmiest days, one-quarter so wise or so brave. how old the baron was no one ever knew, but he had certainly lived long enough to travel the world over, and stare every kind of death squarely in the face without flinching. he had fought zulus, indians, tigers, elephants--in fact, everything that fights, the baron had encountered, and in every contest he had come out victorious. he was the only man the children had ever seen that had lost three legs in battle and then had recovered them after the fight was over; he was the only visitor to their house that had been lost in the african jungle and wandered about for three months without food or shelter, and best of all he was, on his own confession, the most truthful narrator of extraordinary tales living. the youngsters had to ask the baron a question only, any one, it mattered not what it was--to start him off on a story of adventure, and as he called upon the twins' father once a month regularly, the children were not long in getting together a collection of tales beside which the most exciting episodes in history paled into insignificant commonplaces. "uncle munch," said the twins one day, as they climbed up into the visitor's lap and disarranged his necktie, "was you ever up in a balloon?" "only once," said the baron calmly. "but i had enough of it that time to last me for a lifetime." "was you in it for long?" queried the twins, taking the baron's watch out of his pocket and flinging it at cerberus, who was barking outside of the window. "well, it seemed long enough," the baron answered, putting his pocket-book in the inside pocket of his vest where the twins could not reach it. "three months off in the country sleeping all day long and playing tricks all night seems a very short time, but three months in a balloon and the constant centre of attack from every source is too long for comfort." "were you up in the air for three whole months?" asked the twins, their eyes wide open with astonishment. "all but two days," said the baron. "for two of those days we rested in the top of a tree in india. the way of it was this: i was always, as you know, a great favourite with the emperor napoleon, of france, and when he found himself involved in a war with all europe, he replied to one of his courtiers who warned him that his army was not in condition: 'any army is prepared for war whose commander-in-chief numbers baron munchausen among his advisers. let me have munchausen at my right hand and i will fight the world.' so they sent for me and as i was not very busy i concluded to go and assist the french, although the allies and i were also very good friends. i reasoned it out this way: in this fight the allies are the stronger. they do not need me. napoleon does. fight for the weak, munchausen, i said to myself, and so i went. of course, when i reached paris i went at once to the emperor's palace and remained at his side until he took the field, after which i remained behind for a few days to put things to rights for the imperial family. unfortunately for the french, the king of prussia heard of my delay in going to the front, and he sent word to his forces to intercept me on my way to join napoleon at all hazards, and this they tried to do. when i was within ten miles of the emperor's headquarters, i was stopped by the prussians, and had it not been that i had provided myself with a balloon for just such an emergency, i should have been captured and confined in the king's palace at berlin, until the war was over. "foreseeing all this, i had brought with me a large balloon packed away in a secret section of my trunk, and while my body-guard was fighting with the prussian troops sent to capture me, i and my valet inflated the balloon, jumped into the car and were soon high up out of the enemy's reach. they fired several shots at us, and one of them would have pierced the balloon had i not, by a rare good shot, fired my own rifle at the bullet, and hitting it squarely in the middle, as is my custom, diverted it from its course, and so saved our lives. "it had been my intention to sail directly over the heads of the attacking party and drop down into napoleon's camp the next morning, but unfortunately for my calculations, a heavy wind came up in the night and the balloon was caught by a northerly blast, and blown into africa, where, poised in the air directly over the desert of sahara, we encountered a dead calm, which kept us stalled up for two miserable weeks." "why didn't you come down?" asked the twins, "wasn't the elevator running?" "we didn't dare," explained the baron, ignoring the latter part of the question. "if we had we'd have wasted a great deal of our gas, and our condition would have been worse than ever. as i told you we were directly over the centre of the desert. there was no way of getting out of it except by long and wearisome marches over the hot, burning sands with the chances largely in favour of our never getting out alive. the only thing to do was to stay just where we were and wait for a favouring breeze. this we did, having to wait four mortal weeks before the air was stirred." "you said two weeks a minute ago, uncle munch," said the twins critically. "two? hem! well, yes it was two, now that i think of it. it's a natural mistake," said the baron stroking his mustache a little nervously. "you see two weeks in a balloon over a vast desert of sand, with nothing to do but whistle for a breeze, is equal to four weeks anywhere else. that is, it seems so. anyhow, two weeks or four, whichever it was, the breeze came finally, and along about midnight left us stranded again directly over an arab encampment near wady halfa. it was a more perilous position really, than the first, because the moment the arabs caught sight of us they began to make frantic efforts to get us down. at first we simply laughed them to scorn and made faces at them, because as far as we could see, we were safely out of reach. this enraged them and they apparently made up their minds to kill us if they could. at first their idea was to get us down alive and sell us as slaves, but our jeers changed all that, and what should they do but whip out a lot of guns and begin to pepper us. "'i'll settle them in a minute,' i said to myself, and set about loading my own gun. would you believe it, i found that my last bullet was the one with which i had saved the balloon from the prussian shot?" "mercy, how careless of you, uncle munch!" said one of the twins. "what did you do?" "i threw out a bag of sand ballast so that the balloon would rise just out of range of their guns, and then, as their bullets got to their highest point and began to drop back, i reached out and caught them in a dipper. rather neat idea, eh? with these i loaded my own rifle and shot every one of the hostile party with their own ammunition, and when the last of the attacking arabs dropped i found there were enough bullets left to fill the empty sand bag again, so that the lost ballast was not missed. in fact, there were enough of them in weight to bring the balloon down so near to the earth that our anchor rope dangled directly over the encampment, so that my valet and i, without wasting any of our gas, could climb down and secure all the magnificent treasures in rugs and silks and rare jewels these robbers of the desert had managed to get together in the course of their depredations. when these were placed in the car another breeze came up, and for the rest of the time we drifted idly about in the heavens waiting for a convenient place to land. in this manner we were blown hither and yon for three months over land and sea, and finally we were wrecked upon a tall tree in india, whence we escaped by means of a convenient elephant that happened to come our way, upon which we rode triumphantly into calcutta. the treasures we had secured from the arabs, unfortunately, we had to leave behind us in the tree, where i suppose they still are. i hope some day to go back and find them." here mr. munchausen paused for a moment to catch his breath. then he added with a sigh. "of course, i went back to france immediately, but by the time i reached paris the war was over, and the emperor was in exile. i was too late to save him--though i think if he had lived some sixty or seventy years longer i should have managed to restore his throne, and imperial splendour to him." the twins gazed into the fire in silence for a minute or two. then one of them asked: "but what did you live on all that time, uncle munch?" "eggs," said the baron. "eggs and occasionally fish. my servant had had the foresight when getting the balloon ready to include, among the things put into the car, a small coop in which were six pet chickens i owned, and without which i never went anywhere. these laid enough eggs every day to keep us alive. the fish we caught when our balloon stood over the sea, baiting our anchor with pieces of rubber gas pipe used to inflate the balloon, and which looked very much like worms." [illustration: "as their bullets got to their highest point and began to drop back, i reached out and caught them." _chapter iii._] "but the chickens?" said the twins. "what did they live on?" the baron blushed. "i am sorry you asked that question," he said, his voice trembling somewhat. "but i'll answer it if you promise never to tell anyone. it was the only time in my life that i ever practised an intentional deception upon any living thing, and i have always regretted it, although our very lives depended upon it." "what was it, uncle munch?" asked the twins, awed to think that the old warrior had ever deceived anyone. "i took the egg shells and ground them into powder, and fed them to the chickens. the poor creatures supposed it was corn-meal they were getting," confessed the baron. "i know it was mean, but what could i do?" "nothing," said the twins softly. "and we don't think it was so bad of you after all. many another person would have kept them laying eggs until they starved, and then he'd have killed them and eaten them up. you let them live." "that may be so," said the baron, with a smile that showed how relieved his conscience was by the twins' suggestion. "but i couldn't do that you know, because they were pets. i had been brought up from childhood with those chickens." then the twins, jamming the baron's hat down over his eyes, climbed down from his lap and went to their play, strongly of the opinion that, though a bold warrior, the baron was a singularly kind, soft-hearted man after all. iv some hunting stories for children the heavenly twins had been off in the mountains during their summer holiday, and in consequence had seen very little of their good old friend, mr. munchausen. he had written them once or twice, and they had found his letters most interesting, especially that one in which he told how he had killed a moose up in maine with his waterbury watch spring, and i do not wonder that they marvelled at that, for it was one of the most extraordinary happenings in the annals of the chase. it seems, if his story is to be believed, and i am sure that none of us who know him has ever had any reason to think that he would deceive intentionally; it seems, i say, that he had gone to maine for a week's sport with an old army acquaintance of his, who had now become a guide in that region. unfortunately his rifle, of which he was very fond, and with which his aim was unerring, was in some manner mislaid on the way, and when they arrived in the woods they were utterly without weapons; but mr. munchausen was not the man to be daunted by any such trifle as that, particularly while his friend had an old army musket, a relic of the war, stored away in the attic of his woodland domicile. "th' only trouble with that ar musket," said the old guide, "ain't so much that she won't shoot straight, nor that she's got a kick onto her like an unbroke mule. what i'm most afeard 'on about your shootin' with her ain't that i think she'll bust neither, for the fact is we ain't got nothin' for to bust her with, seein' as how ammynition is skeerce. i got powder, an' i got waddin', but i ain't got no shot." "that doesn't make any difference," the baron replied. "we can make the shot. have you got any plumbing in the camp? if you have, rip it out, and i'll melt up a water-pipe into bullets." "no, sir," retorted the old man. "plumbin' is one of the things i came here to escape from." "then," said the baron, "i'll use my watch for ammunition. it is only a three-dollar watch and i can spare it." with this determination, mr. munchausen took his watch to pieces, an ordinary time-piece of the old-fashioned kind, and, to make a long story short, shot for several days with the component parts of that useful affair rammed down into the barrel of the old musket. with the stem-winding ball he killed an eagle; with pieces of the back cover chopped up to a fineness of medium-sized shot he brought down several other birds, but the great feat of all was when he started for moose with nothing but the watch-spring in the barrel of the gun. having rolled it up as tight as he could, fastened it with a piece of twine, and rammed it well into the gun, he set out to find the noble animal upon whose life he had designs. after stalking the woods for several hours, he came upon the tracks which told him that his prey was not far off, and in a short while he caught sight of a magnificent creature, his huge antlers held proudly up and his great eyes full of defiance. for a moment the baron hesitated. the idea of destroying so beautiful an animal seemed to be abhorrent to his nature, which, warrior-like as he is, has something of the tenderness of a woman about it. a second glance at the superb creature, however, changed all that, for the baron then saw that to shoot to kill was necessary, for the beast was about to force a fight in which the hunter himself would be put upon the defensive. "i won't shoot you through the head, my beauty," he said, softly, "nor will i puncture your beautiful coat with this load of mine, but i'll kill you in a new way." with this he pulled the trigger. the powder exploded, the string binding the long black spring into a coil broke, and immediately the strip of steel shot forth into the air, made directly toward the neck of the rushing moose, and coiling its whole sinuous length tightly about the doomed creature's throat strangled him to death. as the twins' father said, a feat of that kind entitled the baron to a high place in fiction at least, if not in history itself. the twins were very much wrought up over the incident, particularly, when one too-smart small imp who was spending the summer at the same hotel where they were said that he didn't believe it,--but he was an imp who had never seen a cheap watch, so how should he know anything about what could be done with a spring that cannot be wound up by a great strong man in less than ten minutes? as for the baron he was very modest about the achievement, for when he first appeared at the twins' home after their return he had actually forgotten all about it, and, in fact, could not recall the incident at all, until diavolo brought him his own letter, when, of course, the whole matter came back to him. "it wasn't so very wonderful, anyhow," said the baron. "i should not think, for instance, of bragging about any such thing as that. it was a simple affair all through." "and what did you do with the moose's antlers?" asked angelica. "i hope you brought 'em home with you, because i'd like to see 'em." "i wanted to," said the baron, stroking the twins' soft brown locks affectionately. "i wanted to bring them home for your father to use as a hat rack, dear, but they were too large. when i had removed them from the dead animal, i found them so large that i could not get them out of the forest, they got so tangled up in the trees. i should have had to clear a path twenty feet wide and seven miles long to get them even as far as my friend's hut, and after that they would have had to be carried thirty miles through the woods to the express office." "i guess it's just as well after all," said diavolo. "if they were as big as all that, papa would have had to build a new house to get 'em into." "exactly," said the baron. "exactly. that same idea occurred to me, and for that reason i concluded not to go to the trouble of cutting away those miles of trees. the antlers would have made a very expensive present for your father to receive in these hard times." "it was a good thing you had that watch," the twins observed, after thinking over the baron's adventure. "if you hadn't had that you couldn't have killed the moose." "very likely not," said the baron, "unless i had been able to do as i did in india thirty years ago at a man hunt." "what?" cried the twins. "do they hunt men in india?"? "that all depends, my dears," replied the baron. "it all depends upon what you mean by the word they. men don't hunt men, but animals, great wild beasts sometimes hunt them, and it doesn't often happen that the men escape. in the particular man hunt i refer to i was the creature that was being hunted, and i've had a good deal of sympathy for foxes ever since. this was a regular fox hunt in a way, although i was the fox, and a herd of elephants were the huntsmen." "how queer," said diavolo, unscrewing one of the baron's shirt studs to see if he would fall apart. "not half so queer as my feelings when i realised my position," said the baron with a shake of his head. "i was frightened half to death. it seemed to me that i'd reached the end of my tether at last. i was studying the fauna and flora of india, in a small indian village, known as ah--what was the name of that town! ah--something like rathabad--no, that isn't quite it--however, one name does as well as another in india. it was a good many miles from calcutta, and i'd been living there about three months. the village lay in a small valley between two ranges of hills, none of them very high. on the other side of the westerly hills was a great level stretch of country upon which herds of elephants used to graze. out of this rose these hills, very precipitously, which was a very good thing for the people in the valley, else those elephants would have come over and played havoc with their homes and crops. to me the plains had a great fascination, and i used to wander over them day after day in search of new specimens for my collection of plants and flowers, never thinking of the danger i ran from an encounter with these elephants, who were very ferocious and extremely jealous of the territory they had come through years of occupation to regard as their own. so it happened, that one day, late in the afternoon, i was returning from an expedition over the plains, and, as i had found a large number of new specimens, i was feeling pretty happy. i whistled loudly as i walked, when suddenly coming to a slight undulation in the plain what should i see before me but a herd of sixty-three elephants, some eating, some thinking, some romping, and some lying asleep on the soft turf. now, if i had come quietly, of course, i could have passed them unobserved, but as i told you i was whistling. i forget what the tune was, the marsellaise or die wacht am rhein, or maybe tommie atkins, which enrages the elephants very much, being the national anthem of the british invader. at any rate, whatever the tune was it attracted the attention of the elephants, and then their sport began. the leader lifted his trunk high in the air, and let out a trumpet blast that echoed back from the cliff three miles distant. instantly every elephant was on the alert. those that had been sleeping awoke, and sprang to their feet. those that had been at play stopped in their romp, and under the leadership of the biggest brute of the lot they made a rush for me. i had no gun; nothing except my wits and my legs with which to defend myself, so i naturally began to use the latter until i could get the former to work. it was nip and tuck. they could run faster than i could, and i saw in an instant that without stratagem i could not hope to reach a place of safety. as i have said, the cliff, which rose straight up from the plain like a stone-wall, was three miles away, nor was there any other spot in which i could find a refuge. it occurred to me as i ran that if i ran in circles i could edge up nearer to the cliff all the time, and still keep my pursuers at a distance for the simple reason that an elephant being more or less unwieldy cannot turn as rapidly as a man can, so i kept running in circles. i could run around my short circle in less time than the enemy could run around his larger one, and in this manner i got nearer and nearer my haven of safety, the bellowing beasts snorting with rage as they followed. finally, when i began to see that i was tolerably safe, another idea occurred to me, which was that if i could manage to kill those huge creatures the ivory i could get would make my fortune. but how! that was the question. well, my dearly beloved imps, i admit that i am a fast runner, but i am also a fast thinker, and in less than two minutes i had my plan arranged. i stopped short when about two hundred feet from the cliff, and waited until the herd was fifty feet away. then i turned about and ran with all my might up to within two feet of the cliff, and then turning sharply to the left ran off in that direction. the elephants, thinking they had me, redoubled their speed, but failed to notice that i had turned, so quickly was that movement executed. they failed likewise to notice the cliff, as i had intended. the consequence was the whole sixty-three of them rushed head first, bang! with all their force, into the rock. the hill shook with the force of the blow and the sixty-three elephants fell dead. they had simply butted their brains out." [illustration: "i got nearer and nearer my haven of safety, the bellowing beasts snorting with rage as they followed." _chapter iv._] here the baron paused and pulled vigourously on his cigar, which had almost gone out. "that was fine," said the twins. "what a narrow escape it was for you, uncle munch," said diavolo. "very true," said the great soldier rising, as a signal that his story was done. "in fact you might say that i had sixty-three narrow escapes, one for each elephant." "but what became of the ivory?" asked angelica. "oh, as for that!" said the baron, with a sigh, "i was disappointed in that. they turned out to be all young elephants, and they had lost their first teeth. their second teeth hadn't grown yet. i got only enough ivory to make one paper cutter, which is the one i gave your father for christmas last year." which may account for the extraordinary interest the twins have taken in their father's paper cutter ever since. v the story of jang "did you ever own a dog, baron munchausen?" asked the reporter of the _gehenna gazette_, calling to interview the eminent nobleman during dog show week in cimmeria. "yes, indeed i have," said the baron, "i fancy i must have owned as many as a hundred dogs in my life. to be sure some of the dogs were iron and brass, but i was just as fond of them as if they had been made of plush or lamb's wool. they were so quiet, those iron dogs were; and the brass dogs never barked or snapped at any one." "i never saw a brass dog," said the reporter. "what good are they?" "oh they are likely to be very useful in winter," the baron replied. "my brass dogs used to guard my fire-place and keep the blazing logs from rolling out into my room and setting fire to the rug the khan of tartary gave me for saving his life from a herd of antipodes he and i were hunting in the himalaya mountains." "i don't see what you needed dogs to do that for," said the reporter. "a fender would have done just as well, or a pair of andirons," he added. "that's what these dogs were," said the baron. "they were fire dogs and fire dogs are andirons." ananias pressed his lips tightly together, and into his eyes came a troubled look. it was evident that, revolting as the idea was to him, he thought the baron was trying to deceive him. noting his displeasure, the baron inwardly resolving to be careful how he handled the truth, hastened on with his story. "but dogs were never my favourite animals," he said. "with my pets i am quite as i am with other things. i like to have pets that are entirely different from the pets of other people, and that is why in my day i have made companions of such animals as the sangaree, and the camomile, and the--ah--the two-horned piccolo. i've had tame bees even--in fact my bees used to be the wonder of siam, in which country i was stationed for three years, having been commissioned by a british company to make a study of its climate with a view to finding out if it would pay the company to go into the ice business there. siam is, as you have probably heard, a very warm country, and as ice is a very rare thing in warm countries these english people thought they might make a vast fortune by sending tug-boats up to the arctic ocean, and with them capture and tow icebergs to siam, where they might be cut up and sold to the people at tremendous profit. the scheme was certainly a good one, and i found many of the wealthy siamese quite willing to subscribe for a hundred pounds of ice a week at ten dollars a pound, but it never came to anything because we had no means of preserving the icebergs after we got them into the gulf of siam. the water was so hot that they melted before we could cut them up, and we nearly got ourselves into very serious trouble with the coast people for that same reason. an iceberg, as you know, is a huge affair, and when a dozen or two of them had melted in the gulf they added so to the quantity of water there that fifty miles of the coast line were completely flooded, and thousands of valuable fish, able to live in warm water only, were so chilled that they got pneumonia, and died. you can readily imagine how indignant the siamese fishermen were with my company over the losses they had to bear, but their affection for me personally was so great that they promised not to sue the company if i would promise not to let the thing occur again. this i promised, and all went well. but about the bees, it was while i was living in bangkok that i had them, and they were truly wonderful. there was hardly anything those bees couldn't do after i got them tamed." "how did you tame them, baron," asked ananias. "power of the eye, my boy," returned the baron. "i attracted their attention first and then held it. of course, i tried my plan on one bee first. he tamed the rest. bees are very like children. they like to play stunts--i think it is called stunts, isn't it, when one boy does something, and all his companions try to do the same thing?" "yes," said ananias, "i believe there is such a game, but i shouldn't like to play it with you." "well, that was the way i did with the bees," said mr. munchausen. "i tamed the king bee, and when he had learned all sorts of funny little tricks, such as standing on his head and humming tunes, i let him go back to the swarm. he was gone a week, and then he came back, he had grown so fond of me--as well he might, because i fed him well, giving him a large basket of flowers three times a day. back with him came two or three thousand other bees, and whatever jang did they did." "who was jang?" asked ananias. "that was the first bee's name. king jang. jang is siamese for billie, and as i was always fond of the name, billie, i called him jang. by and by every bee in the lot could hum the star spangled banner and yankee doodle as well as you or i could, and it was grand on those soft moonlight nights we had there, to sit on the back porch of my pagoda and listen to my bee orchestra discoursing sweet music. of course, as soon as jang had learned to hum one tune it was easy enough for him to learn another, and before long the bee orchestra could give us any bit of music we wished to have. then i used to give musicales at my house and all the siamese people, from the king down asked to be invited, so that through my pets my home became one of the most attractive in all asia. "and the honey those bees made! it was the sweetest honey you ever tasted, and every morning when i got down to breakfast there was a fresh bottleful ready for me, the bees having made it in the bottle itself over night. they were the most grateful pets i ever had, and once they saved my life. they used to live in a hive i had built for them in one corner of my room and i could go to bed and sleep with every door in my house open, and not be afraid of robbers, because those bees were there to protect me. one night a lion broke loose from the royal zoo, and while trotting along the road looking for something to eat he saw my front door wide open. in he walked, and began to sniff. he sniffed here and he sniffed there, but found nothing but a pot of anchovy paste, which made him thirstier and hungrier than ever. so he prowled into the parlour, and had his appetite further aggravated by a bronze statue of the emperor of china i had there. he thought in the dim light it was a small-sized human being, and he pounced on it in a minute. well, of course, he couldn't make any headway trying to eat a bronze statue, and the more he tried the more hungry and angry he got. he roared until he shook the house and would undoubtedly have awakened me had it not been that i am always a sound sleeper and never wake until i have slept enough. why, on one occasion, on the northern pacific railway, a train i was on ran into and completely telescoped another while i was asleep in the smoking car, and although i was severely burned and hurled out of the car window to land sixty feet away on the prairie, i didn't wake up for two hours. i was nearly buried alive because they thought i'd been killed, i lay so still. "but to return to the bees. the roaring of the lion disturbed them, and jang buzzed out of his hive to see what was the matter just as the lion appeared at my bed-room door. the intelligent insect saw in a moment what the trouble was, and he sounded the alarm for the rest of the bees, who came swarming out of the hive in response to the summons. jang kept his eye on the lion meanwhile, and just as the prowler caught sight of your uncle peacefully snoring away on the bed, dreaming of his boyhood, and prepared to spring upon me, jang buzzed over and sat down upon his back, putting his sting where it would do the most good. the angry lion, who in a moment would have fastened his teeth upon me, turned with a yelp of pain, and the bite which was to have been mine wrought havoc with his own back. following jang's example, the other bees ranged themselves in line over the lion's broad shoulders, and stung him until he roared with pain. each time he was stung he would whisk his head around like a dog after a flea, and bite himself, until finally he had literally chewed himself up, when he fainted from sheer exhaustion, and i was saved. you can imagine my surprise when next morning i awakened to find a dying lion in my room." "but, baron," said ananias. "i don't understand one thing about it. if you were fast asleep while all this was happening how did you know that jang did those things?" [illustration: "jang buzzed over and sat down upon his back, putting his sting where it would do the most good." _chapter v._] "why, jang told me himself," replied the baron calmly. "could he talk?" cried ananias in amazement. "not as you and i do," said the baron. "of course not, but jang could spell. i taught him how. you see i reasoned it out this way. if a bee can be taught to sing a song which is only a story in music, why can't he be taught to tell a story in real words. it was worth trying anyhow, and i tried. jang was an apt pupil. he was the most intelligent bee i ever met, and it didn't take me more than a month to teach him his letters, and when he once knew his letters it was easy enough to teach him how to spell. i got a great big sheet and covered it with twenty-six squares, and in each of these squares i painted a letter of the alphabet, so that finally when jang came to know them, and wanted to tell me anything he would fly from one square to another until he had spelled out whatever he wished to say. i would follow his movements closely, and we got so after awhile that we could converse for hours without any trouble whatsoever. i really believe that if jang had been a little heavier so that he could push the keys down far enough he could have managed a typewriter as well as anybody, and when i think about his wonderful mind and delicious fancy i deeply regret that there never was a typewriting machine so delicately made that a bee of his weight could make it go. the world would have been very much enriched by the stories jang had in his mind to tell, but it is too late now. he is gone forever." "how did you lose jang, baron?" asked ananias, with tears in his eyes. "he thought i had deceived him," said the baron, with a sigh. "he was as much of a stickler for truth as i am. an american friend of mine sent me a magnificent parterre of wax flowers which were so perfectly made that i couldn't tell them from the real. i was very proud of them, and kept them in my room near the hive. when jang and his tribe first caught sight of them they were delighted and they sang as they had never sung before just to show how pleased they were. then they set to work to make honey out of them. they must have laboured over those flowers for two months before i thought to tell them that they were only wax and not at all real. as i told jang this, i unfortunately laughed, thinking that he could understand the joke of the thing as well as i, but i was mistaken. all that he could see was that he had been deceived, and it made him very angry. bees don't seem to have a well-developed sense of humour. he cast a reproachful glance at me and returned to his hive and on the morning of the third day when i waked up they were moving out. they flew to my lattice and ranged themselves along the slats and waited for jang. in a moment he appeared and at a given signal they buzzed out of my sight, humming a farewell dirge as they went. i never saw them again." here the baron wiped his eyes. "i felt very bad about it," he went on, "and resolved then never again to do anything which even suggested deception, and when several years later i had my crest designed i had a bee drawn on it, for in my eyes my good friend the bee, represents three great factors of the good and successful life--industry, fidelity, and truth." whereupon the baron went his way, leaving ananias to think it over. vi he tells the twins of fire-works there was a great noise going on in the public square of cimmeria when mr. munchausen sauntered into the library at the home of the heavenly twins. "these americans are having a great time of it celebrating their fourth of july," said he, as the house shook with the explosion of a bomb. "they've burnt powder enough already to set ten revolutions revolving, and they're going to outdo themselves to-night in the park. they've made a bicycle out of the two huge pin-wheels, and they're going to make benedict arnold ride a mile on it after it's lit." the twins appeared much interested. they too had heard much of the celebration and some of its joys and when the baron arrived they were primed with questions. "uncle munch," they said, helping the baron to remove his hat and coat, which they threw into a corner so anxious were they to get to work, "do you think there's much danger in little boys having fire-crackers and rockets and pin-wheels, or in little girls having torpeters?" "well, i don't know," the baron answered, warily. "what does your venerable dad say about it?" "he thinks we ought to wait until we are older, but we don't," said the twins. "torpeters never sets nothing afire," said angelica. "that's true," said the baron, kindly; "but after all your father is right. why do you know what happened to me when i was a boy?" "you burnt your thumb," said the twins, ready to make a guess at it. "well, you get me a cigar, and i'll tell you what happened to me when i was a boy just because my father let me have all the fire-works i wanted, and then perhaps you will see how wise your father is in not doing as you wish him to," said mr. munchausen. the twins readily found the desired cigar, after which mr. munchausen settled down comfortably in the hammock, and swinging softly to and fro, told his story. "my dear old father," said he, "was the most indulgent man that ever lived. he'd give me anything in the world that i wanted whether he could afford it or not, only he had an original system of giving which kept him from being ruined by indulgence of his children. he gave me a rhine steamboat once without its costing him a cent. i saw it, wanted it, was beginning to cry for it, when he patted me on the head and told me i could have it, adding, however, that i must never take it away from the river or try to run it myself. that satisfied me. all i wanted really was the happiness of feeling it was mine, and my dear old daddy gave me permission to feel that way. the same thing happened with reference to the moon. he gave it to me freely and ungrudgingly. he had received it from his father, he said, and he thought he had owned it long enough. only, he added, as he had about the steamboat, i must leave it where it was and let other people look at it whenever they wanted to, and not interfere if i found any other little boys or girls playing with its beams, which i promised and have faithfully observed to this day. "of course from such a parent as this you may very easily see everything was to be expected on such a day as the tenth of august which the people in our region celebrated because it was my birthday. he used to let me have my own way at all times, and it's a wonder i wasn't spoiled. i really can't understand how it is that i have become the man i am, considering how i was indulged when i was small. "however, like all boys, i was very fond of celebrating the tenth, and being a more or less ingenious lad, i usually prepared my own fire-works and many things happened which might not otherwise have come to pass if i had been properly looked after as you are. the first thing that happened to me on the tenth of august that would have a great deal better not have happened, was when i was--er--how old are you imps?" "sixteen," said they. "going on eighteen." "nonsense," said the baron. "why you're not more than eight." "nope--we're sixteen," said diavolo. "i'm eight and angelica's eight and twice eight is sixteen." "oh," said the baron. "i see. well, that was exactly the age i was at the time. just eight to a day." "sixteen we said," said the twins. "yes," nodded the baron. "just eight, but going on towards sixteen. my father had given me ten thalers to spend on noises, but unlike most boys i did not care so much for noises as i did for novelties. it didn't give me any particular pleasure to hear a giant cracker go off with a bang. what i wanted to do most of all was to get up some kind of an exhibition that would please the people and that could be seen in the day-time instead of at night when everybody is tired and sleepy. so instead of spending my money on fire-crackers and torpedoes and rockets, i spent nine thalers of it on powder and one thaler on putty blowers. my particular object was to make one grand effort and provide passers-by with a free exhibition of what i was going to call 'munchausen's grand geyser cascade.' to do this properly i had set my eye upon a fish pond not far from the town hall. it was a very deep pond and about a mile in circumference, i should say. putty blowers were then selling at five for a pfennig and powder was cheap as sand owing to the fact that the powder makers, expecting a war, had made a hundred times as much as was needed, and as the war didn't come off, they were willing to take almost anything they could get for it. the consequence was that the powder i got was sufficient in quantity to fill a rubber bag as large as five sofa cushions. this i sank in the middle of the pond, without telling anybody what i intended to do, and through the putty blowers, sealed tightly together end to end, i conducted a fuse, which i made myself, from the powder bag to the shore. my idea was that i could touch the thing off, you know, and that about sixty square feet of the pond would fly up into the air and then fall gracefully back again like a huge fountain. if it had worked as i expected everything would have been all right, but it didn't. i had too much powder, for a second after i had lit the fuse there came a muffled roar and the whole pond in a solid mass, fish and all, went flying up into the air and disappeared. everybody was astonished, not a few were very much frightened. i was scared to death but i never let on to any one that i was the person that had blown the pond off. how high the pond went i don't know, but i do know that for a week there wasn't any sign of it, and then most unexpectedly out of what appeared to be a clear sky there came the most extraordinary rain-storm you ever saw. it literally poured down for two days, and, what i alone could understand, with it came trout and sunfish and minnows, and most singular to all but myself an old scow that was recognised as the property of the owner of the pond suddenly appeared in the sky falling toward the earth at a fearful rate of speed. when i saw the scow coming i was more frightened than ever because i was afraid it might fall upon and kill some of our neighbours. fortunately, however, this possible disaster was averted, for it came down directly over the sharp-pointed lightning-rod on the tower of our public library and stuck there like a piece of paper on a file. "the rain washed away several acres of finely cultivated farms, but the losses on crops and fences and so forth were largely reduced by the fish that came with the storm. one farmer took a rake and caught three hundred pounds of trout, forty pounds of sun-fish, eight turtles, and a minnow in his potato patch in five minutes. others were almost as fortunate, but the damage was sufficiently large to teach me that parents cannot be too careful about what they let their children do on the day they celebrate." "and weren't you ever punished?" asked the twins. "no, indeed," said the baron. "nobody ever knew that i did it because i never told them. in fact you are the only two persons who ever heard about it, and you mustn't tell, because there are still a number of farmers around that region who would sue me for damages in case they knew that i was responsible for the accident." [illustration: "out of what appeared to be a clear sky came the most extraordinary rain storm you ever saw." _chapter vi._] "that was pretty awful," said the twins. "but we don't want to blow up ponds so as to get cascadeses, but we do want torpeters. torpeters aren't any harm, are they, uncle munch?" "well, you can never tell. it all depends on the torpedo. torpedoes are sometimes made carelessly," said the baron. "they ought to be made as carefully as a druggist makes pills. so many pebbles, so much paper, and so much saltpeter and sulphur, or whatever else is used to make them go off. i had a very unhappy time once with a carelessly made torpedo. i had two boxes full. they were those tin-foil torpedoes that little girls are so fond of, and i expected they would make quite a lot of noise, but the first ten i threw down didn't go off at all. the eleventh for some reason or other, i never knew exactly what, i hurled with all my force against the side of my father's barn, and my, what a surprise it was! it smashed in the whole side of the barn and sent seven bales of hay, and our big farm plough bounding down the hillside into the town. the hay-bales smashed down fences; one of them hit a cow-shed on its way down, knocked the back of it to smithereens and then proceeded to demolish the rear end of a small crockery shop that fronted on the main street. it struck the crockery shop square in the middle of its back and threw down fifteen dozen cups and saucers, thirty-two water pitchers, and five china busts of shakespeare. the din was frightful--but i couldn't help that. nobody could blame me, because i had no means of knowing that the man who made the torpedoes was careless and had put a solid ball of dynamite into one of them. so you see, my dear imps, that even torpedoes are not always safe." "yes," said angelica. "i guess i'll play with my dolls on my birthday. they never goes off and blows things up." "that's very wise of you," said the baron. "but what became of the plough, uncle munch?" said diavolo. "oh, the plough didn't do much damage," replied mr. munchausen. "it simply furrowed its way down the hill, across the main street, to the bowling green. it ploughed up about one hundred feet of this before it stopped, but nobody minded that much because it was to have been ploughed and seeded again anyhow within a few days. of course the furrow it made in crossing the road was bad, and to make it worse the share caught one of the water pipes that ran under the street, and ripped it in two so that the water burst out and flooded the street for a while, but one hundred and sixty thousand dollars would have covered the damage." the twins were silent for a few moments and then they asked: "well, uncle munch, what kind of fire-works are safe anyhow?" "my experience has taught me that there are only two kinds that are safe," replied their old friend. "one is a jack-o-lantern and the other is a cigar, and as you are not old enough to have cigars, if you will put on your hats and coats and go down into the garden and get me two pumpkins, i'll make each of you a jack-o'-lantern. what do you say?" "we say yes," said the twins, and off they went, while the baron turning over in the hammock, and arranging a pillow comfortably under his head, went to sleep to dream of more birthday recollections in case there should be a demand for them later on. vii saved by a magic lantern when the sunday dinner was over, the twins, on mr. munchausen's invitation, climbed into the old warrior's lap, angelica kissing him on the ear, and diavolo giving his nose an affectionate tweak. "ah!" said the baron. "that's it!" "what's what, uncle munch?" demanded diavolo. "why that," returned the baron. "i was wondering what it was i needed to make my dinner an unqualified success. there was something lacking, but what it was, we have had so much, i could not guess until you two imps kissed me and tweaked my nasal feature. now i know, for really a feeling of the most blessed contentment has settled upon my soul." "don't you wish _you_ had two youngsters like us, uncle munch?" asked the twins. "do i wish i had? why i have got two youngsters like you," the baron replied. "i've got 'em right here too." "where?" asked the twins, looking curiously about them for the other two. "on my knees, of course," said he. "you are mine. your papa gave you to me--and you are as like yourselves as two peas in a pod." "i--i hope you aren't going to take us away from here," said the twins, a little ruefully. they were very fond of the baron, but they didn't exactly like the idea of being given away. "oh no--not at all," said the baron. "your father has consented to keep you here for me and your mother has kindly volunteered to look after you. there is to be no change, except that you belong to me, and, vice versa, i belong to you." "and i suppose, then," said diavolo, "if you belong to us you've got to do pretty much what we tell you to?" "exactly," responded mr. munchausen. "if you should ask me to tell you a story i'd have to do it, even if you were to demand the full particulars of how i spent christmas with mtulu, king of the taafe eatars, on the upper congo away down in africa--which is a tale i have never told any one in all my life." "it sounds as if it might be interesting," said the twins. "those are real candy names, aren't they?" "yes," said the baron. "taafe sounds like taffy and mtulu is very suggestive of chewing gum. that's the curious thing about the savage tribes of africa. their names often sound as if they might be things to eat instead of people. perhaps that is why they sometimes eat each other--though, of course, i won't say for sure that that is the real explanation of cannibalism." "what's cannon-ballism?" asked angelica. "he didn't say cannon-ballism," said diavolo, scornfully. "it was candy-ballism." "well--you've both come pretty near it," said the baron, "and we'll let the matter rest there, or i won't have time to tell you how christmas got me into trouble with king mtulu." the baron called for a cigar, which the twins lighted for him and then he began. "you may not have heard," he said, "that some twenty or thirty years ago i was in command of an expedition in africa. our object was to find lake majolica, which we hoped would turn up half way between lollokolela and the clebungo mountains. lollokolela was the furthermost point to which civilisation had reached at that time, and was directly in the pathway to the clebungo mountains, which the natives said were full of gold and silver mines and scattered all over which were reputed to be caves in which diamonds and rubies and other gems of the rarest sort were to be found in great profusion. no white man had ever succeeded in reaching this marvellously rich range of hills for the reason that after leaving lollokolela there was, as far as was known, no means of obtaining water, and countless adventurous spirits had had to give up because of the overpowering thirst which the climate brought upon them. "under such circumstances it was considered by a company of gentlemen in london to be well worth their while to set about the discovery of a lake, which they decided in advance to call majolica, for reasons best known to themselves; they probably wanted to jar somebody with it. and to me was intrusted the mission of leading the expedition. i will confess that i did not want to go for the very good reason that i did not wish to be eaten alive by the savage tribes that infested that region, but the company provided me with a close fitting suit of mail, which i wore from the time i started until i returned. it was very fortunate for me that i was so provided, for on three distinct occasions i was served up for state dinners and each time successfully resisted the carving knife and as a result, was thereafter well received, all the chiefs looking upon me as one who bore a charmed existence." here the baron paused long enough for the twins to reflect upon and realise the terrors which had beset him on his way to lake majolica, and be it said that if they had thought him brave before they now deemed him a very hero of heroes. "when i set out," said the baron, "i was accompanied by ten zanzibaris and a thousand tins of condensed dinners." "a thousand what, uncle munch?" asked jack, his mouth watering. "condensed dinners," said the baron, "i had a lot of my favourite dinners condensed and put up in tins. i didn't expect to be gone more than a year and a thousand dinners condensed and tinned, together with the food i expected to find on the way, elephant meat, rhinoceros steaks, and tiger chops, i thought would suffice for the trip. i could eat the condensed dinners and my followers could have the elephant's meat, rhinoceros steaks, and tiger chops--not to mention the bananas and other fruits which grow wild in the african jungle. it was not long, however, before i made the discovery that the zanzibaris, in order to eat tigers, need to learn first how to keep tigers from eating them. we went to bed late one night on the fourth day out from lollokolela, and when we waked up the next morning every mother's son of us, save myself, had been eaten by tigers, and again it was nothing but my coat of mail that saved me. there were eighteen tigers' teeth sticking into the sleeve of the coat, as it was. you can imagine my distress at having to continue the search for lake majolica alone. it was then that i acquired the habit of talking to myself, which has kept me young ever since, for i enjoy my own conversation hugely, and find myself always a sympathetic listener. i walked on for days and days, until finally, on christmas eve, i reached king mtulu's palace. of course your idea of a palace is a magnificent five-story building with beautiful carvings all over the front of it, marble stair-cases and handsomely painted and gilded ceilings. king mtulu's palace was nothing of the sort, although for that region it was quite magnificent, the walls being decorated with elephants' tusks, crocodile teeth and many other treasures such as delight the soul of the central african. "now as i may not have told you, king mtulu was the fiercest of the african chiefs, and it is said that up to the time when i outwitted him no white man had ever encountered him and lived to tell the tale. consequently, when without knowing it on this sultry christmas eve, laden with the luggage and the tinned dinners and other things i had brought with me i stumbled upon the blood-thirsty monarch i gave myself up for lost. "'who comes here to disturb the royal peace?' cried mtulu, savagely, as i crossed the threshold. "'it is i, your highness,' i returned, my face blanching, for i recognized him at once by the ivory ring he wore in the end of his nose. "'who is i?' retorted mtulu, picking up his battle axe and striding forward. "a happy thought struck me then. these folks are superstitious. perhaps the missionaries may have told these uncivilised creatures the story of santa claus. i will pretend that i am santa claus. so i answered, 'who is i, o mtulu, bravest of the taafe chiefs? i am santa claus, the children's friend, and bearer of gifts to and for all.' "mtulu gazed at me narrowly for a moment and then he beat lightly upon a tom-tom at his side. immediately thirty of the most villainous-looking natives, each armed with a club, appeared. "'arrest that man,' said mtulu, 'before he goes any farther. he is an impostor.' "'if your majesty pleases,' i began. "'silence!' he cried, 'i am fierce and i eat men, but i love truth. the truthful man has nothing to fear from me, for i have been converted from my evil ways and since last new year's day i have eaten only those who have attempted to deceive me. you will be served raw at dinner to-morrow night. my respect for your record as a man of courage leads me to spare you the torture of the frying-pan. you are baron munchausen. i recognized you the moment you turned pale. another man would have blushed.' "so i was carried off and shut up in a mud hovel, the interior walls of which were of white, a fact which strangely enough, preserved my life when later i came to the crucial moment. i had brought with me, among other things, for my amusement solely, a magic lantern. as a child, i had always been particularly fond of pictures, and when i thought of the lonely nights in africa, with no books at hand, no theatres, no cotillions to enliven the monotony of my life, i resolved to take with me my little magic-lantern as much for company as for anything else. it was very compact in form. it folded up to be hardly larger than a wallet containing a thousand one dollar bills, and the glass lenses of course could be carried easily in my trousers pockets. the views, instead of being mounted on glass, were put on a substance not unlike glass, but thinner, called gelatine. all of these things i carried in my vest pockets, and when mtulu confiscated my luggage the magic lantern and views of course escaped his notice. "christmas morning came and passed and i was about to give myself up for lost, for mtulu was not a king to be kept from eating a man by anything so small as a suit of mail, when i received word that before dinner my captor and his suite were going to pay me a formal parting call. night was coming on and as i sat despondently awaiting the king's arrival, i suddenly bethought me of a lantern slide of the british army, standing and awaiting the command to fire, i happened to have with me. it was a superb view--lifelike as you please. why not throw that on the wall and when mtulu enters he will find me apparently with a strong force at my command, thought i. it was no sooner thought than it was done and my life was saved. hardly was that noble picture reflected upon the rear wall of my prison when the door opened and mtulu, followed by his suite, appeared. i rose to greet him, but apparently he saw me not. mute with terror he stood upon the threshold gazing at that terrible line of soldiers ready as he thought to sweep him and his men from the face of the earth with their death-dealing bullets. [illustration: "'i am your slave,' he replied to my greeting, kneeling before me, 'i yield all to you.'" _chapter vii._] "'i am your slave,' he replied to my greeting, kneeling before me, 'i yield all to you.' "'i thought you would,' said i. 'but i ask nothing save the discovery of lake majolica. if within twenty-four hours lake majolica is not discovered i give the command to fire!' then i turned and gave the order to carry arms, and lo! by a quick change of slides, the army appeared at a carry. mtulu gasped with terror, but accepted my ultimatum. i was freed, lake majolica was discovered before ten o'clock the next morning, and at five o'clock i was on my way home, the british army reposing quietly in my breast pocket. it was a mighty narrow escape!" "i should say so," said the twins. "but mtulu must have been awful stupid not to see what it was." "didn't he see through it when he saw you put the army in your pocket?" asked diavolo. "no," said the baron, "that frightened him worse than ever, for you see he reasoned this way. if i could carry an army in my pocket-book, what was to prevent my carrying mtulu himself and all his tribe off in the same way! he thought i was a marvellous man to be able to do that." "well, we guess he was right," said the twins, as they climbed down from the baron's lap to find an atlas and search the map of africa for lake majolica. this they failed to find and the baron's explanation is unknown to me, for when the imps returned, the warrior had departed. viii an adventure in the desert "the editor has a sort of notion, mr. munchausen," said ananias, as he settled down in the big arm-chair before the fire in the baron's library, "that he'd like to have a story about a giraffe. public taste has a necky quality about it of late." "what do you say to that, sapphira?" asked the baron, politely turning to mrs. ananias, who had called with her husband. "are you interested in giraffes?" "i like lions better," said sapphira. "they roar louder and bite more fiercely." "well, suppose we compromise," said the baron, "and have a story about a poodle dog. poodle dogs sometimes look like lions, and as a rule they are as gentle as giraffes." "i know a better scheme than that," put in ananias. "tell us a story about a lion and a giraffe, and if you feel disposed throw in a few poodles for good measure. i'm writing on space this year." "that's so," said sapphira, wearily. "i could say it was a story about a lion and ananias could call it a giraffe story, and we'd each be right." "very well," said the baron, "it shall be a story of each, only i must have a cigar before i begin. cigars help me to think, and the adventure i had in the desert of sahara with a lion, a giraffe, and a slippery elm tree was so long ago that i shall have to do a great deal of thinking in order to recall it." so the baron went for a cigar, while ananias and sapphira winked enviously at each other and lamented their lost glory. in a minute the baron returned with the weed, and after lighting it, began his story. "i was about twenty years old when this thing happened to me," said he. "i had gone to africa to investigate the sand in the desert of sahara for a sand company in america. as you may already have heard, sand is a very useful thing in a great many ways, more particularly however in the building trades. the sand company was formed for the purpose of supplying sand to everybody that wanted it, but land in america at that time was so very expensive that there was very little profit in the business. people who owned sand banks and sand lots asked outrageous prices for their property; and the sea-shore people were not willing to part with any of theirs because they needed it in their hotel business. the great attraction of a seaside hotel is the sand on the beach, and of course the proprietors weren't going to sell that. they might better even sell their brass bands. so the sand company thought it might be well to build some steam-ships, load them with oysters, or mowing machines, or historical novels, or anything else that is produced in the united states, and in demand elsewhere; send them to egypt, sell the oysters, or mowing machines, or historical novels, and then have the ships fill up with sand from the sahara, which they could get for nothing, and bring it back in ballast to the united states." "it must have cost a lot!" said ananias. "not at all," returned the baron. "the profits on the oysters and mowing machines and historical novels were so large that all expenses both ways were more than paid, so that when it was delivered in america the sand had really cost less than nothing. we could have thrown it all overboard and still have a profit left. it was i who suggested the idea to the president of the sand company--his name was bartlett, or--ah--mulligan--or some similar well-known american name, i can't exactly recall it now. however, mr. bartlett, or mr. mulligan, or whoever it was, was very much pleased with the idea and asked me if i wouldn't go to the sahara, investigate the quality of the sand, and report; and as i was temporarily out of employment i accepted the commission. six weeks later i arrived in cairo and set out immediately on a tour of the desert. i went alone because i preferred not to take any one into my confidence, and besides one can always be more independent when he has only his own wishes to consult. i also went on foot, for the reason that camels need a great deal of care--at least mine would have, if i'd had one, because i always like to have my steeds well groomed whether there is any one to see them or not. so to save myself trouble i started off alone on foot. in twenty-four hours i travelled over a hundred miles of the desert, and the night of the second day found me resting in the shade of a slippery elm tree in the middle of an oasis, which after much suffering and anxiety i had discovered. it was a beautiful moonlight night and i was enjoying it hugely. there were no mosquitoes or insects of any kind to interfere with my comfort. no insects could have flown so far across the sands. i have no doubt that many of them have tried to get there, but up to the time of my arrival none had succeeded, and i felt as happy as though i were in paradise. "after eating my supper and taking a draught of the delicious spring water that purled up in the middle of the oasis, i threw myself down under the elm tree, and began to play my violin, without which in those days i never went anywhere." "i didn't know you played the violin," said sapphira. "i thought your instrument was the trombone--plenty of blow and a mighty stretch." "i don't--now," said the baron, ignoring the sarcasm. "i gave it up ten years ago--but that's a different story. how long i played that night i don't know, but i do know that lulled by the delicious strains of the music and soothed by the soft sweetness of the atmosphere i soon dropped off to sleep. suddenly i was awakened by what i thought to be the distant roar of thunder. 'humph!' i said to myself. 'this is something new. a thunder storm in the desert of sahara is a thing i never expected to see, particularly on a beautifully clear moonlight night'--for the moon was still shining like a great silver ball in the heavens, and not a cloud was anywhere to be seen. then it occurred to me that perhaps i had been dreaming, so i turned over to go to sleep again. hardly had i closed my eyes when a second ear-splitting roar came bounding over the sands, and i knew that it was no dream, but an actual sound that i heard. i sprang to my feet and looked about the horizon and there, a mere speck in the distance, was something--for the moment i thought a cloud, but in another instant i changed my mind, for glancing through my telescope i perceived it was not a cloud but a huge lion with the glitter of hunger in his eye. what i had mistaken for the thunder was the roar of this savage beast. i seized my gun and felt for my cartridge box only to discover that i had lost my ammunition and was there alone, unarmed, in the great desert, at the mercy of that savage creature, who was drawing nearer and nearer every minute and giving forth the most fearful roars you ever heard. it was a terrible moment and i was in despair. "'it's all up with you, baron,' i said to myself, and then i caught sight of the tree. it seemed my only chance. i must climb that. i tried, but alas! as i have told you it was a slippery elm tree, and i might as well have tried to climb a greased pole. despite my frantic efforts to get a grip upon the trunk i could not climb more than two feet without slipping back. it was impossible. nothing was left for me to do but to take to my legs, and i took to them as well as i knew how. my, what a run it was, and how hopeless. the beast was gaining on me every second, and before me lay mile after mile of desert. 'better give up and treat the beast to a breakfast, baron,' i moaned to myself. 'when there's only one thing to do, you might as well do it and be done with it. your misery will be over the more quickly if you stop right here.' as i spoke these words, i slowed up a little, but the frightful roaring of the lion unnerved me for an instant, or rather nerved me on to a spurt, which left the lion slightly more to the rear--and which resulted in the saving of my life; for as i ran on, what should i see about a mile ahead but another slippery elm tree, and under it stood a giraffe who had apparently fallen asleep while browsing among its upper branches, and filling its stomach with its cooling cocoanuts. the giraffe had its back to me, and as i sped on i formed my plan. i would grab hold of the giraffe's tail; haul myself up onto his back; climb up his neck into the tree, and then give my benefactor a blow between the eyes which would send him flying across the desert before the lion could come along and get up into the tree the same way i did. the agony of fear i went through as i approached the long-necked creature was something dreadful. suppose the giraffe should be awakened by the roaring of the lion before i got there and should rush off himself to escape the fate that awaited me? i nearly dropped, i was so nervous, and the lion was now not more than a hundred yards away. i could hear his breath as he came panting on. i redoubled my speed; his pants came closer, closer, until at length after what seemed a year, i reached the giraffe, caught his tail, raised myself up to his back, crawled along his neck and dropped fainting into the tree just as the lion sprang upon the giraffe's back and came on toward me. what happened then i don't know, for as i have told you i swooned away; but i do know that when i came to, the giraffe had disappeared and the lion lay at the foot of the tree dead from a broken neck." "a broken neck?" demanded sapphira. "yes," returned the baron. "a broken neck! from which i concluded that as the lion reached the nape of the giraffe's neck, the giraffe had waked up and bent his head toward the earth, thus causing the lion to fall head first to the ground instead of landing as he had expected in the tree with me." "it was wonderful," said sapphira, scornfully. "yes," said ananias, "but i shouldn't think a lion could break his neck falling off a giraffe. perhaps it was one of the slippery elm cocoanuts that fell on him." "well, of course," said the baron, rising, "that would all depend upon the height of the giraffe. mine was the tallest one i ever saw." "about how tall?" asked ananias. "well," returned the baron, thoughtfully, as if calculating, "did you ever see the eiffel tower?" "yes," said ananias. "well," observed the baron, "i don't think my giraffe was more than half as tall as that." with which estimate the baron bowed his guests out of the room, and with a placid smile on his face, shook hands with himself. "mr. and mrs. ananias are charming people," he chuckled, "but amateurs both--deadly amateurs." [illustration: "i reached the giraffe, raised myself to his back, crawled along his neck and dropped fainting into the tree." _chapter viii._] ix decoration day in the cannibal islands "uncle munch," said diavolo as he clambered up into the old warrior's lap, "i don't suppose you could tell us a story about decoration day could you?" "i think i might try," said mr. munchausen, puffing thoughtfully upon his cigar and making a ring with the smoke for angelica to catch upon her little thumb. "i might try--but it will all depend upon whether you want me to tell you about decoration day as it is celebrated in the united states, or the way a band of missionaries i once knew in the cannibal islands observed it for twenty years or more." "why can't we have both stories?" said angelica. "i think that would be the nicest way. two stories is twice as good as one." "well, i don't know," returned mr. munchausen. "you see the trouble is that in the first instance i could tell you only what a beautiful thing it is that every year the people have a day set apart upon which they especially honour the memory of the noble fellows who lost their lives in defence of their country. i'm not much of a poet and it takes a poet to be able to express how beautiful and grand it all is, and so i should be afraid to try it. besides it might sadden your little hearts to have me dwell upon the almost countless number of heroes who let themselves be killed so that their fellow-citizens might live in peace and happiness. i'd have to tell you about hundreds and hundreds of graves scattered over the battle fields that no one knows about, and which, because no one knows of them, are not decorated at all, unless nature herself is kind enough to let a little dandelion or a daisy patch into the secret, so that they may grow on the green grass above these forgotten, unknown heroes who left their homes, were shot down and never heard of afterwards." "does all heroes get killed?" asked angelica. "no," said mr. munchausen. "i and a great many others lived through the wars and are living yet." "well, how about the missionaries?" said diavolo. "i didn't know they had decoration day in the cannibal islands." "i didn't either until i got there," returned the baron. "but they have and they have it in july instead of may. it was one of the most curious things i ever saw and the natives, the men who used to be cannibals, like it so much that if the missionaries were to forget it they'd either remind them of it or have a celebration of their own. i don't know whether i ever told you about my first experience with the cannibals--did i?" "i don't remember it, but if you had i would have," said diavolo. "so would i," said angelica. "i remember most everything you say, except when i want you to say it over again, and even then i haven't forgotten it." "well, it happened this way," said the baron. "it was when i was nineteen years old. i sort of thought at that time i'd like to be a sailor, and as my father believed in letting me try whatever i wanted to do i took a position as first mate of a steam brig that plied between san francisco and nepaul, taking san francisco canned tomatoes to nepaul and bringing nepaul pepper back to san francisco, making several dollars both ways. perhaps i ought to explain to you that nepaul pepper is red, and hot; not as hot as a furnace fire, but hot enough for your papa and myself when we order oysters at a club and have them served so cold that we think they need a little more warmth to make them palatable and digestible. you are not yet old enough to know the meaning of such words as palatable and digestible, but some day you will be and then you'll know what your uncle means. at any rate it was on the return voyage from nepaul that the water tank on the _betsy s._ went stale and we had to stop at the first place we could to fill it up with fresh water. so we sailed along until we came in sight of an island and the captain appointed me and two sailors a committee of three to go ashore and see if there was a spring anywhere about. we went, and the first thing we knew we were in the midst of a lot of howling, hungry savages, who were crazy to eat us. my companions were eaten, but when it came to my turn i tried to reason with the chief. 'now see here, my friend,' said i, 'i'm perfectly willing to be served up at your breakfast, if i can only be convinced that you will enjoy eating me. what i don't want is to have my life wasted!' 'that's reasonable enough,' said he. 'have you got a sample of yourself along for me to taste?' 'i have,' i replied, taking out a bottle of nepaul pepper, that by rare good luck i happened to have in my pocket. 'that is a portion of my left foot powdered. it will give you some idea of what i taste like,' i added. 'if you like that, you'll like me. if you don't, you won't.'" "that was fine," said diavolo. "you told pretty near the truth, too, uncle munch, because you are hot stuff yourself, ain't you?" "i am so considered, my boy," said mr. munchausen. "the chief took a teaspoonful of the pepper down at a gulp, and let me go when he recovered. he said he guessed i wasn't quite his style, and he thought i'd better depart before i set fire to the town. so i filled up the water bag, got into the row-boat, and started back to the ship, but the _betsy s._ had gone and i was forced to row all the way to san francisco, one thousand, five hundred and sixty-two miles distant. the captain and crew had given us all up for lost. i covered the distance in six weeks, living on water and nepaul pepper, and when i finally reached home, i told my father that, after all, i was not so sure that i liked a sailor's life. but i never forgot those cannibals or their island, as you may well imagine. they and their home always interested me hugely and i resolved if the fates ever drove me that way again, i would go ashore and see how the people were getting on. the fates, however, were a long time in drawing me that way again, for it was not until july, ten years ago that i reached there the second time. i was off on a yachting trip, with an english friend, when one afternoon we dropped anchor off that cannibal island. "'let's go ashore,' said i. 'what for?' said my host; and then i told him the story and we went, and it was well we did so, for it was then and there that i discovered the new way the missionaries had of celebrating decoration day. "no sooner had we landed than we noticed that the island had become civilised. there were churches, and instead of tents and mud-hovels, beautiful residences appeared here and there, through the trees. 'i fancy this isn't the island,' said my host. 'there aren't any cannibals about here.' i was about to reply indignantly, for i was afraid he was doubting the truth of my story, when from the top of a hill, not far distant, we heard strains of music. we went to see whence it came, and what do you suppose we saw? five hundred villainous looking cannibals marching ten abreast along a fine street, and, cheering them from the balconies of the houses that fronted on the highway, were the missionaries and their friends and their children and their wives. "'this can't be the place, after all,' said my host again. "'yes it is,' said i, 'only it has been converted. they must be celebrating some native festival.' then as i spoke the procession stopped and the head missionary followed by a band of beautiful girls, came down from a platform and placed garlands of flowers and beautiful wreaths on the shoulders and heads of those reformed cannibals. in less than an hour every one of the huge black fellows was covered with roses and pinks and fragrant flowers of all kinds, and then they started on parade again. it was a fine sight, but i couldn't understand what it was all done for until that night, when i dined with the head missionary--and what do you suppose it was?" "i give it up," said diavolo, "maybe the missionaries thought the cannibals didn't have enough clothes on." "i guess i can't guess," said angelica. "they were celebrating decoration day," said mr. munchausen. "they were strewing flowers on the graves of departed missionaries." "you didn't tell us about any graves," said diavolo. [illustration: "they were celebrating decoration day ... strewing flowers on the graves of departed missionaries." _chapter ix._] "why certainly i did," said the baron. "the cannibals themselves were the only graves those poor departed missionaries ever had. every one of those five hundred savages was the grave of a missionary, my dears, and having been converted, and taught that it was not good to eat their fellow-men, they did all in their power afterwards to show their repentance, keeping alive the memory of the men they had treated so badly by decorating themselves on memorial day--and one old fellow, the savagest looking, but now the kindest-hearted being in the world, used always to wear about his neck a huge sign, upon which he had painted in great black letters: here lies john thomas wilkins, sailor. departed this life, may th, . he was a man of splendid taste. "the old cannibal had eaten wilkins and later when he had been converted and realised that he himself was the grave of a worthy man, as an expiation he devoted his life to the memory of john thomas wilkins, and as a matter of fact, on the cannibal island decoration day he would lie flat on the floor all the day, groaning under the weight of a hundred potted plants, which he placed upon himself in memory of wilkins." here mr. munchausen paused for breath, and the twins went out into the garden to try to imagine with the aid of a few practical experiments how a cannibal would look with a hundred potted plants adorning his person. x mr. munchausen's adventure with a shark mr. and mrs. henry b. ananias. _thursdays._ _cimmeria._ this was the card sent by the reporter of the _gehenna gazette_, and mrs. ananias to mr. munchausen upon his return from a trip to mortal realms concerning which many curious reports have crept into circulation. owing to a rumour persistently circulated at one time, mr. munchausen had been eaten by a shark, and it was with the intention of learning, if possible, the basis for the rumour that ananias and sapphira called upon the redoubtable baron of other days. mr. munchausen graciously received the callers and asked what he could do for them. "our readers, mr. munchausen," explained ananias, "have been much concerned over rumours of your death at the hands of a shark." "sharks have no hands," said the baron quietly. "well--that aside," observed ananias. "were you killed by a shark?" "not that i recall," said the baron. "i may have been, but i don't remember it. indeed i recall only one adventure with a shark. that grew out of my mission on behalf of france to the czar of russia. i carried letters once from the king of france to his imperial coolness the czar." "what was the nature of the letters?" asked ananias. "i never knew," replied the baron. "as i have said, it was a secret mission, and the french government never took me into its confidence. the only thing i know about it is that i was sent to st. petersburg, and i went, and in the course of time i made myself much beloved of both the people and his majesty the czar. i am the only person that ever lived that was liked equally by both, and if i had attached myself permanently to the czar, russia would have been a different country to-day." "what country would it have been, mr. munchausen," asked sapphira innocently, "germany or siam?" "i can't specify, my dear madame," the baron replied. "it wouldn't be fair. but, at any rate, i went to russia, and was treated warmly by everybody, except the climate, which was, as it is at all times, very freezing. that's the reason the russian people like the climate. it is the only thing the czar can't change by imperial decree, and the people admire its independence and endure it for that reason. but as i have said, everybody was pleased with me, and the czar showed me unusual attention. he gave fêtes in my honour. he gave the most princely dinners, and i met the very best people in st. petersburg, and at one of these dinners i was invited to join a yachting party on a cruise around the world. "well, of course, though a landsman in every sense of the word, i am fond of yachting, and i immediately accepted the invitation. the yacht we went on was the boomski zboomah, belonging to prince--er--now what was that prince's name! something like--er--sheeroff or jibski--or--er--well, never mind that. i meet so many princes it is difficult to remember their names. we'll say his name was jibski." "suppose we do," said ananias, with a jealous grin. "jibski is such a remarkable name. it will look well in print." "all right," said the baron, "jibski be it. the yacht belonged to prince jibski, and she was a beauty. there was a stateroom and a steward for everybody on board, and nothing that could contribute to a man's comfort was left unattended to. we set sail on the rd of august, and after cruising about the north coast of europe for a week or two, we steered the craft south, and along about the middle of september we reached the amphibian islands, and anchored. it was here that i had my first and last experience with sharks. if they had been plain, ordinary sharks i'd have had an easy time of it, but when you get hold of these amphibian sharks you are likely to get yourself into twenty-three different kinds of trouble." "my!" said sapphira. "all those? does the number include being struck by lightning?" "yes," the baron answered, "and when you remember that there are only twenty-four different kinds altogether you can see what a peck of trouble an amphibian shark can get you into. i thought my last hour had come when i met with him. you see when we reached the amphibian islands, we naturally thought we'd like to go ashore and pick the cocoanuts and raisins and other things that grow there, and when i got upon dry land again i felt strongly tempted to go down upon the beautiful little beach in the harbour and take a swim. prince jibski advised me against it, but i was set upon going. he told me the place was full of sharks, but i wasn't afraid because i was always a remarkably rapid swimmer, and i felt confident of my ability, in case i saw a shark coming after me, to swim ashore before he could possibly catch me, provided i had ten yards start. so in i went leaving my gun and clothing on the beach. oh, it was fun! the water was quite warm, and the sandy bottom of the bay was deliciously soft and pleasant to the feet. i suppose i must have sported in the waves for ten or fifteen minutes before the trouble came. i had just turned a somersault in the water, when, as my head came to the surface, i saw directly in front of me, the unmistakable fin of a shark, and to my unspeakable dismay not more than five feet away. as i told you, if it had been ten yards away i should have had no fear, but five feet meant another story altogether. my heart fairly jumped into my mouth. it would have sunk into my boots if i had had them on, but i hadn't, so it leaped upward into my mouth as i turned to swim ashore, by which time the shark had reduced the distance between us by one foot. i feared that all was up with me, and was trying to think of an appropriate set of last words, when prince jibski, noting my peril, fired one of the yacht's cannon in our direction. ordinarily this would have been useless, for the yacht's cannon was never loaded with anything but a blank charge, but in this instance it was better than if it had been loaded with ball and shot, for not only did the sound of the explosion attract the attention of the shark and cause him to pause for a moment, but also the wadding from the gun dropped directly upon my back, so showing that prince jibski's aim was not as good as it might have been. had the cannon been loaded with a ball or a shell, you can very well understand how it would have happened that yours truly would have been killed then and there." "we should have missed you," said ananias sweetly. "thanks," said the baron. "but to resume. the shark's pause gave me the start i needed, and the heat from the burning wadding right between my shoulders caused me to redouble my efforts to get away from the shark and it, so that i never swam faster in my life, and was soon standing upon the shore, jeering at my fearful pursuer, who, strange to say, showed no inclination to stop the chase now that i was, as i thought, safely out of his reach. i didn't jeer very long i can tell you, for in another minute i saw why the shark didn't stop chasing me, and why amphibian sharks are worse than any other kind. that shark had not only fins like all other sharks to swim with, but he had likewise three pairs of legs that he could use on land quite as well as he could use the fins in the water. and then began the prettiest chase you ever saw in your life. as he emerged from the water i grabbed up my gun and ran. round and round the island we tore, i ahead, he thirty or forty yards behind, until i got to a place where i could stop running and take a hasty shot at him. then i aimed, and fired. my aim was good, but struck one of the huge creature's teeth, broke it off short, and bounded off to one side. this made him more angry than ever, and he redoubled his efforts to catch me. i redoubled mine, until i could get another shot at him. the second shot, like the first, struck the creature in the teeth, only this time it was more effective. the bullet hit his jaw lengthwise, and knocked every tooth on that side of his head down his throat. so it went. i ran. he pursued. i fired; he lost his teeth, until finally i had knocked out every tooth he had, and then, of course, i wasn't afraid of him, and let him come up with me. with his teeth he could have ground me to atoms at one bite. without them he was as powerless as a bowl of currant jelly, and when he opened his huge jaws, as he supposed to bite me in two, he was the most surprised looking fish you ever saw on land or sea to discover that the effect his jaws had upon my safety was about as great as had they been nothing but two feather bed mattresses." "you must have been badly frightened, though," said ananias. "no," said the baron. "i laughed in the poor disappointed thing's face, and with a howl of despair, he rushed back into the sea again. i made the best time i could back to the yacht for fear he might return with assistance." "and didn't you ever see him again, baron?" asked sapphira. "yes, but only from the deck of the yacht as we were weighing anchor," said mr. munchausen. "i saw him and a dozen others like him doing precisely what i thought they would do, going ashore to search me out so as to have a little cold munch for dinner. i'm glad they were disappointed, aren't you?" "yes, indeed," said ananias and sapphira, but not warmly. ananias was silent for a moment, and then walking over to one of the bookcases, he returned in a moment, bringing with him a huge atlas. "where are the amphibian islands, mr. munchausen?" he said, opening the book. "show them to me on the map. i'd like to print the map with my story." "oh, i can't do that," said the baron, "because they aren't on the map any more. when i got back to europe and told the map-makers about the dangers to man on those islands, they said that the interests of humanity demanded that they be lost. so they took them out of all the geographies, and all the cyclopædias, and all the other books, so that nobody ever again should be tempted to go there; and there isn't a school-teacher or a sailor in the world to-day who could tell you where they are." "but, you know, don't you?" persisted ananias. "well, i did," said the baron; "but, really i have had to remember so many other things that i have forgotten that. all that i know is that they were named from the fact that they were infested by amphibious animals, which are animals that can live on land as well as on water." "how strange!" said sapphira. "it's just too queer for anything," said ananias, "but on the whole i'm not surprised." and the baron said he was glad to hear it. [illustration: "i laughed in the poor disappointed thing's face, and with a howl of despair he rushed back into the sea." _chapter x._] xi the baron as a runner the twins had been on the lookout for the baron for at least an hour, and still he did not come, and the little imps were beginning to feel blue over the prospect of getting the usual sunday afternoon story. it was past four o'clock, and for as long a time as they could remember the baron had never failed to arrive by three o'clock. all sorts of dreadful possibilities came up before their mind's eye. they pictured the baron in accidents of many sorts. they conjured up visions of him lying wounded beneath the ruins of an apartment house, or something else equally heavy that might have fallen upon him on his way from his rooms to the station, but that he was more than wounded they did not believe, for they knew that the baron was not the sort of man to be killed by anything killing under the sun. "i wonder where he can be?" said angelica, uneasily to her brother, who was waiting with equal anxiety for their common friend. "oh, he's all right!" said diavolo, with a confidence he did not really feel. "he'll turn up all right, and even if he's two hours late he'll be here on time according to his own watch. just you wait and see." and they did wait and they did see. they waited for ten minutes, when the baron drove up, smiling as ever, but apparently a little out of breath. i should not dare to say that he was really out of breath, but he certainly did seem to be so, for he panted visibly, and for two or three minutes after his arrival was quite unable to ask the imps the usual question as to their very good health. finally, however, the customary courtesies of the greeting were exchanged, and the decks were cleared for action. "what kept you, uncle munch?" asked the twins, as they took up their usual position on the baron's knees. "what what?" replied the warrior. "kept me? why, am i late?" "two hours," said the twins. "dad gave you up and went out for a walk." "nonsense," said the baron. "i'm never that late." here he looked at his watch. "why i do seem to be behind time. there must be something wrong with our time-pieces. i can't be two hours late, you know." "well, let's say you are on time, then," said the twins. "what kept you?" "a very funny accident on the railroad," said the baron lighting a cigar. "queerest accident that ever happened to me on the railroad, too. our engine ran away." the twins laughed as if they thought the baron was trying to fool them. "really," said the baron. "i left town as usual on the two o'clock train, which, as you know, comes through in half an hour, without a stop. everything went along smoothly until we reached the vitriol reservoir, when much to the surprise of everybody the train came to a stand-still. i supposed there was a cow on the track, and so kept in my seat for three or four minutes as did every one else. finally the conductor came through and called to the brakeman at the end of our car to see if his brakes were all right. "'it's the most unaccountable thing,' he said to me. 'here's this train come to a dead stop and i can't see why. there isn't a brake out of order on any one of the cars, and there isn't any earthly reason why we shouldn't go ahead.' "'maybe somebody's upset a bottle of glue on the track,' said i. i always like to chaff the conductor, you know, though as far as that is concerned, i remember once when i was travelling on a south american railway our train was stopped by highwaymen, who smeared the tracks with a peculiar sort of gum. they'd spread it over three miles of track, and after the train had gone lightly over two miles of it the wheels stuck so fast ten engines couldn't have moved it. that was a terrible affair." "i don't think we ever heard of that, did we?" asked angelica. "i don't remember it," said diavolo. "well, you would have remembered it, if you had ever heard of it," said the baron. "it was too dreadful to be forgotten--not for us, you know, but for the robbers. it was one of the imperial trains in brazil, and if it hadn't been for me the emperor would have been carried off and held for ransom. the train was brought to a stand-still by this gluey stuff, as i have told you, and the desperadoes boarded the cars and proceeded to rifle us of our possessions. the emperor was in the car back of mine, and the robbers made directly for him, but fathoming their intention i followed close upon their heels. "'you are our game,' said the chief robber, tapping the emperor on the shoulder, as he entered the imperial car. "'hands off,' i cried throwing the ruffian to one side. "he scowled dreadfully at me, the emperor looked surprised, and another one of the robbers requested to know who was i that i should speak with so much authority. 'who am i?' said i, with a wink at the emperor. 'who am i? who else but baron munchausen of the bodenwerder national guard, ex-friend of napoleon of france, intimate of the mikado of japan, and famed the world over as the deadliest shot in two hemispheres.' "the desperadoes paled visibly as i spoke, and after making due apologies for interfering with the train, fled shrieking from the car. they had heard of me before. "'i thank you, sir,' began the emperor, as the would-be assassins fled, but i cut him short. 'they must not be allowed to escape,' i said, and with that i started in pursuit of the desperate fellows, overtook them, and glued them with the gum they had prepared for our detention to the face of a precipice that rose abruptly from the side of the railway, one hundred and ten feet above the level. there i left them. we melted the glue from the tracks by means of our steam heating apparatus, and were soon booming merrily on our way to rio janeiro when i was fêted and dined continuously for weeks by the people, though strange to say the emperor's behaviour toward me was very cool." "and did the robbers ever get down?" asked the twins. "yes, but not in a way they liked," mr. munchausen replied. "the sun came out, and after a week or two melted the glue that held them to the precipice, whereupon they fell to its base and were shattered into pieces so small there wasn't an atom of them to be found when a month later i passed that way again on my return trip." "and didn't the emperor treat you well, uncle munch?" asked the imps. "no--as i told you he was very cool towards me, and i couldn't understand it, then, but i do now," said the baron. "you see he was very much in need of ready cash, the emperor was, and as the taxpayers were already growling about the expenses of the government he didn't dare raise the money by means of a tax. so he arranged with the desperadoes to stop the train, capture him, and hold him for ransom. then when the ransom came along he was going to divide up with them. my sudden appearance, coupled with my determination to rescue him, spoiled his plan, you see, and so he naturally wasn't very grateful. poor fellow, i was very sorry for it afterward, because he really was an excellent ruler, and his plan of raising the money he needed wasn't a bit less honest than most other ways rulers employ to obtain revenue for state purposes." "well, now, let's get back to the runaway engine," said the twins. "you can tell us more about south america after you get through with that. how did the engine come to run away?" "it was simple enough," said the baron. "the engineer, after starting the train came back into the smoking car to get a light for his pipe, and while he was there the coupling-pin between the engine and the train broke, and off skipped the engine twice as fast as it had been going before. the relief from the weight of the train set its pace to a mile a minute instead of a mile in two minutes, and there we were at a dead stop in front of the vitriol station with nothing to move us along. when the engineer saw what had happened he fainted dead away, because you know if a collision had occurred between the runaway engine and the train ahead he would have been held responsible." "couldn't the fireman stop the engine?" asked the twins. "no. that is, it wouldn't be his place to do it, and these railway fellows are queer about that sort of thing," said the baron. "the engineers would go out upon a strike if the railroad were to permit a stoker to manage the engine, and besides that the stoker wouldn't undertake to do it at a stoker's wages, so there wasn't any help to be looked for there. the conductor happened to be nearsighted, and so he didn't find out that the engine was missing until he had wasted ten or twenty minutes examining the brakes, by which time, of course, the runaway was miles and miles up the track. then the engineer came to, and began to wring his hands and moan in a way that was heart-rending. the conductor, too, began to cry, and all the brakemen left the train and took to the woods. they weren't going to have any of the responsibility for the accident placed on their shoulders. whether they will ever turn up again i don't know. but i realised as soon as anybody else that something had to be done, so i rushed into the telegraph office and telegraphed to all the station masters between the vitriol reservoir and cimmeria to clear the track of all trains, freight, local, or express, or somebody would be hurt, and that i myself would undertake to capture the runaway engine. this they all promised to do, whereupon i bade good-bye to my fellow-travellers, and set off up the track myself at full speed. in a minute i strode past sulphur springs, covering at least eight ties at a stretch. in two minutes i thundered past lava hurst, where i learned that the engine had twenty miles start of me. i made a rapid calculation mentally--i always was strong in mental arithmetic, which showed that unless i was tripped up or got side-tracked somewhere i might overtake the runaway before it reached noxmere. redoubling my efforts, my stride increased to twenty ties at a jump, and i made the next five miles in two minutes. it sounds impossible, but really it isn't so. it is hard to run as fast as that at the start, but when you have got your start the impetus gathered in the first mile's run sends you along faster in the second, and so your speed increases by its own force until finally you go like the wind. at gasdale i had gained two miles on the engine, at sneakskill i was only fifteen miles behind, and upon my arrival at noxmere there was scarcely a mile between me and the fugitive. unfortunately a large crowd had gathered at noxmere to see me pass through, and some small boy had brought a dog along with him and the dog stood directly in my path. if i ran over the dog it would kill him and might trip me up. if i jumped with the impetus i had there was no telling where i would land. it was a hard point to decide either way, but i decided in favour of the jump, simply to save the dog's life, for i love animals. i landed three miles up the road and ahead of the engine, though i didn't know that until i had run ten miles farther on, leaving the engine a hundred yards behind me at every stride. it was at miasmatica that i discovered my error and then i tried to stop. it was almost in vain; i dragged my feet over the ties, but could only slow down to a three-minute gait. then i tried to turn around and slow up running backward; this brought my speed down ten minutes to the mile, which made it safe for me to run into a hay-stack at the side of the railroad just this side of cimmeria. then, of course, i was all right. i could sit down and wait for the engine, which came booming along forty minutes later. as it approached i prepared to board it, and in five minutes was in full control. that made it easy enough for me to get back here without further trouble. i simply reversed the lever, and back we came faster than i can describe, and just one hour and a half from the time of the mishap the runaway engine was restored to its deserted train and i reached your station here in good order. i should have walked up, but for my weariness after that exciting run, which as you see left me very much out of breath, and which made it necessary for me to hire that worn-out old hack instead of walking up as is my wont." [illustration: "this brought my speed down ten minutes to the mile, which made it safe for me to run into a haystack." _chapter xi._] "yes, we see you are out of breath," said the twins, as the baron paused. "would you like to lie down and take a rest?" "above all things," said the baron. "i'll take a nap here until your father returns," which he proceeded at once to do. while he slept the two imps gazed at him curiously, angelica, a little suspiciously. "bub," said she, in a whisper, "do you think that was a true story?" "well, i don't know," said diavolo. "if anybody else than uncle munch had told it, i wouldn't have believed it. but he hates untruth. i know because he told me so." "that's the way i feel about it," said angelica. "of course, he can run as fast as that, because he is very strong, but what i can't see is how an engine ever could run away from its train." "that's what stumps me," said diavolo. xii mr. munchausen meets his match (reported by henry w. ananias for the _gehenna gazette_.) when mr. munchausen, accompanied by ananias and sapphira, after a long and tedious journey from cimmeria to the cool and wooded heights of the blue sulphur mountains, entered the portals of the hotel where the greater part of his summers are spent, the first person to greet him was beelzebub sandboy,--the curly-headed imp who acted as "head front" of the blue sulphur mountain house, his eyes a-twinkle and his swift running feet as ever ready for a trip to any part of the hostelry and back. beelzy, as the imp was familiarly known, as the party entered, was in the act of carrying a half-dozen pitchers of iced-water upstairs to supply thirsty guests with the one thing needful and best to quench that thirst, and in his excitement at catching sight once again of his ancient friend the baron, managed to drop two of the pitchers with a loud crash upon the office floor. this, however, was not noticed by the powers that ruled. beelzy was not perfect, and as long as he smashed less than six pitchers a day on an average the management was disposed not to complain. "there goes my friend beelzy," said the baron, as the pitchers fell. "i am delighted to see him. i was afraid he would not be here this year since i understand he has taken up the study of theology." "theology?" cried ananias. "in hades?" "how foolish," said sapphira. "we don't need preachers here." "he'd make an excellent one," said mr. munchausen. "he is a lad of wide experience and his fish and bear stories are wonderful. if he can make them gee, as he would put it, with his doctrines he would prove a tremendous success. thousands would flock to hear him for his bear stories alone. as for the foolishness of his choice, i think it is a very wise one. everybody can't be a stoker, you know." at any rate, whatever the reasons for beelzebub's presence, whether he had given up the study of theology or not, there he was plying his old vocation with the same perfection of carelessness as of yore, and apparently no farther along in the study of theology than he was the year before when he bade mr. munchausen "good-bye forever" with the statement that now that he was going to lead a pious life the chances were he'd never meet his friend again. "i don't see why they keep such a careless boy as that," said sapphira, as beelzy at the first landing turned to grin at mr. munchausen, emptying the contents of one of his pitchers into the lap of a nervous old gentleman in the office below. "he adds an element of excitement to a not over-exciting place," explained mr. munchausen. "on stormy days here the men make bets on what fool thing beelzy will do next. he blacked all the russet shoes with stove polish one year, and last season in the rush of his daily labours he filled up the water-cooler with soft coal instead of ice. he's a great bell-boy, is my friend beelzy." a little while later when mr. munchausen and his party had been shown to their suite, beelzy appeared in their drawing-room and was warmly greeted by mr. munchausen, who introduced him to mr. and mrs. ananias. "well," said mr. munchausen, "you're here again, are you?" "no, indeed," said beelzy. "i ain't here this year. i'm over at the coal-yards shovellin' snow. i'm my twin brother that died three years before i was born." "how interesting," said sapphira, looking at the boy through her lorgnette. beelzy bowed in response to the compliment and observed to the baron: "you ain't here yourself this season, be ye?" "no," said mr. munchausen, drily. "i've gone abroad. you've given up theology i presume?" "sorter," said beelzy. "it was lonesome business and i hadn't been at it more'n twenty minutes when i realised that bein' a missionary ain't all jam and buckwheats. it's kind o' dangerous too, and as i didn't exactly relish the idea o' bein' et up by samoans an' feejees i made up my mind to give it up an' stick to bell-boyin' for another season any how; but i'll see you later, mr. munchausen. i've got to hurry along with this iced-water. it's overdue now, and we've got the kickinest lot o' folks here this year you ever see. one man here the other night got as mad as hookey because it took forty minutes to soft bile an egg. said two minutes was all that was necessary to bile an egg softer'n mush, not understanding anything about the science of eggs in a country where hens feeds on pebbles." "pebbles?" cried mr. munchausen. "what, do they lay roc's eggs?" beelzy grinned. "no, sir--they lay hen's eggs all right, but they're as hard as adam's aunt." "i never heard of chickens eating pebbles," observed sapphira with a frown. "do they really relish them?" "i don't know, ma'am," said beelzy. "i ain't never been on speakin' terms with the hens, ma'am, and they never volunteered no information. they eat 'em just the same. they've got to eat something and up here on these mountains there ain't anything but gravel for 'em to eat. that's why they do it. then when it comes to the eggs, on a diet like that, cobblestones ain't in it with 'em for hardness, and when you come to bite 'em it takes a week to get 'em soft, an' a steam drill to get 'em open--an' this feller kicked at forty minutes! most likely he's swearin' around upstairs now because this iced-water ain't came; and it ain't more than two hours since he ordered it neither." "what an unreasonable gentleman," said sapphira. "ain't he though!" said beelzy. "and he ain't over liberal neither. he's been here two weeks now and all the money i've got out of him was a five-dollar bill i found on his bureau yesterday morning. there's more money in theology than there is in him." with this beelzebub grabbed up the pitcher of water, and bounded out of the room like a frightened fawn. he disappeared into the dark of the corridor, and a few moments later was evidently tumbling head over heels up stairs, if the sounds that greeted the ears of the party in the drawing-room meant anything. the next morning when there was more leisure for beelzy the baron inquired as to the state of his health. "oh it's been pretty good," said he. "pretty good. i'm all right now, barrin' a little gout in my right foot, and ice-water on my knee, an' a crick in my back, an' a tired feelin' all over me generally. ain't had much to complain about. had the measles in december, and the mumps in february; an' along about the middle o' may the whoopin' cough got a holt of me; but as it saved my life i oughtn't to kick about that." here beelzy looked gratefully at an invisible something--doubtless the recollection in the thin air of his departed case of whooping cough, for having rescued him from an untimely grave. "that is rather curious, isn't it?" queried sapphira, gazing intently into the boy's eyes. "i don't exactly understand how the whooping cough could save anybody's life, do you, mr. munchausen?" "beelzy, this lady would have you explain the situation, and i must confess that i am myself somewhat curious to learn the details of this wonderful rescue," said mr. munchausen. "well, i must say," said beelzy, with a pleased smile at the very great consequence of his exploit in the lady's eyes, "if i was a-goin' to start out to save people's lives generally i wouldn't have thought a case o' whoopin' cough would be of much use savin' a man from drownin', and i'm sure if a feller fell out of a balloon it wouldn't help him much if he had ninety dozen cases o' whoopin' cough concealed on his person; but for just so long as i'm the feller that has to come up here every june, an' shoo the bears out o' the hotel, i ain't never goin' to be without a spell of whoopin' cough along about that time if i can help it. i wouldn't have been here now if it hadn't been for it." "you referred just now," said sapphira, "to shooing bears out of the hotel. may i inquire what useful function in the ménage of a hotel a bear-shooer performs?" "what useful what?" asked beelzy. "function--duty--what does the duty of a bear-shooer consist in?" explained mr. munchausen. "is he a blacksmith who shoes bears instead of horses?" "he's a bear-chaser," explained beelzy, "and i'm it," he added. "that, ma'am, is the function of a bear-shooer in the menagerie of a hotel." sapphira having expressed herself as satisfied, beelzebub continued. "you see this here house is shut up all winter, and when everybody's gone and left it empty the bears come down out of the mountains and use it instead of a cave. it's more cosier and less windier than their dens. so when the last guest has gone, and all the doors are locked, and the band gone into winter quarters, down come the bears and take possession. they generally climb through some open window somewhere. they divide up all the best rooms accordin' to their position in bear society and settle down to a regular hotel life among themselves." "but what do they feed upon?" asked sapphira. "oh they'll eat anything when they're hungry," said beelzy. "sofa cushions, parlor rugs, hotel registers--anything they can fasten their teeth to. last year they came in through the cupola, burrowin' down through the snow to get at it, and there they stayed enjoyin' life out o' reach o' the wind and storm, snug's bugs in rugs. year before last there must ha' been a hundred of 'em in the hotel when i got here, but one by one i got rid of 'em. some i smoked out with some cigars mr. munchausen gave me the summer before; some i deceived out, gettin' 'em to chase me through the winders, an' then doublin' back on my tracks an' lockin' 'em out. it was mighty wearin' work. "last june there was twice as many. by actual tab i shooed two hundred and eight bears and a panther off into the mountains. when the last one as i thought disappeared into the woods i searched the house from top to bottom to see if there was any more to be got rid of. every blessed one of the five hundred rooms i went through, and not a bear was left that i could see. i can tell you, i was glad, because there was a partickerly ugly run of 'em this year, an' they gave me a pile o' trouble. they hadn't found much to eat in the hotel, an' they was disappointed and cross. as a matter of fact, the only things they found in the place they could eat was a piano stool and an old hair trunk full o' paper-covered novels, which don't make a very hearty meal for two hundred and eight bears and a panther." "i should say not," said sapphira, "particularly if the novels were as light as most of them are nowadays." "i can't say as to that," said beelzy. "i ain't got time to read 'em and so i ain't any judge. but all this time i was sufferin' like hookey with awful spasms of whoopin' cough. i whooped so hard once it smashed one o' the best echoes in the place all to flinders, an' of course that made the work twice as harder. so, naturally, when i found there warn't another bear left in the hotel, i just threw myself down anywhere, and slept. my! how i slept. i don't suppose anything ever slept sounder'n i did. and then it happened." beelzy gave his trousers a hitch and let his voice drop to a stage whisper that lent a wondrous impressiveness to his narration. "as i was a-layin' there unconscious, dreamin' of home and father, a great big black hungry bruin weighin' six hundred and forty-three pounds, that had been hidin' in the bread oven in the bakery, where i hadn't thought of lookin' for him, came saunterin' along, hummin' a little tune all by himself, and lickin' his chops with delight at the idee of havin' me raw for his dinner. i lay on unconscious of my danger, until he got right up close, an' then i waked up, an' openin' my eyes saw this great black savage thing gloatin' over me an' tears of joy runnin' out of his mouth as he thought of the choice meal he was about to have. he was sniffin' my bang when i first caught sight of him." "mercy!" cried sapphira, "i should think you'd have died of fright." [illustration: "at the first whoop mr. bear jumped ten feet and fell over backwards on the floor." _chapter xii._] "i did," said beelzy, politely, "but i came to life again in a minute. 'oh lor!' says i, as i see how hungry he was. 'this here's the end o' me;' at which the bear looked me straight in the eye, licked his chops again, and was about to take a nibble off my right ear when 'whoop!' i had a spasm of whoopin'. well, ma'am, i guess you know what that means. there ain't nothin' more uncanny, more terrifyin' in the whole run o' human noises, barrin' a german opery, than the whoop o' the whoopin' cough. at the first whoop mr. bear jumped ten feet and fell over backwards onto the floor; at the second he scrambled to his feet and put for the door, but stopped and looked around hopin' he was mistaken, when i whooped a third time. the third did the business. that third whoop would have scared indians. it was awful. it was like a tornado blowin' through a fog-horn with a megaphone in front of it. when he heard that, mr. bear turned on all four of his heels and started on a scoot up into the woods that must have carried him ten miles before i quit coughin'. "an' that's why, ma'am, i say that when you've got to shoo bears for a livin', an attack o' whoopin' cough is a useful thing to have around." saying which, beelzy departed to find number 's left boot which he had left at number 's door by some odd mistake. "what do you think of that, mr. munchausen?" asked sapphira, as beelzy left the room. "i don't know," said mr. munchausen, with a sigh. "i'm inclined to think that i am a trifle envious of him. the rest of us are not in his class." xiii wriggletto it was in the afternoon of a beautiful summer day, and mr. munchausen had come up from the simmering city of cimmeria to spend a day or two with diavolo and angelica and their venerable parents. they had all had dinner, and were now out on the back piazza overlooking the magnificent river styx, which flowed from the mountains to the sea, condescending on its way thither to look in upon countless insignificant towns which had grown up on its banks, among which was the one in which diavolo and angelica had been born and lived all their lives. mr. munchausen was lying comfortably in a hammock, collecting his thoughts. angelica was somewhat depressed, but diavolo was jubilant and all because in the course of a walk they had had that morning diavolo had killed a snake. "it was fine sport," said diavolo. "he was lying there in the sun, and i took a stick and put him out of his misery in two minutes." here diavolo illustrated the process by whacking the baron over his waist-coat with a small malacca stick he carried. "well, i didn't like it," said angelica. "i don't care for snakes, but somehow or other it seems to me we'd ought to have left him alone. he wasn't hurting anybody off there. if he'd come walking on our place, that would have been one thing, but we went walking where he was, and he had as much right to take a sun-bath there as we had." "that's true enough," put in mr. munchausen, resolved after diavolo's whack, to side against him. "you've just about hit it, angelica. it wasn't polite of you in the first place, to disturb his snakeship in his nap, and having done so, i can't see why diavolo wanted to kill him." "oh, pshaw!" said diavolo, airily. "what's snakes good for except to kill? i'll kill 'em every chance i get. they aren't any good." "all right," said mr. munchausen, quietly. "i suppose you know all about it; but i know a thing or two about snakes myself that do not exactly agree with what you say. they are some good sometimes, and, as a matter of fact, as a general rule, they are less apt to attack you without reason than you are to attack them. a snake is rather inclined to mind its own business unless he finds it necessary to do otherwise. occasionally too you'll find a snake with a truly amiable character. i'll never forget my old pet wriggletto, for instance, and as long as i remember him i can't help having a warm corner for snakes in my heart." here mr. munchausen paused and puffed thoughtfully on his cigar as a far-away half-affectionate look came into his eye. "who was wriggletto?" asked diavolo, transferring a half dollar from mr. munchausen's pocket to his own. "who was he?" cried mr. munchausen. "you don't mean to say that i have never told you about wriggletto, my pet boa-constrictor, do you?" "you never told me," said angelica. "but i'm not everybody. maybe you've told some other little imps." "no, indeed!" said mr. munchausen. "you two are the only little imps i tell stories to, and as far as i am concerned, while i admit you are not everybody you are somebody and that's more than everybody is. wriggletto was a boa-constrictor i once knew in south america, and he was without exception, the most remarkable bit of a serpent i ever met. genial, kind, intelligent, grateful and useful, and, after i'd had him a year or two, wonderfully well educated. he could write with himself as well as you or i can with a pen. there's a recommendation for you. few men are all that--and few boa-constrictors either, as far as that goes. i admit wriggletto was an exception to the general run of serpents, but he was all that i claim for him, nevertheless." "what kind of a snake did you say he was?" asked diavolo. "a boa-constrictor," said mr. munchausen, "and i knew him from his childhood. i first encountered wriggletto about ten miles out of para on the river amazon. he was being swallowed by a larger boa-constrictor, and i saved his life by catching hold of his tail and pulling him out just as the other was getting ready to give the last gulp which would have taken wriggletto in completely, and placed him beyond all hope of ever being saved." "what was the other boa doing while you were saving wriggletto?" asked diavolo, who was fond always of hearing both sides to every question, and whose father, therefore, hoped he might some day grow up to be a great judge, or at least serve with distinction upon a jury. "he couldn't do anything," returned mr. munchausen. "he was powerless as long as wriggletto's head stuck in his throat and just before i got the smaller snake extracted i killed the other one by cutting off his tail behind his ears. it was not a very dangerous rescue on my part as long as wriggletto was likely to be grateful. i must confess for a minute i was afraid he might not comprehend all i had done for him, and it was just possible he might attack me, but the hug he gave me when he found himself free once more was reassuring. he wound himself gracefully around my body, squeezed me gently and then slid off into the road again, as much as to say 'thank you, sir. you're a brick.' after that there was nothing wriggletto would not do for me. he followed me everywhere i went from that time on. he seemed to learn all in an instant that there were hundreds of little things to be done about the house of an old bachelor like myself which a willing serpent could do, and he made it his business to do those things: like picking up my collars from the floor, and finding my studs for me when they rolled under the bureau, and a thousand and one other little services of a like nature, and when you, master diavolo, try in future to say that snakes are only good to kill and are of no use to any one, you must at least make an exception in favour of wriggletto." "i will," said diavolo, "but you haven't told us of the other useful things he did for you yet." "i was about to do so," said mr. munchausen. "in the first place, before he learned how to do little things about the house for me, wriggletto acted as a watch-dog and you may be sure that nobody ever ventured to prowl around my house at night while wriggletto slept out on the lawn. para was quite full of conscienceless fellows, too, at that time, any one of whom would have been glad to have a chance to relieve me of my belongings if they could get by my watch-snake. two of them tried it one dark stormy night, and wriggletto when he discovered them climbing in at my window, crawled up behind them and winding his tail about them crept down to the banks of the amazon, dragging them after him. there he tossed them into the river, and came back to his post once more." "did you see him do it, uncle munch?" asked angelica. "no, i did not. i learned of it afterwards. wriggletto himself said never a word. he was too modest for that," said mr. munchausen. "one of the robbers wrote a letter to the para newspapers about it, complaining that any one should be allowed to keep a reptile like that around, and suggested that anyhow people using snakes in place of dogs should be compelled to license them, and put up a sign at their gates: beware of the snake! "the man never acknowledged, of course, that he was the robber,--said that he was calling on business when the thing happened,--but he didn't say what his business was, but i knew better, and later on the other robber and he fell out, and they confessed that the business they had come on was to take away a few thousand gold coins of the realm which i was known to have in the house locked in a steel chest. "i bought wriggletto a handsome silver collar after that, and it was generally understood that he was the guardian of my place, and robbers bothered me no more. then he was finer than a cat for rats. on very hot days he would go off into the cellar, where it was cool, and lie there with his mouth wide open and his eyes shut, and catch rats by the dozens. they'd run around in the dark, and the first thing they'd know they'd stumble into wriggletto's mouth; and he swallowed them and licked his chops afterwards, just as you or i do when we've swallowed a fine luscious oyster or a clam. "but pleasantest of all the things wriggletto did for me--and he was untiring in his attentions in that way--was keeping me cool on hot summer nights. para as you may have heard is a pretty hot place at best, lying in a tropical region as it does, but sometimes it is awful for a man used to the northern climate, as i was. the act of fanning one's self, so far from cooling one off, makes one hotter than ever. maybe you remember how it was with the elephant in the poem: "'oh my, oh dear!' the elephant said, 'it is so awful hot! i've fanned myself for seventy weeks, and haven't cooled a jot.' "and that was the way it was with me in para on hot nights. i'd fan and fan and fan, but i couldn't get cool until wriggletto became a member of my family, and then i was all right. he used to wind his tail about a huge palm-leaf fan i had cut in the forest, so large that i couldn't possibly handle it myself, and he'd wave it to and fro by the hour, with the result that my house was always the breeziest place in para." "where is wriggletto now?" asked diavolo. "heigho!" sighed mr. munchausen. "he died, poor fellow, and all because of that silver collar i gave him. he tried to swallow a jibola that entered my house one night on wickedness intent, and while wriggletto's throat was large enough when he stretched it to take down three jibolas, with a collar on which wouldn't stretch he couldn't swallow one. he didn't know that, unfortunately, and he kept on trying until the jibola got a quarter way down and then he stuck. each swallow, of course, made the collar fit more tightly and finally poor wriggletto choked himself to death. i felt so badly about it that i left para within a month, but meanwhile i had a suit of clothes made out of wriggletto's skin, and wore it for years, and then, when the clothes began to look worn, i had the skin re-tanned and made over into shoes and slippers. so you see that even after death he was useful to me. he was a faithful snake, and that is why when i hear people running down all snakes i tell the story of wriggletto." [illustration: "he used to wind his tail about a fan and he'd wave it to and fro by the hour." _chapter xiii._] there was a pause for a few moments, when diavolo said, "uncle munch, is that a true story you've been giving us?" "true?" cried mr. munchausen. "true? why, my dear boy, what a question! if you don't believe it, bring me your atlas, and i'll show you just where para is." diavolo did as he was told, and sure enough, mr. munchausen did exactly as he said he would, which diavolo thought was very remarkable, but he still was not satisfied. "you said he could write as well with himself as you or i could with a pen, uncle munch," he said. "how was that?" "why that was simple enough," explained mr. munchausen. "you see he was very black, and thirty-nine feet long and remarkably supple and slender. after a year of hard study he learned to bunch himself into letters, and if he wanted to say anything to me he'd simply form himself into a written sentence. indeed his favourite attitude when in repose showed his wonderful gift in chirography as well as his affection for me. if you will get me a card i will prove it." diavolo brought mr. munchausen the card and upon it he drew the following: [illustration: a snake in the form of 'unclemunch'] "there," said mr. munchausen. "that's the way wriggletto always used to lie when he was at rest. his love for me was very affecting." xiv the poetic june-bug, together with some remarks on the gillyhooly bird "uncle munch," said diavolo one afternoon as a couple of bicyclers sped past the house at breakneck speed, "which would you rather have, a bicycle or a horse?" "well, i must say, my boy, that is a difficult question to answer," mr. munchausen replied after scratching his head dubiously for a few minutes. "you might as well ask a man which he prefers, a hammock or a steam-yacht. to that question i should reply that if i wanted to sell it, i'd rather have a steam-yacht, but for a pleasant swing on a cool piazza in midsummer or under the apple-trees, a hammock would be far preferable. steam-yachts are not much good to swing in under an apple tree, and very few piazzas that i know of are big enough--" "oh, now, you know what i mean, uncle munch," diavolo retorted, tapping mr. munchausen upon the end of his nose, for a twinkle in mr. munchausen's eye seemed to indicate that he was in one of his chaffing moods, and a greater tease than mr. munchausen when he felt that way no one has ever known. "i mean for horse-back riding, which would you rather have?" "ah, that's another matter," returned mr. munchausen, calmly. "now i know how to answer your question. for horse-back riding i certainly prefer a horse; though, on the other hand, for bicycling, bicycles are better than horses. horses make very poor bicycles, due no doubt to the fact that they have no wheels." diavolo began to grow desperate. "of course," mr. munchausen went on, "all i have to say in this connection is based merely on my ideas, and not upon any personal experience. i've been horse-back riding on horses, and bicycling on bicycles, but i never went horse-back riding on a bicycle, or bicycling on horseback. i should think it might be exciting to go bicycling on horse-back, but very dangerous. it is hard enough for me to keep a bicycle from toppling over when i'm riding on a hard, straight, level well-paved road, without experimenting with my wheel on a horse's back. however if you wish to try it some day and will get me a horse with a back as big as trafalgar square i'm willing to make the effort." angelica giggled. it was lots of fun for her when mr. munchausen teased diavolo, though she didn't like it quite so much when it was her turn to be treated that way. diavolo wanted to laugh too, but he had too much dignity for that, and to conceal his desire to grin from mr. munchausen he began to hunt about for an old newspaper, or a lump of coal or something else he could make a ball of to throw at him. "which would you rather do, angelica," mr. munchausen resumed, "go to sea in a balloon or attend a dumb-crambo party in a chicken-coop?" "i guess i would," laughed angelica. "that's a good answer," mr. munchausen put in. "it is quite as intelligent as the one which is attributed to the gillyhooly bird. when the gillyhooly bird was asked his opinion of giraffes, he scratched his head for a minute and said, "'the question hath but little wit that you have put to me, but i will try to answer it with prompt candidity. the automobile is a thing that's pleasing to the mind; and in a lustrous diamond ring some merit i can find. some persons gloat o'er french chateaux; some dote on lemon ice; while others gorge on mixed gateaux, yet have no use for mice. i'm very fond of oyster-stew, i love a patent-leather boot, but after all, 'twixt me and you, the fish-ball is my favourite fruit.'" "hoh" jeered diavolo, who, attracted by the allusion to a kind of bird of which he had never heard before, had given up the quest for a paper ball and returned to mr. munchausen's side, "i don't think that was a very intelligent answer. it didn't answer the question at all." "that's true, and that is why it was intelligent," said mr. munchausen. "it was noncommittal. some day when you are older and know less than you do now, you will realise, my dear diavolo, how valuable a thing is the reply that answereth not." mr. munchausen paused long enough to let the lesson sink in and then he resumed. "the gillyhooly bird is a perfect owl for wisdom of that sort," he said. "it never lets anybody know what it thinks; it never makes promises, and rarely speaks except to mystify people. it probably has just as decided an opinion concerning giraffes as you or i have, but it never lets anybody into the secret." "what is a gillyhooly bird, anyhow?" asked diavolo. "he's a bird that never sings for fear of straining his voice; never flies for fear of wearying his wings; never eats for fear of spoiling his digestion; never stands up for fear of bandying his legs and never lies down for fear of injuring his spine," said mr. munchausen. "he has no feathers, because, as he says, if he had, people would pull them out to trim hats with, which would be painful, and he never goes into debt because, as he observes himself, he has no hope of paying the bill with which nature has endowed him, so why run up others?" "i shouldn't think he'd live long if he doesn't eat?" suggested angelica. "that's the great trouble," said mr. munchausen. "he doesn't live long. nothing so ineffably wise as the gillyhooly bird ever does live long. i don't believe a gillyhooly bird ever lived more than a day, and that, connected with the fact that he is very ugly and keeps himself out of sight, is possibly why no one has ever seen one. he is known only by hearsay, and as a matter of fact, besides ourselves, i doubt if any one has ever heard of him." diavolo eyed mr. munchausen narrowly. "speaking of gillyhooly birds, however, and to be serious for a moment," mr. munchausen continued flinching nervously under diavolo's unyielding gaze; "i never told you about the poetic june-bug that worked the typewriter, did i?" "never heard of such a thing," cried diavolo. "the idea of a june-bug working a typewriter." "i don't believe it," said angelica, "he hasn't got any fingers." "that shows all you know about it," retorted mr. munchausen. "you think because you are half-way right you are all right. however, if you don't want to hear the story of the june-bug that worked the type-writer, i won't tell it. my tongue is tired, anyhow." "please go on," said diavolo. "i want to hear it." "so do i," said angelica. "there are lots of stories i don't believe that i like to hear--'jack the giant-killer' and 'cinderella,' for instance." "very well," said mr. munchausen. "i'll tell it, and you can believe it or not, as you please. it was only two summers ago that the thing happened, and i think it was very curious. as you may know, i often have a great lot of writing to do and sometimes i get very tired holding a pen in my hand. when you get old enough to write real long letters you'll know what i mean. your writing hand will get so tired that sometimes you'll wish some wizard would come along smart enough to invent a machine by means of which everything you think can be transferred to paper as you think it, without the necessity of writing. but as yet the only relief to the man whose hand is worn out by the amount of writing he has to do is the use of the type-writer, which is hard only on the fingers. so to help me in my work two summers ago i bought a type-writing machine, and put it in the great bay-window of my room at the hotel where i was stopping. it was a magnificent hotel, but it had one drawback--it was infested with june-bugs. most summer hotels are afflicted with mosquitoes, but this one had june-bugs instead, and all night long they'd buzz and butt their heads against the walls until the guests went almost crazy with the noise. "at first i did not mind it very much. it was amusing to watch them, and my friends and i used to play a sort of game of chance with them that entertained us hugely. we marked the walls off in squares which we numbered and then made little wagers as to which of the squares a specially selected june-bug would whack next. to simplify the game we caught the chosen june-bug and put some powdered charcoal on his head, so that when he butted up against the white wall he would leave a black mark in the space he hit. it was really one of the most exciting games of that particular kind that i ever played, and many a rainy day was made pleasant by this diversion. "but after awhile like everything else june-bug roulette as we called it began to pall and i grew tired of it and wished there never had been such a thing as a june-bug in the world. i did my best to forget them, but it was impossible. their buzzing and butting continued uninterrupted, and toward the end of the month they developed a particularly bad habit of butting the electric call button at the side of my bed. the consequence was that at all hours of the night, hall-boys with iced-water, and house-maids with bath towels, and porters with kindling-wood would come knocking at my door and routing me out of bed--summoned of course by none other than those horrible butting insects. this particular nuisance became so unendurable that i had to change my room for one which had no electric bell in it. "so things went, until june passed and july appeared. the majority of the nuisances promptly got out but one especially vigorous and athletic member of the tribe remained. he became unbearable and finally one night i jumped out of bed either to kill him or to drive him out of my apartment forever, but he wouldn't go, and try as i might i couldn't hit him hard enough to kill him. in sheer desperation i took the cover of my typewriting machine and tried to catch him in that. finally i succeeded, and, as i thought, shook the heedless creature out of the window promptly slamming the window shut so that he might not return; and then putting the type-writer cover back over the machine, i went to bed again, but not to sleep as i had hoped. all night long every second or two i'd hear the type-writer click. this i attributed to nervousness on my part. as far as i knew there wasn't anything to make the type-writer click, and the fact that i heard it do so served only to convince me that i was tired and imagined that i heard noises. [illustration: "most singular of all was the fact that consciously or unconsciously the insect had butted out a verse." _chapter xiv._] "the next morning, however, on opening the machine i found that the june-bug had not only not been shaken out of the window, but had actually spent the night inside of the cover, butting his head against the keys, having no wall to butt with it, and most singular of all was the fact that, consciously or unconsciously, the insect had butted out a verse which read: "'i'm glad i haven't any brains, for there can be no doubt i'd have to give up butting if i had, or butt them out.'" "mercy! really?" cried angelica. "well i can't prove it," said mr. munchausen, "by producing the june-bug, but i can show you the hotel, i can tell you the number of the room; i can show you the type-writing machine, and i have recited the verse. if you're not satisfied with that i'll have to stand your suspicions." "what became of the june-bug?" demanded diavolo. "he flew off as soon as i lifted the top of the machine," said mr. munchausen. "he had all the modesty of a true poet and did not wish to be around while his poem was being read." "it's queer how you can't get rid of june-bugs, isn't it, uncle munch," suggested angelica. "oh, we got rid of 'em next season all right," said mr. munchausen. "i invented a scheme that kept them away all the following summer. i got the landlord to hang calendars all over the house with one full page for each month. then in every room we exposed the page for may and left it that way all summer. when the june-bugs arrived and saw these, they were fooled into believing that june hadn't come yet, and off they flew to wait. they are very inconsiderate of other people's comfort," mr. munchausen concluded, "but they are rigorously bound by an etiquette of their own. a self-respecting june-bug would no more appear until the june-bug season is regularly open than a gentleman of high society would go to a five o'clock tea munching fresh-roasted peanuts. and by the way, that reminds me i happen to have a bag of peanuts right here in my pocket." here mr. munchausen, transferring the luscious goobers to angelica, suddenly remembered that he had something to say to the imps' father, and hurriedly left them. "do you suppose that's true, diavolo?" whispered angelica as their friend disappeared. "well it might happen," said diavolo, "but i've a sort of notion that it's 'maginary like the gillyhooly bird. gimme a peanut." xv a lucky stroke "mr. munchausen," said ananias, as he and the famous warrior drove off from the first hole at the missing links, "you never seem to weary of the game of golf. what is its precise charm in your eyes,--the health-giving qualities of the game or its capacity for bad lies?" "i owe my life to it," replied the baron. "that is to say to my precision as a player i owe one of the many preservations of my existence which have passed into history. furthermore it is ever varying in its interest. like life itself it is full of hazards and no man knows at the beginning of his stroke what will be the requirements of the next. i never told you of the bovine lie i got once while playing a match with bonaparte, did i?" "i do not recall it," said ananias, foozling his second stroke into the stone wall. "i was playing with my friend bonaparte, for the cosmopolitan championship," said munchausen, "and we were all even at the thirty-sixth hole. bonaparte had sliced his ball into a stubble field from the tee, whereat he was inclined to swear, until by an odd mischance i drove mine into the throat of a bull that was pasturing on the fair green two hundred and ninety-eight yards distant. 'shall we take it over?' i asked. 'no,' laughed bonaparte, thinking he had me. 'we must play the game. i shall play my lie. you must play yours.' 'very well,' said i. 'so be it. golf is golf, bull or no bull.' and off we went. it took bonaparte seven strokes to get on the green again, which left me a like number to extricate my ball from the throat of the unwelcome bovine. it was a difficult business, but i made short work of it. tying my red silk handkerchief to the end of my brassey i stepped in front of the great creature and addressing an imaginary ball before him made the usual swing back and through stroke. the bull, angered by the fluttering red handkerchief, reared up and made a dash at me. i ran in the direction of the hole, the bull in pursuit for two hundred yards. here i hid behind a tree while mr. bull stopped short and snorted again. still there was no sign of the ball, and after my pursuer had quieted a little i emerged from my hiding place and with the same club and in the same manner played three. the bull surprised at my temerity threw his head back with an angry toss and tried to bellow forth his wrath, as i had designed he should, but the obstruction in his throat prevented him. the ball had stuck in his pharynx. nothing came of his spasm but a short hacking cough and a wheeze--then silence. 'i'll play four,' i cried to bonaparte, who stood watching me from a place of safety on the other side of the stone wall. again i swung my red-flagged brassey in front of the angry creature's face and what i had hoped for followed. the second attempt at a bellow again resulted in a hacking cough and a sneeze, and lo the ball flew out of his throat and landed dead to the hole. the caddies drove the bull away. bonaparte played eight, missed a putt for a nine, stymied himself in a ten, holed out in twelve and i went down in five." "jerusalem!" cried ananias. "what did bonaparte say?" [illustration: "again i swung my red-flagged brassey in front of the angry creature's face, and what i had hoped for followed." _chapter xv._] "he delivered a short, quick nervous address in corsican and retired to the club-house where he spent the afternoon drowning his sorrows in absinthe high-balls. 'great hole that, bonaparte,' said i when his geniality was about to return. 'yes,' said he. 'a regular lu-lu, eh?' said i. 'more than that, baron,' said he. 'it was a waterlooloo.' it was the first pun i ever heard the emperor make." "we all have our weak moments," said ananias drily, playing nine from behind the wall. "i give the hole up," he added angrily. "let's play it out anyhow," said munchausen, playing three to the green. "all right," ananias agreed, taking a ten and rimming the cup. munchausen took three to go down, scoring six in all. "two up," said he, as ananias putted out in eleven. "how the deuce do you make that out? this is only the first hole," cried ananias with some show of heat. "you gave up a hole, didn't you?" demanded munchausen. "yes." "and i won a hole, didn't i?" "you did--but--" "well that's two holes. fore!" cried munchausen. the two walked along in silence for a few minutes, and the baron resumed. "yes, golf is a splendid game and i love it, though i don't think i'd ever let a good canvasback duck get cold while i was talking about it. when i have a canvasback duck before me i don't think of anything else while it's there. but unquestionably i'm fond of golf, and i have a very good reason to be. it has done a great deal for me, and as i have already told you, once it really saved my life." "saved your life, eh?" said ananias. "that's what i said," returned mr. munchausen, "and so of course that is the way it was." "i should admire to hear the details," said ananias. "i presume you were going into a decline and it restored your strength and vitality." "no," said mr. munchausen, "it wasn't that way at all. it saved my life when i was attacked by a fierce and ravenously hungry lion. if i hadn't known how to play golf it would have been farewell forever to mr. munchausen, and mr. lion would have had a fine luncheon that day, at which i should have been the turkey and cranberry sauce and mince pie all rolled into one." ananias laughed. "it's easy enough to laugh at my peril now," said mr. munchausen, "but if you'd been with me you wouldn't have laughed very much. on the contrary, ananias, you'd have ruined what little voice you ever had screeching." "i wasn't laughing at the danger you were in," said ananias. "i don't see anything funny in that. what i was laughing at was the idea of a lion turning up on a golf course. they don't have lions on any of the golf courses that i am familiar with." "that may be, my dear ananias," said mr. munchausen, "but it doesn't prove anything. what you are familiar with has no especial bearing upon the ordering of the universe. they had lions by the hundreds on the particular links i refer to. i laid the links out myself and i fancy i know what i am talking about. they were in the desert of sahara. and i tell you what it is," he added, slapping his knee enthusiastically, "they were the finest links i ever played on. there wasn't a hole shorter than three miles and a quarter, which gives you plenty of elbow room, and the fair green had all the qualities of a first class billiard table, so that your ball got a magnificent roll on it." "what did you do for hazards?" asked ananias. "oh we had 'em by the dozen," replied mr. munchausen. "there weren't any ponds or stone walls, of course, but there were plenty of others that were quite as interesting. there was the sphynx for instance; and for bunkers the pyramids can't be beaten. then occasionally right in the middle of a game a caravan ten or twelve miles long, would begin to drag its interminable length across the middle of the course, and it takes mighty nice work with the lofting iron to lift a ball over a caravan without hitting a camel or killing an arab, i can tell you. then finally i'm sure i don't know of any more hazardous hazard for a golf player--or for anybody else for that matter--than a real hungry african lion out in search of breakfast, especially when you meet him on the hole furthest from home and have a stretch of three or four miles between him and assistance with no revolver or other weapon at hand. that's hazard enough for me and it took the best work i could do with my brassey to get around it." "you always were strong at a brassey lie," said ananias. "thank you," said mr. munchausen. "there are few lies i can't get around. but on this morning i was playing for the mid-african championship. i'd been getting along splendidly. my record for fifteen holes was about seven hundred and eighty-three strokes, and i was flattering myself that i was about to turn in the best card that had ever been seen in a medal play contest in all africa. my drive from the sixteenth tee was a simple beauty. i thought the ball would never stop, i hit it such a tremendous whack. it had a flight of three hundred and eighty-two yards and a roll of one hundred and twenty more, and when it finally stopped it turned up in a mighty good lie on a natural tee, which the wind had swirled up. calling to the monkey who acted as my caddy--we used monkeys for caddies always in africa, and they were a great success because they don't talk and they use their tails as a sort of extra hand,--i got out my brassey for the second stroke, took my stance on the hardened sand, swung my club back, fixed my eye on the ball and was just about to carry through, when i heard a sound which sent my heart into my boots, my caddy galloping back to the club house, and set my teeth chattering like a pair of castanets. it was unmistakable, that sound. when a hungry lion roars you know precisely what it is the moment you hear it, especially if you have heard it before. it doesn't sound a bit like the miauing of a cat; nor is it suggestive of the rumble of artillery in an adjacent street. there is no mistaking it for distant thunder, as some writers would have you believe. it has none of the gently mournful quality that characterises the soughing of the wind through the leafless branches of the autumnal forest, to which a poet might liken it; it is just a plain lion-roaring and nothing else, and when you hear it you know it. the man who mistakes it for distant thunder might just as well be struck by lightning there and then for all the chance he has to get away from it ultimately. the poet who confounds it with the gentle soughing breeze never lives to tell about it. he gets himself eaten up for his foolishness. it doesn't require a daniel come to judgment to recognise a lion's roar on sight. "i should have perished myself that morning if i had not known on the instant just what were the causes of the disturbance. my nerve did not desert me, however, frightened as i was. i stopped my play and looked out over the sand in the direction whence the roaring came, and there he stood a perfect picture of majesty, and a giant among lions, eyeing me critically as much as to say, 'well this is luck, here's breakfast fit for a king!' but he reckoned without his host. i was in no mood to be served up to stop his ravening appetite and i made up my mind at once to stay and fight. i'm a good runner, ananias, but i cannot beat a lion in a three mile sprint on a sandy soil, so fight it was. the question was how. my caddy gone, the only weapons i had with me were my brassey and that one little gutta percha ball, but thanks to my golf they were sufficient. "carefully calculating the distance at which the huge beast stood, i addressed the ball with unusual care, aiming slightly to the left to overcome my tendency to slice, and drove the ball straight through the lion's heart as he poised himself on his hind legs ready to spring upon me. it was a superb stroke and not an instant too soon, for just as the ball struck him he sprang forward, and even as it was landed but two feet away from where i stood, but, i am happy to say, dead. "it was indeed a narrow escape, and it tried my nerves to the full, but i extracted the ball and resumed my play in a short while, adding the lucky stroke to my score meanwhile. but i lost the match,--not because i lost my nerve, for this i did not do, but because i lifted from the lion's heart. the committee disqualified me because i did not play from my lie and the cup went to my competitor. however, i was satisfied to have escaped with my life. i'd rather be a live runner-up than a dead champion any day." "a wonderful experience," said ananias. "perfectly wonderful. i never heard of a stroke to equal that." "you are too modest, ananias," said mr. munchausen drily. "too modest by half. you and sapphira hold the record for that, you know." "i have forgotten the episode," said ananias. "didn't you and she make your last hole on a single stroke?" demanded munchausen with an inward chuckle. "oh--yes," said ananias grimly, as he recalled the incident. "but you know we didn't win any more than you did." "oh, didn't you?" asked munchausen. "no," replied ananias. "you forget that sapphira and i were two down at the finish." and mr. munchausen played the rest of the game in silence. ananias had at last got the best of him. * * * * * transcriber�s note: spellings were left as found. illustrations were moved when they interrupted paragraphs. proofreading team. mr. dooley in the hearts of his countrymen by finley peter dunne [illustration: decoration: scire qvod sciendvm] boston small, maynard & company _copyright, , , by the chicago journal copyright, , by robert howard russell copyright, , by small, maynard & company_ _entered at stationers' hall_ _first edition ( , copies) october, second edition ( , copies) october, third edition ( , copies) october, before publication_ _press of george h. ellis, boston, u.s.a._ to sir george newnes, bart. messrs. george routledge & sons limited and other publishers who, uninvited, presented mr. dooley to a part of the british public preface. the author may excuse the presentation of these sketches to the public on the ground that, if he did not publish some of them, somebody would, and, if he did not publish the others, nobody would. he has taken the liberty to dedicate the book to certain enterprising gentlemen in london who have displayed their devotion to a sentiment now widely prevailing in the music halls by republishing an american book without solicitation on the author's part. at the same time he begs to reserve _in petto_ a second dedication to the people of archey road, whose secluded gayety he has attempted to discover to the world. with the sketches that come properly under the title "mr. dooley: in the hearts of his countrymen" are printed a number that do not. it has seemed impossible to a man who is not a frenchman, and who is, therefore, tremendously excited over the case, to avoid discussion of the jabberwocky of the rennes court-martial as it is reported in america and england. mr. dooley cannot lag behind his fellow anglo-saxons in this matter. it is sincerely to be hoped that his small contribution to the literature of the subject will at last open the eyes of france to the necessity of conducting her trials, parliamentary sessions, revolutions, and other debates in a language more generally understood in new york and london. f.p.d. dublin, august , . contents. page expansion a hero who worked overtime rudyard kipling lord charles beresford hanging aldermen the grip lexow their excellencies, the police shaughnessy times past the skirts of chance when the trust is at work a brand from the burning a winter night the blue and the gray the tragedy of the agitator boyne water and bad blood the freedom picnic the idle apprentice the o'briens forever a candidate's pillory the day after the victory a visit to jekyl island slavin contra wagner grand opera the church fair the wanderers making a cabinet old age the divided skirt a bit of history the ruling class the optimist prosperity the great hot spell keeping lent the quick and the dead the soft spot the irishman abroad the serenade the hay fleet the performances of lieutenant hobson the decline of national feeling "cyrano de bergerac" the union of two great fortunes the dreyfus case: i. ii. iii. iv. v. mr. dooley: in the hearts of his countrymen expansion. "whin we plant what hogan calls th' starry banner iv freedom in th' ph'lippeens," said mr. dooley, "an' give th' sacred blessin' iv liberty to the poor, down-trodden people iv thim unfortunate isles,--dam thim!--we'll larn thim a lesson." "sure," said mr. hennessy, sadly, "we have a thing or two to larn oursilves." "but it isn't f'r thim to larn us," said mr. dooley. "'tis not f'r thim wretched an' degraded crathers, without a mind or a shirt iv their own, f'r to give lessons in politeness an' liberty to a nation that mannyfacthers more dhressed beef than anny other imperyal nation in th' wurruld. we say to thim: 'naygurs,' we say, 'poor, dissolute, uncovered wretches,' says we, 'whin th' crool hand iv spain forged man'cles f'r ye'er limbs, as hogan says, who was it crossed th' say an' sthruck off th' comealongs? we did,--by dad, we did. an' now, ye mis'rable, childish-minded apes, we propose f'r to larn ye th' uses iv liberty. in ivry city in this unfair land we will erect school-houses an' packin' houses an' houses iv correction; an' we'll larn ye our language, because 'tis aisier to larn ye ours than to larn oursilves yours. an' we'll give ye clothes, if ye pay f'r thim; an', if ye don't, ye can go without. an', whin ye're hungry, ye can go to th' morgue--we mane th' resth'rant--an' ate a good square meal iv ar-rmy beef. an' we'll sind th' gr-reat gin'ral eagan over f'r to larn ye etiquette, an' andhrew carnegie to larn ye pathriteism with blow-holes into it, an' gin'ral alger to larn ye to hould onto a job; an', whin ye've become edycated an' have all th' blessin's iv civilization that we don't want, that 'll count ye one. we can't give ye anny votes, because we haven't more thin enough to go round now; but we'll threat ye th' way a father shud threat his childher if we have to break ivry bone in ye'er bodies. so come to our ar-rms,' says we. "but, glory be, 'tis more like a rasslin' match than a father's embrace. up gets this little monkey iv an' aggynaldoo, an' says he, 'not for us,' he says. 'we thank ye kindly; but we believe,' he says, 'in pathronizin' home industhries,' he says. 'an,' he says, 'i have on hand,' he says, 'an' f'r sale,' he says, 'a very superyor brand iv home-made liberty, like ye'er mother used to make,' he says. ''tis a long way fr'm ye'er plant to here,' he says, 'an' be th' time a cargo iv liberty,' he says, 'got out here an' was handled be th' middlemen,' he says, 'it might spoil,' he says. 'we don't want anny col' storage or embalmed liberty,' he says. 'what we want an' what th' ol' reliable house iv aggynaldoo,' he says, 'supplies to th' thrade,' he says, 'is fr-esh liberty r-right off th' far-rm,' he says. 'i can't do annything with ye'er proposition,' he says. 'i can't give up,' he says, 'th' rights f'r which f'r five years i've fought an' bled ivry wan i cud reach,' he says. 'onless,' he says, 'ye'd feel like buyin' out th' whole business,' he says. 'i'm a pathrite,' he says; 'but i'm no bigot,' he says. "an' there it stands, hinnissy, with th' indulgent parent kneelin' on th' stomach iv his adopted child, while a dillygation fr'm boston bastes him with an umbrella. there it stands, an' how will it come out i dinnaw. i'm not much iv an expansionist mesilf. f'r th' las' tin years i've been thryin' to decide whether 'twud be good policy an' thrue to me thraditions to make this here bar two or three feet longer, an' manny's th' night i've laid awake tryin' to puzzle it out. but i don't know what to do with th' ph'lippeens anny more thin i did las' summer, befure i heerd tell iv thim. we can't give thim to anny wan without makin' th' wan that gets thim feel th' way doherty felt to clancy whin clancy med a frindly call an' give doherty's childher th' measles. we can't sell thim, we can't ate thim, an' we can't throw thim into th' alley whin no wan is lookin'. an' 'twud be a disgrace f'r to lave befure we've pounded these frindless an' ongrateful people into insinsibility. so i suppose, hinnissy, we'll have to stay an' do th' best we can, an' lave andhrew carnegie secede fr'm th' union. they'se wan consolation; an' that is, if th' american people can govern thimsilves, they can govern annything that walks." "an' what 'd ye do with aggy--what-d'ye-call-him?" asked mr. hennessy. "well," mr. dooley replied, with brightening eyes, "i know what they'd do with him in this ward. they'd give that pathrite what he asks, an' thin they'd throw him down an' take it away fr'm him." a hero who worked overtime. "well, sir," said mr. dooley, "it looks now as if they was nawthin' left f'r me young frind aggynaldoo to do but time. like as not a year fr'm now he'll be in jail, like napoleon, th' impror iv th' fr-rinch, was in his day, an' mike, th' burglar, an' other pathrites. that's what comes iv bein' a pathrite too long. 'tis a good job, whin they'se nawthin' else to do; but 'tis not th' thing to wurruk overtime at. 'tis a sort iv out-iv-dure spoort that ye shud engage in durin' th' summer vacation; but, whin a man carries it on durin' business hours, people begin to get down on him, an' afther a while they're ready to hang him to get him out iv th' way. as hogan says, 'th' las' thing that happens to a pathrite he's a scoundhrel.' "las' summer there wasn't a warmer pathrite annywhere in our imperyal dominions thin this same aggynaldoo. i was with him mesilf. says i: 'they'se a good coon,' i says. 'he'll help us f'r to make th' ph'lippeens indepindint on us f'r support,' i says; 'an', whin th' blessin's iv civilization has been extinded to his beloved counthry, an',' i says, 'they put up intarnal rivinue offices an' post-offices,' i says, 'we'll give him a good job as a letter-carrier,' i says, 'where he won't have annything to do,' i says, 'but walk,' i says. "an' so th' consul at ding dong, th' man that r-runs that end iv th' war, he says to aggynaldoo: 'go,' he says, 'where glory waits ye,' he says. 'go an' sthrike a blow,' he says, 'f'r ye'er counthry,' he says. 'go,' he says. 'i'll stay, but you go,' he says. 'they's nawthin' in stayin', an' ye might get hold iv a tyrannical watch or a pocket book down beyant,' he says. an' off wint th' brave pathrite to do his jooty. he done it, too. whin cousin george was pastin' th' former hated castiles, who was it stood on th' shore shootin' his bow-an-arrow into th' sky but aggynaldoo? whin me frind gin'ral merritt was ladin' a gallant charge again blank catredges, who was it ranged his noble ar-rmy iv pathrites behind him f'r to see that no wan attackted him fr'm th' sea but aggynaldoo? he was a good man thin,--a good noisy man. "th' throuble was he didn't know whin to knock off. he didn't hear th' wurruk bell callin' him to come in fr'm playin' ball an' get down to business. says me cousin george: "aggynaldoo, me buck,' he says, 'th' war is over,' he says, 'an' we've settled down to th' ol' game,' he says. 'they're no more heroes. all iv thim has gone to wurruk f'r th' magazines. they're no more pathrites,' he says. 'they've got jobs as gov'nors or ar-re lookin' f'r thim or annything else,' he says. 'all th' prom'nint saviors iv their counthry,' he says, 'but mesilf,' he says, 'is busy preparin' their definse,' he says. 'i have no definse,' he says; 'but i'm where they can't reach me,' he says. 'th' spoort is all out iv th' job; an', if ye don't come in an' jine th' tilin masses iv wage-wurrukers,' he says, 'ye won't even have th' credit iv bein' licked in a gloryous victhry,' he says. 'so to th' woodpile with ye!' he says; 'f'r ye can't go on cillybratin' th' foorth iv july without bein' took up f'r disordherly conduct,' he says. "an' aggynaldoo doesn't undherstand it. an' he gathers his archery club ar-round him, an' says he: 'fellow-pathrites,' he says, 'we've been betrayed,' he says. 'we've been sold out without,' he says, 'gettin' th' usual commission,' he says. 'we're still heroes,' he says; 'an' our pitchers is in th' pa-apers,' he says. 'go in,' he says, 'an' sthrike a blow at th' gay deceivers,' he says. 'i'll sell ye'er lives dearly,' he says. an' th' archery club wint in. th' pathrites wint up again a band iv kansas sojers, that was wanst heroes befure they larned th' hay-foot-sthraw-foot, an' is now arnin' th' wages iv a good harvest hand all th' year ar-round, an' 'd rather fight than ate th' ar-rmy beef, an' ye know what happened. some iv th' poor divvles iv heroes is liberated fr'm th' cares iv life; an' th' r-rest iv thim is up in threes, an' wishin' they was home, smokin' a good see-gar with mother. "an' all this because aggynaldoo didn't hear th' whistle blow. he thought th' boom was still on in th' hero business. if he'd come in, ye'd be hearin' that james haitch aggynaldoo 'd been appointed foorth-class postmasther at hootchey-kootchey; but now th' nex' ye know iv him 'll be on th' blotther at th' polis station: 'james haitch aggynaldoo, alias pompydoor jim, charged with carryin' concealed weepins an' ray-sistin' an officer.' pathriteism always dies when ye establish a polis foorce." "well," said mr. hennessy, "i'm kind iv sorry f'r th' la-ads with th' bows an' arrows. maybe they think they're pathrites." "divvle th' bit iv difference it makes what they think, so long as we don't think so," said mr. dooley. "it's what father kelly calls a case iv mayhem et chew 'em. that's latin, hinnissy; an' it manes what's wan man's food is another man's pizen." rudyard kipling. "i think," said mr. dooley, "th' finest pothry in th' wurruld is wrote be that frind iv young hogan's, a man be th' name iv roodyard kipling. i see his pomes in th' pa-aper, hinnissy; an' they're all right. they're all right, thim pomes. they was wan about scraggin' danny deever that done me a wurruld iv good. they was a la-ad i wanst knew be th' name iv deever, an' like as not he was th' same man. he owed me money. thin there was wan that i see mintioned in th' war news wanst in a while,--th' less we f'rget, th' more we raymimber. that was a hot pome an' a good wan. what i like about kipling is that his pomes is right off th' bat, like me con-versations with you, me boy. he's a minyit-man, a r-ready pote that sleeps like th' dhriver iv thruck , with his poetic pants in his boots beside his bed, an' him r-ready to jump out an' slide down th' pole th' minyit th' alarm sounds. "he's not such a pote as tim scanlan, that hasn't done annything since th' siege iv lim'rick; an' that was two hundherd year befure he was bor-rn. he's prisident iv th' pome supply company,--fr-resh pothry delivered ivry day at ye'er dure. is there an accident in a grain illyvator? ye pick up ye'er mornin' pa-aper, an' they'se a pome about it be roodyard kipling. do ye hear iv a manhole cover bein' blown up? roodyard is there with his r-ready pen. ''tis written iv cashum-cadi an' th' book iv th' gr-reat gazelle that a manhole cover in anger is tin degrees worse thin hell.' he writes in all dialects an' anny language, plain an' fancy pothry, pothry f'r young an' old, pothry be weight or linyar measuremint, pothry f'r small parties iv eight or tin a specialty. what's the raysult, hinnissy? most potes i despise. but roodyard kipling's pothry is aisy. ye can skip through it while ye're atin' breakfuss an' get a c'rrect idee iv th' current news iv th' day,--who won th' futball game, how sharkey is thrainin' f'r th' fight, an' how manny votes th' pro-hybitionist got f'r gov'nor iv th' state iv texas. no col' storage pothry f'r kipling. ivrything fr-resh an' up to date. all lays laid this mornin'. "hogan was in to-day readin' kipling's fridah afthernoon pome, an' 'tis a good pome. he calls it 'th' thruce iv th' bear.' this is th' way it happened: roodyard kipling had just finished his mornin' batch iv pothry f'r th' home-thrade, an' had et his dinner, an' was thinkin' iv r-runnin' out in th' counthry f'r a breath iv fr-resh air, whin in come a tillygram sayin' that th' czar iv rooshia had sint out a circular letther sayin' ivrybody in th' wurruld ought to get together an' stop makin' war an' live a quite an' dull life. now kipling don't like the czar. him an' th' czar fell out about something, an' they don't speak. so says roodyard kipling to himsilf, he says: 'i'll take a crack at that fellow,' he says. 'i'll do him up,' he says. an' so he writes a pome to show that th' czar's letter's not on th' square. kipling's like me, hinnissy. when i want to say annything lib-lous, i stick it on to me uncle mike. so be roodyard kipling. he doesn't come r-right out, an' say, 'nick, ye're a liar!' but he tells about what th' czar done to a man he knowed be th' name iv muttons. muttons, it seems, hinnissy, was wanst a hunter; an' he wint out to take a shot at th' czar, who was dhressed up as a bear. well, muttons r-run him down, an' was about to plug him, whin th' czar says, 'hol' on,' he says,--'hol' on there,' he says. 'don't shoot,' he says. 'let's talk this over,' he says. an' muttons, bein' a foolish man, waited till th' czar come near him; an' thin th' czar feinted with his left, an' put in a right hook an' pulled off muttons's face. i tell ye 'tis so. he jus' hauled it off th' way ye'd haul off a porous plasther,--raked off th' whole iv muttons's fr-ront ilivation. 'i like ye'er face,' he says, an' took it. an' all this time, an' 'twas fifty year ago, muttons hasn't had a face to shave. ne'er a one. so he goes ar-round exhibitin' th' recent site, an' warnin' people that, whin they ar-re shootin' bears, they must see that their gun is kept loaded an' their face is nailed on securely. if ye iver see a bear that looks like a man, shoot him on th' spot, or, betther still, r-run up an alley. ye must niver lose that face, hinnissy. "i showed th' pome to father kelly," continued mr. dooley. "what did he say?" asked mr. hennessy. "he said," mr. dooley replied, "that i cud write as good a wan mesilf; an' he took th' stub iv a pencil, an' wrote this. lemme see--ah! here it is:-- 'whin he shows as seekin' frindship with paws that're thrust in thine, that is th' time iv pearl, that is th' thruce iv th' line. 'collarless, coatless, hatless, askin' a dhrink at th' bar, me uncle mike, the fenyan, he tells it near and far, 'over an' over th' story: 'beware iv th' gran' flimflam, there is no thruce with gazabo, th' line that looks like a lamb.' "that's a good pome, too," said mr. dooley; "an' i'm goin' to sind it to th' nex' meetin' iv th' anglo-saxon 'liance." lord charles beresford. "i see be th' pa-apers," said mr. dooley, "that lord char-les beresford is in our mist, as hogan says." "an' who th' divvle's he?" asked mr. hennessy. "he's a watherford man," said mr. dooley. "i knowed his father well,--a markess be thrade, an' a fine man. char-les wint to sea early; but he's now in th' plastherin' business,--cemintin' th' 'liance iv th' united states an' england. i'll thank ye to laugh at me joke, mr. hinnissy, an' not be standin' there lookin' like a chinny-man in a sthreet-car." "i don't know what ye mean," said mr. hennessy, softly. "lord charles beresford is a sort iv advance agent iv th' white man's burden thrajeedy company,--two little evas, four hundherd millyon topsies, six hundherd millyon uncle toms. he's billin' the' counthry f'r th' threeyumphial tour iv th' monsther aggregation. nawthin' can stop it. blood is thicker than wather; an' together, ar-rm in ar-rm, we'll spread th' light iv civilization fr'm wan end iv th' wurruld to th' other, no matther what you an' schwartzmeister say, hinnissy. "be hivins, i like th' way me kinsmen acrost th' sea, as th' pa-apers say, threat us. 'ye whelps,' says lord char-les beresford an' roodyard kipling an' tiddy rosenfelt an' th' other anglo-saxons. 'foolish an' frivolous people, cheap but thrue-hearted an' insincere cousins,' they says. ''tis little ye know about annything. ye ar-re a disgrace to humanity. ye love th' dollar betther thin ye love annything but two dollars. ye ar-re savage, but inthrestin'. ye misname our titles. ye use th' crool krag-jorgensen instead iv th' ca'm an' penethratin' lee-metford. ye kiss ye'er heroes, an' give thim wurruk to do. we smash in their hats, an' illivate thim to th' peerage. ye have desthroyed our language. ye ar-re rapidly convartin' our ancesthral palaces into dwellin'-houses. ye'er morals are loose, ye'er dhrinks ar-re enervatin' but pleasant, an' ye talk through ye'er noses. ye ar-re mussy at th' table, an' ye have no religion. but ye ar-re whelps iv th' ol' line. those iv ye that ar-re not our brothers-in-law we welcome as brothers. ye annoy us so much ye must be mimbers iv our own fam'ly. th' same people that is washed occasionally be th' mississippi as it rowls majistic along th' imperyal states iv oheeho an' duluth, wathrin' th' fertyle plains iv wyoming an' mattsachusetts, is to be found airnin' a livin' on th' short but far more dirtier thames. we have th' same lithrachoor. ye r-read our shakspere so we can't undherstand it; an' we r-read ye'er aspirin' authors, poe an' lowell an' ol' sleuth th' detective. we ar-re not onfamilyar with ye'er inthrestin' histhry. we ar-re as pr-roud as ye are iv th' achievements iv gin'ral shafter an' gin'ral coxey. ye'er ambass'dures have always been kindly received; an', whether they taught us how to dhraw to a busted flush or wept on our collars or recited original pothry to us, we had a brotherly feelin' for thim that med us say, "poor fellows, they're doin' th' best they can." 'so,' says they, 'come to our ar-ams, an' together we'll go out an' conquer th' wurruld.' "an' we're goin' to do it, hinnissy. th' rayciption that this here sintimint has rayceived fr'm ivry wan that has a son in colledge is almost tumulchuse. we feel like a long-lost brother that's been settin' outside in th' cold f'r a week, an' is now ast in to supper--an' sarched at th' dure f'r deadly weepins. we'll have to set up sthraight an' mind our manners. no tuckin' our napkins down our throats or dhrinkin' out iv th' saucer or kickin' our boots off undher the table. no reachin' f'r annything, but 'mah, will ye kindly pass th' ph'lippeens?' or 'no, thank ye, pah, help ye'ersilf first.' "an' will we stay in? faith, i dinnaw. we feel kindly to each other; but it looks to me like, th' first up in th' mornin', th' first away with th' valu'bles." "i'll niver come in," protested mr. hennessy, stoutly. "no more ye will, ye rebelyous omadhon," said mr. dooley. "an' 'twas thinkin' iv you an' th' likes iv you an' schwartzmeister an' th' likes iv him that med me wondher. if th' 'liance got into a war with garmany, an' some wan was to start a rough-an'-tumble in ireland about iliction time, i wondher wud th' cimint hold!" hanging aldermen. chicago is always on the point of hanging some one and quartering him and boiling him in hot pitch, and assuring him that he has lost the respect of all honorable men. rumors of a characteristic agitation had come faintly up archey road, and mr. hennessy had heard of it. "i hear they're goin' to hang th' aldhermen," he said. "if they thry it on willum j. o'brien, they'd betther bombard him first. i'd hate to be th' man that 'd be called to roll with him to his doom. he cud lick th' whole civic featheration." "i believe ye," said mr. dooley. "he's a powerful man. but i hear there is, as ye say, what th' pa-apers 'd call a movement on fut f'r to dec'rate chris'mas threes with aldhermen, an' 'tis wan that ought to be encouraged. nawthin' cud be happyer, as hogan says, thin th' thought iv cillybratin' th' season be sthringin' up some iv th' fathers iv th' city where th' childher cud see thim. but i'm afraid, hinnissy, that you an' me won't see it. 'twill all be over soon, an' willum j. o'brien 'll go by with his head just as near his shoulders as iver. 'tis har-rd to hang an aldherman, annyhow. ye'd have to suspind most iv thim be th' waist. "man an' boy, i've been in this town forty year an' more; an' divvle th' aldherman have i see hanged yet, though i've sthrained th' eyes out iv me head watchin' f'r wan iv thim to be histed anny pleasant mornin'. they've been goin' to hang thim wan week an' presintin' thim with a dimon' star th' next iver since th' year iv th' big wind, an' there's jus' as manny iv thim an' jus' as big robbers as iver there was. "an' why shud they hang thim, hinnissy? why shud they? i'm an honest man mesilf, as men go. ye might have ye'er watch, if ye had wan, on that bar f'r a year, an' i'd niver touch it. it wudden't be worth me while. i'm an honest man. i pay me taxes, whin tim ryan isn't assessor with grogan's boy on th' books. i do me jooty; an' i believe in th' polis foorce, though not in polismen. that's diff'rent. but honest as i am, between you an' me, if i was an aldherman, i wudden't say, be hivins, i think i'd stand firm; but--well, if some wan come to me an' said, 'dooley, here's fifty thousan' dollars f'r ye'er vote to betray th' sacred inthrests iv chicago,' i'd go to father kelly an' ask th' prayers iv th' congregation. "'tis not, hinnissy, that this man yerkuss goes up to an aldherman an' says out sthraight, 'here, bill, take this bundle, an' be an infamious scoundhrel.' that's th' way th' man in mitchigan avnoo sees it, but 'tis not sthraight. d'ye mind dochney that was wanst aldherman here? ye don't. well, i do. he ran a little conthractin' business down be halsted sthreet 'twas him built th' big shed f'r th' ice comp'ny. he was a fine man an' a sthrong wan. he begun his political career be lickin' a plasthrer be th' name iv egan, a man that had th' county clare thrip an' was thought to be th' akel iv anny man in town. fr'm that he growed till he bate near ivry man he knew, an' become very pop'lar, so that he was sint to th' council. now dochney was an honest an' sober man whin he wint in; but wan day a man come up to him, an' says he, 'ye know that ordhnance schwartz inthrajooced?' 'i do,' says dochney, 'an i'm again it. 'tis a swindle,' he says. "well,' says th' la-ad, 'they'se five thousan' in it f'r ye,' he says. they had to pry dochney off iv him. th' nex' day a man he knowed well come to dochney, an' says he, 'that's a fine ordhnance iv schwartz.' 'it is, like hell,' says dochney. ''tis a plain swindle,' he says. ''tis a good thing f'r th' comp'nies,' says this man; 'but look what they've done f'r th' city,' he says, 'an think,' he says, 'iv th' widdies an' orphans,' he says, 'that has their har-rd-earned coin invisted,' he says. an' a tear rolled down his cheek. 'i'm an orphan mesilf,' says dochney; 'an' as f'r th' widdies, anny healthy widdy with sthreet-car stock ought to be ashamed iv hersilf if she's a widdy long,' he says. an' th' man wint away. "now dochney thought he'd put th' five thousan' out iv his mind, but he hadn't. he'd on'y laid it by, an' ivry time he closed his eyes he thought iv it. 'twas a shame to give th' comp'nies what they wanted, but th' five thousan' was a lot iv money. 'twud lift th' morgedge. 'twud clane up th' notes on th' new conthract. 'twud buy a new dhress f'r mrs. dochney. he begun to feel sorrowful f'r th' widdies an' orphans. 'poor things!' says he to himsilf, says he. 'poor things, how they must suffer!' he says; 'an' i need th' money. th' sthreet-car comp'nies is robbers,' he says; 'but 'tis thrue they've built up th' city,' he says, 'an th' money 'd come in handy,' he says. 'no wan 'd be hurted, annyhow,' he says; 'an', sure, it ain't a bribe f'r to take money f'r doin' something ye want to do, annyhow,' he says. 'five thousan' widdies an' orphans,' he says; an' he wint to sleep. "that was th' way he felt whin he wint down to see ol' simpson to renew his notes, an' simpson settled it. 'dochney,' he says, 'i wisht ye'd pay up,' he says. 'i need th' money,' he says. 'i'm afraid th' council won't pass th' schwartz ordhnance,' he says; 'an' it manes much to me,' he says. 'be th' way,' he says, 'how're ye goin' to vote on that ordhnance?' he says. 'i dinnaw,' says dochney. 'well,' says simpson (dochney tol' me this himsilf), 'whin ye find out, come an' see me about th' notes,' he says. an' dochney wint to th' meetin'; an', whin his name was called, he hollered 'aye,' so loud a chunk iv plaster fell out iv th' ceilin' an' stove in th' head iv a rayform aldherman." "did they hang him?" asked mr. hennessy. "faith, they did not," said mr. dooley. "he begun missin' his jooty at wanst. aldhermen always do that after th' first few weeks. 'ye got ye'er money,' says father kelly; 'an' much good may it do ye,' he says. 'well,' says dochney, 'i'd be a long time prayin' mesilf into five thousan',' he says. an' he become leader in th' council. th' las' ordhnance he inthrojooced was wan establishin' a license f'r churches, an' compellin' thim to keep their fr-ront dure closed an' th' blinds drawn on sundah. he was expelled fr'm th' st. vincent de pauls, an' ilicted a director iv a bank th' same day. "now, hinnissy, that there man niver knowed he was bribed--th' first time. th' second time he knew. he ast f'r it. an' i wudden't hang dochney. i wudden't if i was sthrong enough. but some day i'm goin' to let me temper r-run away with me, an' get a comity together, an' go out an' hang ivry dam widdy an' orphan between th' rollin' mills an' th' foundlin's' home. if it wasn't f'r thim raypechious crathers, they'd be no boodle annywhere." "well, don't forget simpson," said mr. hennessy. "i won't," said mr. dooley, "i won't." the grip. mr. dooley was discovered making a seasonable beverage, consisting of one part syrup, two parts quinine, and fifteen parts strong waters. "what's the matter?" asked mr. mckenna. "i have th' lah gr-rip," said mr. dooley, blowing his nose and wiping his eyes. "bad cess to it! oh, me poor back! i feels as if a dhray had run over it. did ye iver have it? ye did not? well, ye're lucky. ye're a lucky man. "i wint to mcguire's wake las' week. they gave him a dacint sind-off. no porther. an' himsilf looked natural, as fine a corpse as iver gavin layed out. gavin tould me so himsilf. he was as proud iv mcguire as if he owned him. fetched half th' town in to look at him, an' give ivry wan iv thim cards. he near frightened ol' man dugan into a faint. 'misther dugan, how old a-are ye?' 'sivinty-five, thanks be,' says dugan. 'thin,' says gavin, 'take wan iv me cards,' he says. 'i hope ye'll not forget me,' he says. "'twas there i got th' lah grip. lastewise, it is me opinion iv it, though th' docthor said i swallowed a bug. it don't seem right, jawn, f'r th' mcguires is a clane fam'ly; but th' docthor said a bug got into me system. 'what sort iv bug?' says i. 'a lah grip bug,' he says. 'ye have mickrobes in ye'er lungs,' he says. 'what's thim?' says i. 'thim's th' lah grip bugs,' says he. 'ye took wan in, an' warmed it,' he says; 'an' it has growed an' multiplied till ye'er system does be full iv' thim,' he says, 'millions iv thim,' he says, 'marchin' an' counthermarchin' through ye.' 'glory be to the saints!' says i. 'had i better swallow some insect powdher?' i says. 'some iv thim in me head has a fallin' out, an' is throwin' bricks.' 'foolish man,' says he. 'go to bed,' he says, 'an' lave thim alone,' he says, 'whin they find who they're in,' he says, 'they'll quit ye.' "so i wint to bed, an' waited while th' mickrobes had fun with me. mondah all iv thim was quite but thim in me stummick. they stayed up late dhrinkin' an' carousin' an' dancin' jigs till wurruds come up between th' kerry mickrobes an' thim fr'm wexford; an' th' whole party wint over to me left lung, where they cud get th' air, an' had it out. th' nex' day th' little mickrobes made a toboggan slide iv me spine; an' manetime some mickrobes that was wurkin' f'r th' tilliphone comp'ny got it in their heads that me legs was poles, an' put on their spikes an' climbed all night long. "they was tired out th' nex' day till about five o'clock, whin thim that was in me head begin flushin' out th' rooms; an' i knew there was goin' to be doin's in th' top flat. what did thim mickrobes do but invite all th' other mickrobes in f'r th' ev'nin'. they all come. oh, by gar, they was not wan iv them stayed away. at six o'clock they begin to move fr'm me shins to me throat. they come in platoons an' squads an' dhroves. some iv thirn brought along brass bands, an' more thin wan hundherd thousand iv thim dhruv through me pipes on dhrays. a throlley line was started up me back, an' ivry car run into a wagon-load iv scrap iron at th' base iv me skull. "th' mickrobes in me head must 've done thimsilves proud. ivry few minyits th' kids 'd be sint out with th' can, an' i'd say to mesilf: 'there they go, carryin' th' thrade to schwartzmeister's because i'm sick an' can't wait on thim.' i was daffy, jawn, d'ye mind. th' likes iv me fillin' a pitcher f'r a little boy-bug! such dhreams! an' they had a game iv forty-fives; an' there was wan mickrobe that larned to play th' game in th' county tipp'rary, where 'tis played on stone, an' ivry time he led thrumps he'd like to knock me head off. 'whose thrick is that?' says th' tipp'rary mickrobe. ''tis mine,' says th' red-headed mickrobe fr'm th' county roscommon. they tipped over th' chairs an' tables: an', in less time thin it takes to tell, th' whole party was at it. they'd been a hurlin' game in th' back iv me skull, an' th' young folks was dancin' breakdowns an' havin' leppin' matches in me forehead; but they all stopped to mix in. oh, 'twas a grand shindig--tin millions iv men, women, an' childher rowlin' on th' flure, hands an' feet goin', ice-picks an' hurlin' sticks, clubs, brickbats, an' beer kags flyin' in th' air! how manny iv thim was kilt i niver knew; f'r i wint as daft as a hen, an' dhreamt iv organizin' a mickrobe campaign club that 'd sweep th' prim'ries, an' maybe go acrost an' free ireland. whin i woke up, me legs was as weak as a day old baby's, an' me poor head impty as a cobbler's purse. i want no more iv thim. give me anny bug fr'm a cockroach to an aygle save an' excipt thim west iv ireland fenians, th' mickrobes." lexow. "this here wave iv rayform," said mr. dooley, "this here wave iv rayform, jawn, mind ye, that's sweepin' over th' counthry, mind ye, now, jawn, is raisin' th' divvle, i see be th' pa-apers. i've seen waves iv rayform before, jawn. whin th' people iv this counthry gets wurruked up, there's no stoppin' thim. they'll not dhraw breath until ivry man that took a dollar iv a bribe is sent down th' r-road. thim that takes two goes on th' comity iv th' wave iv rayform. "it sthruck th' r-road las' week. darcey, th' new polisman on th' bate, comes in here ivry night f'r to study spellin' an' figgers. i think they'll throw him down, whin he goes to be examined. wan iv th' wild la-ads down be th' slough hit him with a brick wanst, an' he ain't been able to do fractions since. thin he's got inflammathry rheumatism enough to burn a barn, an' he can't turn a page without makin' ye think he's goin' to lose a thumb. he's got wife an' childher, an' he's on in years; but he's a polisman, an' he's got to be rayformed. i tell him all i can. he didn't know where st. pethersburg was till i tould him it was th' capital iv sweden. they'll not give him th' boots on that there question. ye bet ye'er life they won't, jawn. "i seen th' aldherman go by yisterdah; an' he'd shook his dimon 'stud, an' he looked as poor as a dhrayman. he's rayformed. th' little dutchman that was ilicted to th' legislachure says he will stay home. says i, 'why?' says he, 'there's nawthin' in it.' he's rayformed. th' wather inspictor, that used to take a dhrink an' a seegar an' report me two pipes less thin i have, turned me in las' week f'r a garden hose an' a ploonge bath. he's rayformed. th' wave iv rayform has sthruck, an' we're all goin' around now with rubbers on. "they've organized th' ar-rchey road lexow sodality, an' 'tis th' wan institootion that father kelly up west iv th' bridge 'll duck his head to. all th' best citizens is in it. th' best citizens is thim that th' statue iv limitations was made f'r. barrister hogan tol' me--an' a dacint man, but give to dhrink--that, whin a man cud hide behind th' statue iv limitations, he was all r-right. i niver seen it. is that th' wan on th' lake front? no, tubby sure, tubby sure. no wan 'd hide behind that. "th' ar-rchey road lexow sodality is composed iv none but square men. they all have th' coin, jawn. a man that's broke can't be square. he's got too much to do payin' taxes. if i had a million, divvle th' step would i step to confession. i'd make th' soggarth come an' confess to me. they say that th' sthreets iv hivin was paved with goold. i'll bet ye tin to wan that with all th' square men that goes there ivry year they have ilecloth down now." "oh, go on," said mr. mckenna. "i was goin' to tell ye about th' lexow sodality. well, th' chairman iv it is doherty, th' retired plumber. he sold me a house an' lot wanst, an' skinned me out iv wan hundherd dollars. he got th' house an' lot back an' a morgedge. but did ye iver notice th' scar on his nose? i was r-rough in thim days. ol' mike hogan is another mimber. ye know him. they say he hires constables be th' day f'r to serve five days' notices. manny's th' time i see th' little furniture out on th' sthreet, an' th' good woman rockin' her baby under th' open sky. hogan's tinants. ol' dinnis higgins is another wan. an' brannigan, th' real estate dealer. he was in th' assissors' office. may gawd forgive him! an' clancy, that was bail-bondman at twelfth sthreet. "they appointed comities, an' they held a meetin'. i wint there. so did some iv th' others. 'twas at finucane's, an' th' hall was crowded. all th' sodality made speeches. doherty made a great wan. th' air was reekin' with corruption, says he. th' polis foorce was rotten to th' core. th' rights iv property was threatened. what, says he, was we goin' to do about it? "danny gallagher got up, as good a lad as iver put that in his face to desthroy his intelligence, as shakspere says. 'gintlemen,' says he, 'wan wurrud befure we lave,' he says. 'i've listened to th' speeches here to-night with satisfaction,' he says. 'i'm proud to see th' rayform wave have sthruck th' road,' he says. 'th' rascals must be dhriven fr'm th' high places,' he says. 'i see befure me in a chair a gintleman who wud steal a red-hot stove an' freeze th' lid befure he got home. on me right is th' gintleman who advanced th' wave iv rayform tin years ago be puttin' mrs. geohegan out on th' sthreet in a snowstorm whin she was roarin' with a cough. mrs. geohegan have rayformed, peace be with her undher th' dhrifts iv calv'ry! i am greeted be th' smile iv me ol' frind higgins. we are ol' frinds, dinnis, now, ain't we? d'ye mind th' calls i made on ye, with th' stamps undher me arms, whin i wurruked in th' post-office? i've thought iv thim whin th' lockstep was goin' in to dinner, an' prayed f'r th' day whin i might see ye again. an' you, misther brannigan, who knows about vacant lots, an' you misther clancy, th' frind iv th' dhrunk an' disordherly, we're proud to have ye here. 'tis be such as ye that th' polisman who dhrinks on th' sly, an' th' saloon-keeper that keeps open f'r th' la-ads an' th' newsboys that shoots craps, 'll be brought to justice. down with crime! says i. fellow-citizens, i thank ye kindly. th' meetin' is adjourned siney dee; an' i app'int missers dooley, o'brien, casey, pug slattery, an' mesilf to lade out th' lexow sodality be th' nose.'" mr. mckenna arose sleepily, and walked toward the door. "jawn," said mr. dooley. "yes," responded mr. mckenna. "niver steal a dure-mat," said mr. dooley. "if ye do, ye'll be invistigated, hanged, an' maybe rayformed. steal a bank, me boy, steal a bank." their excellencies, the police. "ye'll be goin' home early to-night, jawn dear," said mr. dooley to mr. mckenna. "and for why?" said that gentleman, tilting lazily back in the chair. "because gin'ral ordher number wan is out," said mr. dooley, "directin' th' polis to stop ivry man catched out afther midnight an' make thim give a satisfacthry account iv thimsilves or run thim off to jail. iv coorse, ye'll be pinched, f'r ye won't dare say where ye come fr'm; an' 'tis twinty-eight to wan, the odds again an orangeman at a wake, that ye'll not know where ye're goin'." "tut, tut," said mr. mckenna, indifferently. "ye may tut-tut till ye lay an egg," said mr. dooley, severely, "ye ol' hen; but 'tis so. i read it in th' pa-papers yesterdah afthernoon that brinnan--'tis queer how thim germans all get to be polismen, they're bright men, th' germans, i don't think--brinnan says, says he, that th' city do be overrun with burglars an' highwaymen, so he ordhers th' polis to stick up ivry pedesthreen they meet afther closin' time. 'tis good for him he named th' hour, f'r 'tis few pedesthreens save an' except th' little kids with panneckers that most iv th' polis meet befure midnight. look at there table, will ye? 'an ax done it,' says ye? no, faith, but th' fist iv a kerry polisman they put on this here bate last week. he done it ladin' thrumps. 'thank gawd," says i, 'ye didn't have a good hand,' i says, 'or i might have to call in th' wreckin' wagon.' thim kerry men shud be made to play forty-fives with boxin'-gloves on. "i read about th' ordher, but it slipped me min' las' night. i was down at a meetin' iv th' hugh o'neills, an' a most intherestin' meetin' it was, jawn. i'd been niglictful iv me jooty to th' cause iv late, an' i was surprised an' shocked to hear how poor ol' ireland was sufferin'. th' rayport fr'm th' twinty-third wa-ard, which is in th' county mayo, showed that th' sthreet clanin' conthract had been give to a swede be th' name iv oleson; an' over in th' nineteenth wa-ard th' county watherford is all stirred up because johnny powers is filled th' pipe-ya-ard with his own rilitives. i felt dam lonely, an' with raison, too; f'r i was th' on'y man in th' camp that didn't have a job. an' says i, 'gintlemen,' says i, 'can't i do something f'r ireland, too?' i says. 'i'd make a gr-reat city threasurer,' says i, 'if ye've th' job handy,' i says; and at that they give me th' laugh, and we tuk up a subscription an' adjourned. "well, sir, i started up ar-rchey road afther th' meetin', forgettin' about brennan's ordhers, whin a man jumps out fr'm behind a tree near th' gas-house. 'melia murther!' says i to mesilf. ''tis a highwayman!' thin, puttin' on a darin' front an' reachin' f'r me handkerchief, i says, 'stand back, robber!' i says. 'stand back, robber!' i says. 'stand back!' i says. "'excuse _me_,' says th' la-ad. 'i beg ye'er pardon,' he says. "'beg th' pardon iv hiven,' says i, 'f'r stoppin' a desperate man in th' sthreet,' says i; 'f'r in a holy minyit i'll blow off th' head iv ye,' says i, with me hand on th' handkerchief that niver blew nawthin' but this nose iv mine." "'i humbly ask your pardon,' he says, showin' a star; 'but i'm a polisman.' "'polisman or robber,' says i, 'stand aside!' i says. "'i'm a polisman,' he says, 'an' i'm undher ordhers to be polite with citizens i stop,' he says; 'but, if ye don't duck up that road in half a minyit, ye poy-faced, red-eyed, lop-eared, thick-headed ol' bosthoon,' he says, 'i'll take ye be th' scruff iv th' neck an' thrun ye into th' ga-as-house tank,' he says, 'if i'm coort-martialed f'r it to-morrow.' "thin i knew he _was_ a polisman; an' i wint away, jawn." shaughnessy. "jawn," said mr. dooley in the course of the conversation, "whin ye come to think iv it, th' heroes iv th' wurruld,--an' be thim i mean th' lads that've buckled on th' gloves, an' gone out to do th' best they cud,--they ain't in it with th' quite people nayether you nor me hears tell iv fr'm wan end iv th' year to another." "i believe it," said mr. mckenna; "for my mother told me so." "sure," said mr. dooley, "i know it is an old story. th' wurruld's been full iv it fr'm th' beginnin'; an' 'll be full iv it till, as father kelly says, th' pay-roll's closed. but i was thinkin' more iv it th' other night thin iver before, whin i wint to see shaughnessy marry off his on'y daughter. you know shaughnessy,--a quite man that come into th' road before th' fire. he wurruked f'r larkin, th' conthractor, f'r near twinty years without skip or break, an' seen th' fam'ly grow up be candle-light. th' oldest boy was intinded f'r a priest. 'tis a poor fam'ly that hasn't some wan that's bein' iddycated f'r the priesthood while all th' rest wear thimsilves to skeletons f'r him, an' call him father jawn 'r father mike whin he comes home wanst a year, light-hearted an' free, to eat with thim. "shaughnessy's lad wint wrong in his lungs, an' they fought death f'r him f'r five years, sindin' him out to th' wist an' havin' masses said f'r him; an', poor divvle, he kept comin' back cross an' crool, with th' fire in his cheeks, till wan day he laid down, an' says he: 'pah,' he says, 'i'm goin' to give up,' he says. 'an' i on'y ask that ye'll have th' mass sung over me be some man besides father kelly,' he says. an' he wint, an' shaughnessy come clumpin' down th' aisle like a man in a thrance. "well, th' nex' wan was a girl, an' she didn't die; but, th' less said, th' sooner mended. thin they was terrence, a big, bould, curly-headed lad that cocked his hat at anny man,--or woman f'r th' matter iv that,--an' that bruk th' back iv a polisman an' swum to th' crib, an' was champeen iv th' south side at hand ball. an' he wint. thin th' good woman passed away. an' th' twins they growed to be th' prettiest pair that wint to first communion; an' wan night they was a light in th' window of shaughnessy's house till three in th' mornin'. i rayminiber it; f'r i had quite a crowd iv willum joyce's men in, an' we wondhered at it, an' wint home whin th' lamp in shaughnessy's window was blown out. "they was th' wan girl left,--theresa, a big, clean-lookin' child that i see grow up fr'm hello to good avnin'. she thought on'y iv th' ol' man, an' he leaned on her as if she was a crutch. she was out to meet him in th' ev'nin'; an' in th' mornin' he, th' simple ol' man, 'd stop to blow a kiss at her an' wave his dinner-pail, lookin' up an' down th' r-road to see that no wan was watchin' him. "i dinnaw what possessed th' young donahue, fr'm th' nineteenth. i niver thought much iv him, a stuck-up, aisy-come la-ad that niver had annything but a civil wurrud, an' is prisident iv th' sodality. but he came in, an' married theresa shaughnessy las' thursdah night. th' ol' man took on twinty years, but he was as brave as a gin'ral iv th' army. he cracked jokes an' he made speeches; an' he took th' pipes fr'm under th' elbow iv hogan, th' blindman, an' played 'th' wind that shakes th' barley' till ye'd have wore ye'er leg to a smoke f'r wantin' to dance. thin he wint to th' dure with th' two iv thim; an' says he, 'well,' he says, 'jim, be good to her,' he says, an' shook hands with her through th' carredge window. "him an' me sat a long time smokin' across th' stove. fin'lly, says i, 'well,' i says, 'i must be movin'.' 'what's th' hurry?' says he. 'i've got to go,' says i. 'wait a moment,' says he. 'theresa 'll'--he stopped right there f'r a minyit, holdin' to th' back iv th' chair. 'well,' says he, 'if ye've got to go, ye must,' he says. 'i'll show ye out,' he says. an' he come with me to th' dure, holdin' th' lamp over his head. i looked back at him as i wint by; an' he was settin' be th' stove, with his elbows on his knees an' th' empty pipe between his teeth." times past. mr. mckenna, looking very warm and tired, came in to mr. dooley's tavern one night last week, and smote the bar with his fist. "what's the matter with hogan?" he said. "what hogan?" asked mr. dooley. "malachy or matt? dinnis or mike? sarsfield or william hogan? there's a hogan f'r ivry block in th' ar-rchey road, an' wan to spare. there's nawthin' th' matter with anny iv thim; but, if ye mean hogan, th' liquor dealer, that r-run f'r aldherman, i'll say to ye he's all right. mind ye, jawn, i'm doin' this because ye're me frind; but, by gar, if anny wan else comes in an' asks me that question, i'll kill him, if i have to go to th' bridewell f'r it. i'm no health officer." having delivered himself of this tirade, mr. dooley scrutinized mr. mckenna sharply, and continued: "ye've been out ilictin' some man, jawn, an' ye needn't deny it. i seen it th' minyit ye come in. ye'er hat's dinted, an' ye have ye'er necktie over ye'er ear; an' i see be ye'er hand ye've hit a dutchman. jawn, ye know no more about politics thin a mimber iv this here civic featheration. didn't ye have a beer bottle or an ice-pick? ayether iv thim is good, though, whin i was a young man an' precint captain an' intherested in th' welfare iv th' counthry, i found a couplin' pin in a stockin' about as handy as annything. "thim days is over, though, jawn, an' between us politics don't intherest me no more. they ain't no liveliness in thim. whin andy duggan r-run f'r aldherman against schwartzmeister, th' big dutchman,--i was precinct captain then, jawn,--there was an iliction f'r ye. 'twas on our precinct they relied to ilict duggan; f'r the dutch was sthrong down be th' thrack, an' schwartzmeister had a band out playin' 'th' watch on th' rhine.' well, sir, we opened th' polls at six o'clock, an' there was tin schwartzmeister men there to protect his intherests. at sivin o'clock there was only three, an' wan iv thim was goin' up th' sthreet with hinnissy kickin' at him. at eight o'clock, be dad,' there was on'y wan; an' he was sittin' on th' roof iv gavin's blacksmith shop, an' th' la-ads was thryin' to borrow a laddher fr'm th' injine-house f'r to get at him. 'twas thruck eighteen; an' hogan, that was captain, wudden't let thim have it. not ye'er hogan, jawn, but th' meanest fireman in bridgeport. he got kilt aftherwards. he wudden't let th' la-ads have a laddher, an' th' dutchman stayed up there; an', whin there was nawthin' to do, we wint over an' thrun bricks at him. 'twas gr-reat sport. "about four in th' afthernoon schwartzmeister's band come up ar-rchey road, playin' 'th' watch on th' rhine.' whin it got near gavin's, big peter nolan tuk a runnin' jump, an' landed feet first in th' big bass dhrum. th' man with th' dhrum walloped him over th' head with th' dhrum-stick, an' dorsey quinn wint over an' tuk a slide trombone away fr'm the musician an' clubbed th' bass dhrum man with it. thin we all wint over, an' ye niver see th' like in ye'er born days. th' las' i see iv th' band it was goin' down th' road towards th' slough with a mob behind it, an' all th' polis foorce fr'm deerin' sthreet afther th' mob. th' la-ads collected th' horns an' th' dhrums, an' that started th' ar-rchey road brass band. little mike doyle larned to play 'th' rambler fr'm clare' beautifully on what they call a pickle-e-o befure they sarved a rayplivin writ on him. "we cast twinty-wan hundherd votes f'r duggan, an' they was on'y five hundherd votes in th' precinct. we'd cast more, but th' tickets give out. they was tin votes in th' box f'r schwartzmeister whin we counted up; an' i felt that mortified i near died, me bein' precinct captain, an' res-sponsible. 'what 'll we do with thim? out th' window,' says i. just thin dorsey's nanny-goat that died next year put her head through th' dure. 'monica,' says dorsey (he had pretty names for all his goats), 'monica, are ye hungry,' he says, 'ye poor dear?' th' goat give him a pleadin' look out iv her big brown eyes. 'can't i make ye up a nice supper?' says dorsey. 'do ye like paper?' he says. 'would ye like to help desthroy a dutchman,' he says, 'an' perform a sarvice f'r ye'er counthry?' he says. thin he wint out in th' next room, an' come back with a bottle iv catsup; an' he poured it on th' schwartzmeister ballots, an' monica et thim without winkin'. "well, sir, we ilicted duggan; an' what come iv it? th' week before iliction he was in me house ivry night, an' 'twas 'misther dooley, this,' an' 'mr. dooley, that,' an' 'what 'll ye have, boys?' an' 'niver mind about th' change.' i niver see hide nor hair iv him f'r a week afther iliction. thin he come with a plug hat on, an' says he: 'dooley,' he says, 'give me a shell iv beer,' he says: 'give me a shell iv beer,' he says, layin' down a nickel. 'i suppose ye're on th' sub-scription,' he says. 'what for?' says i. 'f'r to buy me a goold star,' says he. with that i eyes him, an' says i: 'duggan,' i says, 'i knowed ye whin ye didn't have a coat to ye'er back,' i says, 'an' i 'll buy no star f'r ye,' i says. 'but i'll tell ye what i'll buy f'r ye,' i says. 'i'll buy rayqueem masses f'r th' raypose iv ye'er sowl, if ye don't duck out iv this in a minyit,' whin i seen him last, he was back dhrivin' a dhray an' atin' his dinner out iv a tin can." the skirts of chance. the people of bridgeport are not solicitous of modern improvements, and mr. dooley views with distaste the new and garish. but he consented to install a nickel-in-the-slot machine in his tavern last week, and it was standing on a table when mr. mckenna came in. it was a machine that looked like a house; and, when you put a nickel in at the top of it, either the door opened and released three other nickels or it did not. mostly it did not. mr. dooley saluted mr. mckenna with unusual cordiality, and mr. mckenna inspected the nickel-in-the-slot machine with affectation of much curiosity. "what's this you have here, at all?" said mr. mckenna. "'tis an aisy way iv gettin' rich," said mr. dooley. "all ye have to do is to dhrop a nickel in th' slot, an' three other nickels come out at th' dure. ye can play it all afthernoon, an' take a fortune fr'm it if ye'er nickels hould out." "and where do th' nickels come fr'm?" asked mr. mckenna. "i put thim in," said mr. dooley. "ivry twinty minutes i feed th' masheen a hatful iv nickels, so that whin me frinds dhrop in they won't be dissypinted, d'ye mind. 'tis a fine invistment for a young man. little work an' large profits. it rayminds me iv hogan's big kid an' what he done with his coin. he made a lot iv it in dhrivin' a ca-ar, he did, but he blew it all in again good liquor an' bad women; an', bedad, he was broke half th' time an' borrowin' th' other half. so hogan gets in father kelly fr'm up west iv th' bridge, an' they set in with dinnis to talk him out iv his spindthrift ways. 'i have plenty to keep mesilf,' says hogan, he says. 'but,' he says, 'i want ye to save ye'er money,' he says, 'f'r a rainy day.' 'he's right, dinnis,' says th' soggarth,--'he's right,' he says. 'ye should save a little in case ye need it,' he says. 'why don't ye take two dollars,' says th' priest, 'an' invist it ivry month,' says he, 'in somethin',' says he, 'that 'll give ye profits,' says he. 'i'll do it,' says dinnis,--'i 'll do it,' he says. well, sir, hogan was that tickled he give th' good man five bones out iv th' taypot; but, faith, dinnis was back at his reg'lar game before th' week was out, an', afther a month or two, whin hogan had to get th' tayspoons out iv soak, he says to th' kid, he says, 'i thought ye was goin' to brace up,' he says, 'an' here ye're burnin' up ye'er money,' he says. 'didn't ye promise to invist two dollars ivry month?' he says. 'i'm doin' it,' says dinnis. 'i've kept me wurrud.' 'an' what are ye invistin' it in?' says hogan. 'in lotthry tickets,' says th' imp'dent kid." while delivering these remarks, mr. dooley was peeping over his glasses at mr. mckenna, who was engaged in a struggle with the machine. he dropped a nickel and it rattled down the slot, but it did not open the door. "doesn't it open?" said mr. dooley. "it does not." "shake it thin," said mr. dooley. "something must be wrong." mr. mckenna shook the machine when he inserted the next nickel, but there was no compensatory flow of coins from the door. "perhaps the money is bad," suggested mr. dooley. "it won't open f'r bad money." thereupon he returned to his newspaper, observing which mr. mckenna drew from his pocket a nickel attached to a piece of string and dropped it into the slot repeatedly. after a while the door popped open, and mr. mckenna thrust in his hand expectantly. there was no response, and he turned in great anger to mr. dooley. "there ain't any money there," he said. "ye're right, jawn," responded mr. dooley. "if ye expect to dhraw anny coin fr'm that there masheen, ye may call on some iv ye'er rough frinds down town f'r a brace an' bit an' a jimmy. jawn, me la-ad, i see th' nickel with th' string before; an', to provide again it, i improved th' masheen. thim nickels ye dhropped in are all in th' dhrawer iv that there table, an' to-morrow mornin' ye may see me havin' me hair cut be means iv thim. an' i'll tell ye wan thing, jawn mckenna, an' that's not two things, that if ye think ye can come up here to ar-rchey road an' rob an honest man, by gar, ye've made th' mistake iv ye'er life. goowan, now, before i call a polisman." mr. mckenna stopped at the door only long enough to shake his fist at the proprietor, who responded with a grin of pure contentment. when the trust is at work. "which d'ye think makes th' best fun'ral turnout, th' a-ho-aitches or th' saint vincent de pauls, jawn?" asked mr. dooley. "i don't know," said mr. mckenna. "are you thinking of leaving us?" "faith, i am not," said mr. dooley. "since th' warm weather's come an' th' wind's in th' south, so that i can tell at night that a-armoor an' me ol' frind, jawn brinnock, are attindin' to business, i have a grip on life like th' wan ye have on th' shank iv that shell iv malt. whether 'tis these soft days, with th' childher beginnin' to play barefutted in th' sthreet an' th' good women out to palaver over th' fence without their shawls, or whether 'tis th' wan wurrud easter sundah that comes on me, an' jolts me up with th' thoughts iv th' la-ads goin' to mass an' th' blackthorn turnin' green beyant, i dinnaw. but annyhow i'm as gay as a babby an' as fresh as a lark. i am so. "i was on'y thinkin'. ol' gran'pah grogan died las' mondah,--as good a man as e'er counted his beads or passed th' plate. a thrue man. choosdah a connock man up back iv th' dumps laid down th' shovel. misther grogan had a grand notice in th' pa-apers: 'grogan, at his late risidence, a-archoor avnoo, timothy alexander, beloved husband iv th' late mary grogan, father iv maurice, michael, timothy, edward, james, peter, paul, an' officer andrew grogan, iv cologne sthreet station, an' iv mrs. willum sarsfield cassidy, nee grogan' (which manes that was her name befure she marrid cassidy, who wurruks down be haley's packin'-house). 'fun'ral be carriages fr'm his late risidence to calv'ry cimithry. virginia city, nivada; st. joseph, mitchigan; an' clonmel tipp'rary pa-apers please copy.' "i didn't see e'er a nee about th' fam'ly iv th' little man back iv th' dumps, though maybe he had wan to set aroun' th' fire in th' dark an' start at th' tap iv a heel on th' dure-step. mebbe he had a fam'ly, poor things. a fun'ral is great la-arks f'r th' neighbors, an' 'tis not so bad f'r th' corpse. but in these times, jawn dear, a-ho th' gray hearts left behind an' th' hungry mouths to feed. they done th' best they cud f'r th' connock man back iv th' dumps,--give him all th' honors, th' a-ho-aitches ma-archin' behind th' hearse an' th' band playin' th' dead march, 'twas almost as good a turnout as grogan had, though th' saint vincents had betther hats an' looked more like their fam'lies kept a cow. "but they was two hacks back iv th' pall-bearers. i wondhered what was passin' behind th' faces i seen again their windys. 'twas well f'r himself, too. little odds to him, afther th' last screw was twisted be gavin's ol' yellow hands, whether beef was wan cint or a hundherd dollars th' pound. but there's comin' home as well as goin' out. there's more to a fun'ral thin th' lucks parpitua, an' th' clod iv sullen earth on th' top iv th' crate. sare a pax vobiscum is there f'r thim that's huddled in th' ol' hack, sthragglin' home in th' dust to th' empty panthry an' th' fireless grate. "mind ye, jawn, i've no wurrud to say again thim that sets back in their own house an' lot an' makes th' food iv th' people dear. they're good men, good men. whin they tilt th' price iv beef to where wan pound iv it costs as much as manny th' man in this ar-rchey road 'd wurruk fr'm th' risin' to th' settin' iv th' sun to get, they have no thought iv th' likes iv you an' me. 'tis aisy come, aisy go with thim; an' ivry cint a pound manes a new art musoom or a new church, to take th' edge off hunger. they're all right, thim la-ads, with their own pork-chops delivered free at th' door. 'tis, 'will ye have a new spring dhress, me dear? willum, ring thim up, an' tell thim to hist th' price iv beef. if we had a few more pitchers an' statoos in th' musoom, 'twud ilivate th' people a sthory or two. willum, afther this steak 'll be twinty cints a pound.' oh, they're all right, on'y i was thinkin' iv th' connock man's fam'ly back iv th' dumps." "for a man that was gay a little while ago, it looks to me as if you'd grown mighty solemn-like," said mr. mckenna. "mebbe so," said mr. dooley. "mebbe so. what th' 'ell, annyhow. mebbe 'tis as bad to take champagne out iv wan man's mouth as round steak out iv another's. lent is near over. i seen doherty out shinin' up his pipe that's been behind th' clock since ash winsdah. th' girls 'll be layin' lilies on th' altar in a day or two. th' spring's come on. th' grass is growin' good; an', if th' connock man's children back iv th' dumps can't get meat, they can eat hay." a brand from the burning. "i see be th' pa-apers," said mr. dooley, "that boss have flew th' coop. 'tis too bad, too bad. he wa-as a gr-reat man." "is he dead?" asked mr. mckenna. "no, faith, worse thin that; he's resigned. he calls th' la-ads about him, an' says he: 'boys,' he says, 'i'm tired iv politics,' he says. 'i'm goin' to quit it f'r me health,' he says. 'do ye stay in, an' get ar-rested f'r th' good iv th' party.' ye see thim mugwumps is afther th' boss, an' he's gettin' out th' way hogan got out iv connock. wan day he comes over to me fa-ather's house, an' says he, 'dooley,' he says, 'i'm goin' to lave this hole iv a place,' he says. 'f'r why?' says th' ol' man; 'i thought ye liked it.' 'faith,' says hogan, 'i niver liked a blade iv grass in it,' he says. 'i'm sick iv it,' he says. 'i don't want niver to see it no more.' and he wint away. th' next mornin' th' polis was lookin' f'r him to lock him up f'r stealin' joo'lry in the fair town. yes, by dad. "'tis th' way iv th' boss, jawn. i seen it manny's th' time. there was wanst a boss in th' sixth wa-ard, an' his name was flannagan; an' he came fr'm th' county clare, but so near th' bordher line that no wan challenged his vote, an' he was let walk down ar-rchey road just's though he come fr'm connock. well, sir, whin i see him first, he'd th' smell iv castle garden on him, an' th' same is no mignonette, d'ye mind; an' he was goin' out with pick an' shovel f'r to dig in th' canal,--a big, shtrappin', black-haired lad, with a neck like a bull's an' covered with a hide as thick as wan's, fr'm thryin' to get a crop iv oats out iv a clare farm that growed divvle th' thing but nice, big boldhers. "he was de-termined, though, an' th' first man that made a face at him he walloped in th' jaw; an' he'd been on th' canal no more thin a month before he licked ivry man in th' gang but th' section boss, who'd been a dublin jackeen, an' weighed sixteen stone an' was great with a thrip an' a punch. wan day they had some wurruds, whin me bold dublin man sails into flannagan. well, sir, they fought fr'm wan o'clock till tin in th' night, an' nayther give up; though flannagan had th' best iv it, bein' young. 'why don't ye put him out?' says wan iv th' la-ads. 'whisht,' says flannagan. 'i'm waitin' f'r th' moon to come up,' he says, 'so's i can hit him right,' he says, 'an' scientific.' well, sir, his tone was that fierce th' section boss he dhropped right there iv sheer fright; an' flannagan was cock iv th' walk. "afther a while he begun f'r to go out among th' other gangs, lookin' f'r fight; an', whin th' year was over, he was knowed fr'm wan end iv th' canal to th' other as th' man that no wan cud stand befure. he got so pop'lar fr'm lickin' all his frinds that he opened up a liquor store beyant th' bridge, an' wan night he shot some la-ads fr'm th' ya-ards that come over f'r to r-run him. that made him sthronger still. when they got up a prize f'r th' most pop'lar man in th' parish, he loaded th' ballot box an' got th' goold-headed stick, though he was r-runnin' against th' aldherman, an' th' little soggarth thried his best to down him. thin he give a cock fight in th' liquor shop, an' that atthracted a gang iv bad men; an' he licked thim wan afther another, an' made thim his frinds. an' wan day lo an' behold, whin th' aldherman thried f'r to carry th' prim'ries that 'd niver failed him befure, flannagan wint down with his gang an' illicted his own dilligate ticket, an' thrun th' aldherman up in th' air! "thin he was a boss, an' f'r five years he r-run th' ward. he niver wint to th' council, d'ye mind; but, whin he was gin'rous, he give th' aldhermen tin per cint iv what they made. in a convintion, whin anny iv th' candydates passed roun' th' money, 'twas wan thousand dollars f'r flannagan an' have a nice see-gar with me f'r th' rest iv thim. wan year fr'm th' day he done th' aldherman he sold th' liquor shop. thin he built a brick house in th' place iv th' little frame wan he had befure, an' moved in a pianny f'r his daughter. 'twas about this time he got a dimon as big as ye'er fist, an' begun to dhrive down town behind a fast horse. no wan knowed what he done, but his wife said he was in th' r-rale estate business. d'ye mind, jawn, that th' r-rale estate business includes near ivrything fr'm vagrancy to manslaughter? "whativer it was he done, he had money to bur-rn; an' th' little soggarth that wanst despised him, but had a hard time payin' th' debt iv th' church, was glad enough to sit at his table. wan day without th' wink iv th' eye he moved up in th' avnoo, an' no wan seen him in bridgeport afther that. 'twas a month or two later whin a lot iv th' la-ads was thrun into jail f'r a little diviltry they'd done f'r him. a comity iv th' fathers iv th' la-ads wint to see him. he raceived thim in a room as big as wan iv their whole houses, with pitchers on th' walls an' a carpet as deep an' soft as a bog. th' comity asked him to get th' la-ads out on bail. "'gintlemen,' he says, 'ye must excuse me,' he says, 'in such matthers.' 'd'ye mane to say,' says cassidy, th' plumber, 'that ye won't do annything f'r my son?' 'do annything,' says flannagan. (i'll say this f'r him: a more darin' man niver drew breath; an', whin his time come to go sthandin' off th' mob an' defindin' his sthone quarry in th' rites iv sivinty-sivin, he faced death without a wink.) 'do?' he says, risin' an' sthandin' within a fut iv cassidy's big cane. 'do?' he says. 'why,' he says, 'yes,' he says; 'i've subscribed wan thousand dollars,' he says, 'to th' citizen's comity,' he says, 'f'r to prosecute him; an',' he says, 'gintlemen,' he says, 'there's th' dure.' "i seen cassidy that night, an' he was as white as a ghost. 'what ails ye?' says i. 'have ye seen th' divvle?' 'yes,' he says, bendin' his head over th' bar, an' lookin' sivinty years instead iv forty-five." a winter night. any of the archey road cars that got out of the barns at all were pulled by teams of four horses, and the snow hung over the shoulders of the drivers' big bearskin coats like the eaves of an old-fashioned house on the blizzard night. there was hardly a soul in the road from the red bridge, west, when mr. mckenna got laboriously off the platform of his car and made for the sign of somebody's celebrated milwaukee beer over mr. dooley's tavern. mr. dooley, being a man of sentiment, arranges his drinks to conform with the weather. now anybody who knows anything at all knows that a drop of "j.j." and a whisper (subdued) of hot water and a lump of sugar and lemon peel (if you care for lemon peel) and nutmeg (if you are a "jood ") is a drink calculated to tune a man's heart to the song of the wind slapping a beer-sign upside down and the snow drifting in under the door. mr. dooley was drinking this mixture behind his big stove when mr. mckenna came in. "bad night, jawn," said mr. dooley. "it is that," said mr. mckenna. "blowin' an' storming', yes," said mr. dooley. "there hasn' been a can in tonight but wan, an' that was a pop bottle. is the snow-ploughs out, i dinnaw?" "they are," said mr. mckenna. "i suppose doherty is dhrivin'," said mr. dooley. "he's a good dhriver. they do say he do be wan iv the best dhrivers on th' road. i've heerd that th' prisident is dead gawn on him. he's me cousin. ye can't tell much about what a man 'll be fr'm what th' kid is. that there doherty was th' worst omadhon iv a boy that iver i knowed. he niver cud larn his a-ah-bee, abs. but see what he made iv himsilf! th' best dhriver on th' road; an', by dad, 'tis not twinty to wan he won't be stharter befure he dies. 'tis in th' fam'ly to make their names. there niver was anny fam'ly in th' ol' counthry that turned out more priests than th' dooleys. by gar, i believe we hol' th' champeenship iv th' wurruld. at m'nooth th' profissor that called th' roll got so fr'm namin' th' dooley la-ads that he came near bein' tur-rned down on th' cha-arge that he was whistlin' at vespers. his mouth, d'ye mind, took that there shape fr'm sayin' 'dooley,' 'dooley,' that he'd looked as if he was whistlin'. d'ye mind? dear, oh dear, 'tis th' divvle's own fam'ly f'r religion." mr. mckenna was about to make a jeering remark to the effect that the alleged piety of the dooley family had not penetrated to the archey road representative, when a person, evidently of wayfaring habits, entered and asked for alms. mr. dooley arose, and, picking a half-dollar from the till, handed it to the visitor with great unconcern. the departure of the wayfarer with profuse thanks was followed by a space of silence. "well, jawn," said mr. dooley. "what did you give the hobo?" asked mr. mckenna. "half a dollar," said mr. dooley. "and what for?" "binivolence," said mr. dooley, with a seraphic smile. "well," said mr. mckenna, "i should say that was benevolence." "well," said mr. dooley, "'tis a bad night out, an' th' poor divvle looked that miserable it brought th' tears to me eyes, an'"-- "but," said mr. mckenna, "that ain't any reason why you should give half a dollar to every tramp who comes in." "jawn," said mr. dooley, "i know th' ma-an. he spinds all his money at schneider's, down th' block." "what of that?" asked mr. mckenna. "oh, nawthin'," said mr. dooley, "on'y i hope herman won't thry to bite that there coin. if he does"-- the blue and the gray. "a-ho," said mr. dooley, "th' blue an' th' gray, th' blue an' th' gray. well, sir, jawn, d'ye know that i see mulligan marchin' ahead with his soord on his side, an' his horse dancin' an' backin' into th' crowd; an' th' la-ads chowlder arms an' march, march away. ye shud 've been there. th' women come down fr'm th' pee-raries with th' childher in their arms, an' 'twas like a sind-off to a picnic. 'good-by, mike.' 'timothy, darlin', don't forget your prayers.' 'cornalius, if ye do but look out f'r th' little wans, th' big wans 'll not harm ye.' 'teddy, lad, always wear ye'er agnus day.' an', whin th' time come f'r th' thrain to lave, th' girls was up to th' lines; an' 'twas, 'mike, love, ye'll come back alive, won't ye?' an' 'pat, there does be a pair iv yarn socks in th' hoomp on ye'er back. wear thim, lad. they'll be good f'r ye'er poor, dear feet.' an' off they wint. "well, some come back, an' some did not come back. an' some come back with no rale feet f'r to put yarn socks on thim. mulligan quit down somewhere in kentucky; an' th' las' wurruds he was heard to utter was, 'lay me down, boys, an' save th' flag.' an there was manny th' other that had nawthin' to say but to call f'r a docthor; f'r 'tis on'y, d'ye mind, th' heroes that has somethin' writ down on typewriter f'r to sind to th' newspapers whin they move up. th' other lads that dies because they cudden't r-run away,--not because they wudden't,--they dies on their backs, an' calls f'r th' docthor or th' priest. it depinds where they're shot. "but, annyhow, no wan iv thim lads come back to holler because he was in th' war or to war again th' men that shot him. they wint to wurruk, carryin' th' hod 'r shovellin' cindhers at th' rollin' mills. some iv thim took pinsions because they needed thim; but divvle th' wan iv thim ye'll see paradin' up an' down ar-rchey road with a blue coat on, wantin' to fight th' war over with schwartzmeister's bar-tinder that niver heerd iv but wan war, an' that th' rites iv sivinty-sivin. sare a wan. no, faith. they'd as lave decorate a confeatherate's grave as a thrue pathrite's. all they want is a chanst to go out to th' cimitry; an', faith, who doesn't enjoy that? no wan that's annything iv a spoort. "i know hundherds iv thim. ye know pat doherty, th' little man that lives over be grove sthreet. he inlisted three times, by dad, an' had to stand on his toes three times to pass. he was that ager. well, he looks to weigh about wan hundherd an' twinty pounds; an' he weighs wan fifty be raison iv him havin' enough lead to stock a plumber in his stomach an' his legs. he showed himsilf wanst whin he was feelin' gay. he looks like a sponge. but he ain't. he come in here thursdah night to take his dhrink in quite; an' says i, 'did ye march to-day?' 'faith, no,' he says, 'i can get hot enough runnin' a wheelbarrow without makin' a monkey iv mesilf dancin' around th' sthreets behind a band.' 'but didn't ye go out to decorate th' graves?' says i. 'i hadn't th' price,' says he, 'th' women wint out with a gyranium to put over sarsfield, the first born,' he says. "just thin morgan o'toole come in, an' laned over th' ba-ar. he's been a dillygate to ivry town convention iv th' raypublicans since i dinnaw whin. 'well,' says he, 'i see they're pilin' it on,' he says. 'on th' dead?' says i, be way iv a joke. 'no,' he says; 'but did ye see they're puttin' up a monnymint over th' rebils out here be oakwoods?' he says. 'by gar,' he says, ''tis a disgrace to th' mim'ries iv thim devoted dead who died f'r their counthry,' he says. 'if,' he says, 'i cud get ninety-nine men to go out an' blow it up, i'd be th' hundherth,' he says. 'yes,' says i, 'ye wud,' i says. 'ye'd be th' last,' i says. "doherty was movin' up to him. 'what rig'mint?' says he. 'what's that?' says o'toole. 'did ye inlist in th' army, brave man?' says pat. 'i swore him over age,' says i. 'was ye dhrafted in?' says th' little man. 'no,' says o'toole. 'him an' me was in th' same cellar,' says i. 'did ye iver hear iv ree-saca, 'r vicksburg, 'r lookout mountain?' th' little man wint on. 'did anny man iver shoot at ye with annything but a siltzer bottle? did ye iver have to lay on ye'er stummick with ye'er nose burrid in th' lord knows what while things was whistlin' over ye that, if they iver stopped whistlin', 'd make ye'er backbone look like a broom? did ye iver see a man that ye'd slept with th' night before cough, an' go out with his hands ahead iv his face? did ye iver have to wipe ye'er most intimate frinds off ye'er clothes, whin ye wint home at night? where was he durin' th' war?' he says. 'he was dhrivin' a grocery wagon f'r philip reidy,' says i. 'an' what's he makin' th' roar about?' says th' little man. 'he don't want anny wan to get onto him,' says i. "o'toole was gone be this time, an' th' little man laned over th' bar. 'now,' says he, 'what d'ye think iv a gazabo that don't want a monniment put over some wan? where is this here pole? i think i'll go out an' take a look at it. where 'd ye say th' la-ad come fr'm? donaldson? i was there. there was a man in our mess--a wicklow man be th' name iv dwyer--that had th' best come-all-ye i iver heerd. it wint like this,' an' he give it to me." the tragedy of the agitator. "whin ye come up, did ye see dorgan?" asked mr. dooley. "which dorgan?" asked mr. mckenna. "why, to be sure, hugh o'neill dorgan, him that was sicrety iv deerin' shtreet branch number wan hundred an' eight iv th' ancient ordher iv scow unloaders, him that has th' red lambrequin on his throat, that married th' second time to dinnihy's aunt an' we give a shivaree to him. hivins on earth, don't ye know him?" "i don't," said mr. mckenna; "and, if i know him, i haven't seen him." "thin ye missed a sight," said mr. dooley. "he's ragin' an' tearin'. he have been a great union man. he'd sthrike on th' moment's provocation. i seen him wanst, whin some scow unloaders sthruck in lemont or some other distant place, put on his coat, lay down his shovel, an' go out, be hivins, alone. well, his son goes an' jines th' sivinth rig'mint; an', by gar, th' ol' man, not knowin' about th' army, he's that proud that he sthruts up an' down th' sthreet with his thumb in th' vest iv him an' give his son a new shovel, for they was wurrukin' together on th' scow 'odelia ann.' well, whin th' sthrike come along, iv coorse th' scow unloaders quits; an' dorgan an' th' la-ad goes out together, because they're dhrawin' good wages an' th' crick do be full iv men r-ready f'r to take their places. "well, dorgan had th' divvle's own time paradin' up an' down an' sindin' out ordhers to sthrike to ivry man he knowed of till th' la-ad comes over las' choosdah avenin', dhressed in his rigimintals with a gun as long as a clothes-pole over his shoulder. 'hughey,' said th' father, 'you look very gran' to-night,' he says. 'whose fun'ral ar-re ye goin' to at this hour?' 'none but thim i makes mesilf,' says he. 'what d'ye mean?' says th' ol' man. 'i'm goin' over f'r to stand guard in th' thracks,' says th' la-ad. well, with that th' ol' man leaps up. 'polisman,' he says. 'polisman,' he says. 'copper,' he says. 'twas on'y be mrs. dorgan comin' in an' quitein' th' ol' man with a chair that hostilities was averted--as th' pa-apers says--right there an' thin. "well, sir, will ye believe me, whin dorgan wint over with th' mimbers iv' th' union that night f'r to bur-rn something, there was me brave hughey thrampin' up an' down like a polisman on bate. dorgan goes up an' shakes his fist at him, an' th' la-ad gives him a jab with his bayonet that makes th' poor ol' man roar like a bull. 'in th' name iv th' people iv th' state iv illinys,' he says, 'disperse,' he says, 'ye riter,' he says; 'an', if ye don't go home,' he says, 'ye ol' omadhon,' he says, 'i'll have ye thrun into jail,' he says. "dorgan haven't got over it yet. it dhruv him to a sick-bed." boyne water and bad blood. "jawn," said mr. dooley to mr. mckenna, "what did th' orangeys do to-day?" "they had a procession," said mr. mckenna. "was it much, i dinnaw?" "not much." "that's good," said mr. dooley. "that's good. they don't seem to be gettin' anny sthronger, praise be! divvle th' sthraw do i care f'r thim. they niver harmed hair nor head iv me; an' they ain't likely to, ayether, so long as th' r-road keeps th' way it is. faith, 'twud be a fine pot iv porridge th' like iv thim 'd ate if they come up into ar-rchey road. i'm an ol' man, jawn,--though not so ol' at that,--but i'd give tin years iv me life to see an orange procession west on ar-rchey road with th' right flank restin' on halsthed sthreet. it 'd rest there. th' lord knows it wud. "jawn, i have no dislike to th' orangeys. nawthin' again thim. i'd not raise me hand to thim, i wud not, though me cousin tim was kilt be wan iv thim dhroppin' a bolt on his skull in th' ship-yards in belfast. 'twas lucky f'r that there orangey he spoke first. me cousin tim had a ship-ax in his hand that'd 've evened things up f'r at laste wan iv th' poor pikemen that sarsfield had along with him. but i've nawthin' again thim at that but th' wan that kilt tim. i'd like to meet that lad in some quite place like th' clan-na-gael picnic on th' fifteenth iv august, some place where we'd have fair play. "jawn, live an' let live is me motto. on'y i say this here, that 'tis a black disgrace to chicago f'r to let th' likes iv thim thrapze about th' sthreets with their cheap ol' flags an' ribbons. oh dear, oh dear, if pathrick's day on'y come some year on' th' twelfth day iv july! where 'd they be, where 'd they be? "d'ye know things is goin' to th' dogs in this town, jawn, avick? sure they are, faith. i mind th' time well whin an orangey 'd as lave go through hell in a celluloid suit as march in this here town on the twelfth iv july. i raymimber wanst they was a man be th' name iv morgan dempsey,--a first cousin iv thim dempseys that lives in cologne sthreet,--an' he was a roscommon man, too, an' wan iv th' cutest divvles that iver breathed th' breath iv life. "well, whin th' day come f'r th' orangeys to cillybrate th' time whin king willum--may th' divvle hould him!--got a stand-off,--an' 'twas no betther, jawn, f'r th' irish'd 've skinned him alive if th' poor ol' gaby iv an english king hadn't ducked--what's that? don't i know it? i have a book at home written be an impartial historyan, pathrick clancy duffy, to prove it. what was i sayin'? whin' th' twelfth day iv july come around an' th' orangeys got ready to cillybrate th' day king willum, with all his gatlin' guns an' cannon, just barely sthud off sarsfield an' his men that had on'y pikes an' brickbats an' billyard cues, th' good people was infuryated. i dinnaw who was th' mayor in thim days. he was niver ilicted again. but, annyhow, he give it out that th' orangeys' procission must not be hurted. an' all th' newspapers asked th' good people to be quite, an' it was announced at high mass an' low mass that annywan that sthruck a blow 'd be excommunicated. "well, ye know how it is whin modheration is counselled, jawn. modheration is another name f'r murdheration. so they put two platoons iv polismen in front iv th' orangeys an' three behind, an' a double column alongside; an' away they wint. "no wan intherfered with thim; an' that didn't plaze morgan dempsey, who 'd served his time a calker in a ship-yard. bein' iv a injaneyous disposition, he made up his mind f'r to do something to show that pathrietism wasn't dead in this counthry. so he got up in a hallway in washington sthreet, an' waited. th' procission come with th' polismen in front an' behind an' along th' sides, an' th' german band, thryin' to keep wan eye on the house-tops on both sides iv th' sthreet, an' to read th' music iv c lillibullero' an' 'croppies lie down' an' 'boyne wather' with th' other. th' orangeys didn't look up. they kept their eyes pointed sthraight ahead, i'll say that f'r thim. they're murdherin' vilyans; but they're irish, iv a sort. "whin they come by dempsey, he pokes his head out iv th' dure; an' says he, 'th' 'ell with all th' prowtestant bishops.' now that same over in derry 'd have had all th' tilin's in town flyin'; but th' orangeys 'd been warned not to fight, an' they wint sthraight on, on'y they sung 'lillibullero.' did ye niver hear it? it goes _(singing)_ 'ho! brother teigue, dost hear in th' degree?' "th' lord f'rgive me f'r singin' it, jawn. see if there's anny wan near th' dure. "well, whin they got through, dempsey puts his hands to his mouth, an' yells, 'th' 'ell with king willum.' that was more thin th' orangeys cud stand. they halted as wan man, an' roared out, 'th' 'ell with th' pope.' 'what's that?' says th' captain iv th' polis foorce. he was a man be th' name of murphy, an' he was blue with rage f'r havin' to lead th' orangeys. 'ma-arch on, brass money,' says th' orange marshal. murphy pulled him fr'm his horse; an' they wint at it, club an' club. be that time th' whole iv th' line was ingaged. ivry copper belted an orangey; an' a sergeant named donahue wint through a whole lodge, armed on'y, jawn, with a clarinet an' wan cymbal. he did so. an' morgan dempsey, th' cute divvle, he sthood by, an' encouraged both sides. f'r, next to an orangey, he likes to see a polisman kilt. that ended wan orangey parade. "not that i think it was right. i suppose they ought to be left walk about, an' i'm a fair man. if th' blackest iv thim wint by now, i'd not raise me hand"-- "hello," says mr. mckenna, "here goes killen, the armagh man. they say he digs with his left foot." "jawn," said mr. dooley, eagerly, "if ye run up on th' roof, ye'll find th' bricks loose in th' top row iv th' chimbley. ye might hand him a few." the freedom picnic. "there's wan thing about th' irish iv this town," said mr. dooley. "the police?" said mr. mckenna. "no," said the philosopher. "but they give picnics that does bate all. be hivins, if ireland cud be freed be a picnic, it 'd not on'y be free to-day, but an impire, begorra, with tim haley, th' banthry man, evictin' lord salisbury fr'm his houldin'. 'twud that. "jawn, th' la-ads have got th' thrick iv freein' ireland down to a sinsible basis. in th' ol' days they wint over with dinnymite bumbs in their pockets, an' ayether got their rowlers on thim in cork an' blew thimsilves up or was arristed in queenstown f'r disordherly conduct. 'twas a divvle iv a risky job to be a pathrite in thim days, an' none but those that had no wan dipindint on thim cud affoord it. but what was th' use? ireland wint on bein' th' same opprissed green oil it had always been, an' th' on'y difference th' rivolutions made was ye sa-aw new faces on th' bridges an' th' wolfe tones passed another set iv resolutions. "'tis different now. whin we wants to smash th' sassenach an' restore th' land iv th' birth iv some iv us to her thrue place among th' nations, we gives a picnic. 'tis a dam sight asier thin goin' over with a slug iv joynt powder an' blowin' up a polis station with no wan in it. it costs less; an', whin 'tis done, a man can lep aboord a sthreet ca-ar, an' come to his family an' sleep it off. "i wint out last choosdah, an' i suppose i must 've freed as much as eight counties in ireland. all th' la-ads was there. th' first ma-an i see was dorgan, the sanyor guarjeen in the wolfe tone lithry society. he's th' la-ad that have made th' prince iv wales thrimble in his moccasins. i heerd him wanst makin' a speech that near injooced me to take a bumb in me hand an' blow up westminsther cathedral. 'a-re ye,' he says, 'men, or a-re ye slaves?' he says. 'will ye,' he says, 'set idly by,' he says, 'while th' sassenach,' he says, 'has th' counthry iv immitt an' o'connell,' he says, 'an' jawn im smyth,' he says, 'undher his heel?' he says. 'arouse,' he says, 'slaves an' despots!' he says. 'clear th' way!' he says. 'cowards an' thraitors!' he says. 'faugh-a-ballagh!' he says. he had th' beer privilege at th' picnic, jawn. "hinnissy, th' plumber, who blew wan iv his fingers off with a bumb intinded f'r some iv th' archytecture iv liverpool, had th' conthract f'r runnin' th' knock-th'-babby-down-an'-get-a-nice-seegar jint. f'r th' good iv th' cause i knocked th' babby down, jawn, an' i on'y wish th' queen iv england 'r th' prince iv wales cud be injooced to smoke wan iv th' seegars. ye might as well go again a roman candle. th' wan i got was made iv baled hay, an' 'twas rumored about th' pa-ark that hinnissy was wurrukin' off his surplus stock iv bumbs on th' pathrites. his cousin darcey had th' shootin' gallery privilege, an' he done a business th' like iv which was niver knowed be puttin' up th' figure iv an irish polisman f'r th' la-ads to shoot at. 'twas bad in th' end though, f'r a gang iv tipp'rary lads come along behind th' tent an' begun thrown stones at th' copper. wan stone hit a limerick man, an' th' cry 'butthermilk' wint around; an' be hivins, if it hadn't been that th' chief iv polis, th' wise la-ad, sint none but german polismen to th' picnic, there 'd not been a man left to tell th' tale." "what's that all got to do with freeing ireland?" asked mr. mckenna. "well, 'tis no worse off thin it was befure, annyhow," said mr. dooley. the idle apprentice. "they hanged a man to-day," said mr. dooley. "they did so," said mr. mckenna. "did he die game?" "they say he did." "well, he did," said mr. dooley. "i read it all in th' pa-apers. he died as game as if he was wan iv th' christyan martyrs instead iv a thief that 'd hit his man wan crack too much. saint or murdherer, 'tis little difference whin death comes up face front. "i read th' story iv this man through, jawn; an', barrin' th' hangin', 'tis th' story iv tin thousan' like him. d'ye raymimber th' carey kid? ye do. well, i knowed his grandfather; an' a dacinter ol' man niver wint to his jooty wanst a month. whin he come over to live down be th' slip, 'twas as good a place as iver ye see. th' honest men an' honest women wint as they pleased, an' laid hands on no wan. his boy jim was as straight as th' r-roads in kildare, but he took to dhrink; an', whin jack carey was born, he was a thramp on th' sthreets an' th' good woman was wurrukin' down-town, scrubbin' away at th' flures in th' city hall, where dennehy got her. "be that time around th' slip was rough-an'-tumble. it was dhrink an' fight ivry night an' all day sundah. th' little la-ads come together under sidewalks, an' rushed th' can over to burke's on th' corner an' listened to what th' big lads tol' thim. th' first instruction that jack carey had was how to take a man's pocket handkerchief without his feelin' it, an' th' nex' he had was larnin' how to get over th' fence iv th' reform school at halsted sthreet in his stockin' feet. "he was a thief at tin year, an' th' polis 'd run f'r him if he'd showed his head. at twelve they sint him to th' bridewell f'r breakin' into a freight car. he come out, up to anny game. i see him whin he was a lad hardly to me waist stand on th' roof iv finucane's hall an' throw bricks at th' polisman. "he hated th' polis, an' good reason he had f'r it. they pulled him out iv bed be night to search him. if he turned a corner, they ran him f'r blocks down th' sthreet. whin he got older, they begun shootin' at him; an' it wasn't manny years befure he begun to shoot back. he was right enough whin he was in here. i cud conthrol him. but manny th' night whin he had his full iv liquor i've see him go out with his gun in his outside pocket; an' thin i'd hear shot after shot down th' sthreet, an' i'd know him an' his ol' inimy clancy 'd met an' was exchangin' compliments. he put wan man on th' polis pension fund with a bullet through his thigh. "they got him afther a while. he'd kept undher cover f'r months, livin' in freight cars an' hidin' undher viadocks with th' pistol in his hand. wan night he come out, an' broke into schwartzmeister's place. he sneaked through th' alley with th' german man's damper in his arms, an' clancy leaped on him fr'm th' fence. th' kid was tough, but clancy played fut-ball with th' finerty's on sundah, an' was tougher; an', whin th' men on th' other beats come up, carey was hammered so they had to carry him to th' station an' nurse him f'r trile. "he wint over th' road, an' come back gray an' stooped, i was afraid iv th' boy with his black eyes; an' wan night he see me watchin' him, an' he says: 'ye needn't be afraid,' he says. 'i won't hurt ye. ye're not clancy,' he says, "i tol' clancy about it, but he was a brave man; an' says he: ''tis wan an' wan, an' a thief again an' honest man. if he gets me, he must get me quick.' th' nex' night about dusk he come saunterin' up th' sthreet, swingin' his club an' jokin with his frind, whin some wan shouted, 'look out, clancy.' he was not quick enough. he died face forward, with his hands on his belt; an' befure all th' wurruld jack carey come across th' sthreet, an' put another ball in his head. "they got him within twinty yards iv me store. he was down in th' shadow iv th' house, an' they was shootin' at him fr'm roofs an' behind barns. whin he see it was all up, he come out with his eyes closed, firin' straight ahead; an' they filled him so full iv lead he broke th' hub iv th' pathrol wagon takin' him to th' morgue." "it served him right," said mr. mckenna. "who?" said mr. dooley. "carey or clancy?" the o'briens forever. "i think, by dad," said mr. dooley, "that hinnissy's crazy." "i always thought so," said mr. mckenna, amiably. "but what's he been doin' of late?" "well, i took him down to see th' good la-ads havin' fun with th' opprissors iv th' people at th' colliseem,' said mr. dooley. "i had no ticket, an' he had none. th' frinds iv honest money had give thim all to jawn p. hopkins's la-ads. they're frinds iv honest money, whin they'se no other in sight. but i'd like to see anny goold-bug or opprissor iv th' people keep th' likes iv me an' hinnissy out iv a convintion. we braced up to wan iv th' dures, an' a man stopped hinnissy. 'who ar-re ye?' he says. "i am a dimmycrat,' says hinnissy. 'is ye'er name hill?' says th' la-ad. 'it is not,' says hinnissy. 'i tol' ye i'm a dimmycrat; an',' he says, 'i'll have no man call me out iv me name.' hinnissy was f'r rollin' him on th' flure there an' thin f'r an insult, but i flagged a polisman. 'is ye'er name sullivan?' says i. 'it is,' says he. 'roscommon?' says i, fr'm th' way he spoke. 'sure ye're right,' he says. 'me name's dooley,' i says. 'here,' say he to th' dure-keeper, 'don't stand in th' way iv th' sinitor iv th' state iv mitchigan,' he says. 'lave him an' his frind go in,' he says. i minded afther i was good to him whin simon o'donnell was chief iv polis, may he rest in peace! "hinnissy an' me got a seat be some dhroll ol' boys fr'm out in iaway. afther a man be th' name iv martin, a sergeant-iv-arms, had addhressed th' meetin' twinty or thirty times,--i kep no count iv him,--th' chairman inthrojooced th' dillygates to nommynate th' big men. it wint all right with hinnissy for a little while till a man got up an' shook his fist at th' chairman. 'what's that? what's that?' says hinnissy. 'what's that?' he says. 'hurroo, hurroo,' he says, lammin' th' man fr'm iaway with his goold-headed cane. 'what ails ye, man alive?' says i. 'why,' he says, 'they've nommynated billy,' he says. 'billy who?' says i. 'why, willum j. o'brien,' he says. "'a sthrong man,' says he, addhressin' th' man fr'm iaway. 'i shud say he was,' says th' man. 'th' sthrongest man that iver come down th' road,' says hinnissy. 'why,' he says, 'i see that man put up an' eight iv beer with wan hand,' he says, 'holdin' it be th' rim,' he says. 'none sthronger,' he says. 'but will he carry illinye?' says th' lad fr'm iaway. 'will he carry illinye?' says hinnissy. 'why, man alive,' he says, 'i've see him carry a prim'ry in th' sixth precint,' he says. 'is that enough f'r ye?' he says. 'he's a good speaker,' says th' iaway man. 'he is that,' says hinnissy; 'an' he was wan iv th' best waltzers that flung a foot at th' county dimocracy picnic,' he says. 'but will he make a good fight?' says th' man. 'will he?' says hinnissy. 'will he make a good fight?' he says. 'dooley,' he says, 'this here dimmycrat wants to know if bill 'll make a good fight. why,' he says, 'if he iver gets to washington an' wan iv th' opprissors iv th' people goes again him, give him jackson park or a clothes closet, gun or soord, ice-pick or billyard cue, chair or stove leg, an' bill 'll make him climb a tree,' he says. 'i'd like to see wan iv thim supreme justices again bill o'brien on an income tax or anny other ord-nance,' he says. 'he'd go in an' lame thim with th' revised statutes.' 'i presume,' says th' lad, 'that ye'er fr'm omaha.' 'i'll tear ye'er hair out,' says hinnissy.' "'ye idjit,' says i, whin i had him in th' sthreet, 'it wasn't bill o'brien was nommynated,' says i. 'what ar-re ye talkin' about?' says he. 'i seen him on th' flure,' he says. 'he had th' sinitor iv missoury be th' throat whin ye took me away,' he says. "i left him there; but he come into th' place at six o'clock, an' borrid a paper an' pencil. thin he wint back, an' sat down an' wrote. 'what ar-re ye doin' there?' says i. 'i've wrote a sketch iv th' nominee f'r th' stock-yards sun,' he says. 'listen to it. willum j. o'brien,' he says, 'was born in th' county iv mayo forty years ago,' he says. 'he received a limited education, his parents even thin designin' him f'r th' prisidincy. bein' unable to complete a coorse at th' rayform school, he wint to wurruk; but soon, tired iv this, he started a saloon. fr'm thince he dhrifted into politics, an' become noted as th' boy welter-weight iv th' south branch. he was ilicted aldherman at a time whin comparatively nawthin' was doin' in th' council. subsequent he become a sinitor, an' later enthered into partnership with th' hon. jawn powers in th' retail liquor traffic. mr. o'brien is a fine built man, an' can lick anny wan iv his age west iv th' river, give 'r take tin pounds, color no bar. his heart bets up close to th' ribs iv th' common people, an' he would make opprissors iv th' poor wish they'd died early if ye give him a chance with a beer bottle. how's that?' says hinnissy. "'worse,' says i. 'foolish man,' says i. 'don't ye know that it ain't our bill that's been nommynated?' i says. 'this is a nebraska man,' i says. 'well,' he says, 'if 'tis bill o'brien, he'd win easy. but,' he says, 'if 'tis not,' he says, ''tis wan iv th' fam'ly,' he says. 'i'll change this here novel an' make it a sketch iv th' cousin iv th' candydate,' he says. an' he wint on with his wurruk." a candidate's pillory. "what's this counthry comin' to, annyhow, that a man that's out f'r to be prisident has to set up on a high chair an' be questioned on his record be a lot iv la-ads that hasn't had annything to do since th' carpetbeatin' season's ended? "said mr. dooley. "ye'd think big bill was r-runnin' f'r chief ex-icutive iv th' clan-na-gael. first along comes a comity iv th' sons iv rest. 'major,' says they, 'we're insthructed be th' organization to ascertain ye'er views on th' important, we may say all-important, question iv havin' wire matthresses put on th' benches in th' parks. are we,' they says, 'goin' f'r to have to wear lumps on our backs into all eternity,' they says, 'an' have our slumbers broke be th' hot fut iv th' polisman?' they says. 'we demand an answer,' they says, 'or, be this an' be that, we won't do a thing to ye.' well, maybe bill has been down to th' corner playin' a game iv spoil-five with his old frind coalsack, an' has paid no attintion to th' sons iv rest. 'well,' he says, 'gintlemen, i'm in favor iv doin' ivrything in reason f'r th' hoboes,' he says. 'th' protection iv th' home hobo again th' pauper can trade iv europe,' he says, 'has been wan iv th' principal wurruks iv me life,' he says; an' he gives thim each a hand out, an' bows thim to th' dure. "in comes a dillygation fr'm th' union iv amalgamated pantsmakers; an' says th' chairman, 'major,' he says, 'we have a complaint to make again thim pants iv ye'ers,' he says. 'what's th' matter with th' pants?' says th' future prisident. 'i thought they looked all right,' he says. 'i paid four dollars f'r thim in bucyrus las' year,' he says. 'they have no union label on thim,' says th' chairman. 'do you know, sir,' he says, 'that thim pants riprisints th' oppression iv women an' childher?' he says. 'd'ye know that ivry thread in thim seams means a tear an' sigh?' says he. 'd'ye know that ivry time ye put on thim pants ye take a pair off some down-throdden workman?' he says. 'glory be!' says big bill: 'is that thrue? thin what am i to do?' he says in alarm. 'do?' says th' chairman. 'wear pants that riprisints honest toil fairly compinsated,' he says. 'wear pants that 'll say to th' wurruld that bill mckinley's legs are fair legs;' he says, 'that they may bow at th' knees, but they niver bow to th' opprissor,' he says; 'that niver did they wrap thimsilves in bags that bore th' curse iv monno-poly an' greed,' he says. 'an' where can i get thim?' says th' major, 'fr'm me,' says th' frind iv labor, pullin' out a tape. 'will ye have wan or two hip pockets?' he says. "an' so it goes. ivry day a rayporther comes to th' house with a list iv questions. 'what are ye'er views on th' issue iv eatin' custard pie with a sponge? do ye believe in side-combs? if called upon to veto a bill f'r all mimbers iv th' supreme coort to wear hoop-skirts, wud ye veto it or wudden't ye? if so, why? if not, why not? if a batted ball goes out iv th' line afther strikin' th' player's hands, is it fair or who? have ye that tired feelin'? what is your opinion iv a hereafther? where did you get that hat? if a man has eight dollars an' spends twelve iv it, what will th' poor man do? an' why an' where an' how much?' "thin, if he don't answer, ivry wan says he's a thrimmer, an' ought to be runnin' a sthreet-car an' not thryin' to poke his ondecided face into th' white house. i mind wanst, whin me frind o'brien was a candydate f'r aldherman, a comity iv tax-payers waited on him f'r to get his views on th' issues iv th' day. big casey, th' housemover, was th' chairman; an' he says, says he, 'misther o'brien,' he says, 'we are desirous,' he says, 'iv larnin' where ye stand on th' tariff, th' currency question, pensions, an' th' intherstate commerce act,' he says, with a wave iv his hand. 'well,' says o'brien, he says, 'th' issue on which i'm appealin' to th' free an' intilligent suffrages of ar-rchey road an' th' assistance iv deerin' sthreet station,' he says, 'is whether little mike kelly will have th' bridge or not,' he says. 'on that i stand,' he says. 'as f'r th' minor issues,' he says, 'i may have me opinions on thim an' i may not. anny information i possess i'll keep tucked away in this large an' commodjous mind cage, an' not be dealin' it out to th' likes iv ye, as though i was a comity iv th' civic featheration,' he says. 'moreover,' he says, 'i'd like to know, you, casey, what business have you got comin' roun' to my house and pryin' into my domestic affairs,' he says. ''tis th' intherstate commerce act now, but th' nex' thing 'll be where i got th' pianny,' he says; 'an', f'r fear ye may not stop where ye are, here goes to mount ye.' an' he climbed th' big man, an' rolled him. well, sir will ye believe me, ivry man on th' comity but wan voted f'r him. casey was still in bed iliction day. "i met tom dorsey afther th' comity called. 'well,' says i, 'i heerd ye was up to o'brien's questionin' him on th' issues iv th' day,' i says. 'we was,' says he. 'was his answers satisfacthry?' says i. 'perfectly so,' he says. 'whin th' comity left, we were all convinced that he was th' strongest man that cud be nommynated,' he says." the day after the victory. "jawn," said mr. dooley, "didn't we give it to thim?" "give it to who?" asked mr. mckenna. "to th' dimmycrats," said mr. dooley. "go on," said mr. mckenna. "you're a democrat yourself." "me?" said mr. dooley, "not on your life. not in wan hundherd thousand years. me a dimmycrat? i shud say not, jawn, me buck. i'm the hottest kind iv a raypublican, me an' maloney. i suppose they ain't two such raypublicans annywhere. how can anny wan be annything else? who was it that saved the union, jawn? who was it? who are th' frinds iv th' irish? who protecks th' poor wurrukin'man so that he'll have to go on wurrukin'? we do, jawn. we raypublicans, by dad. "they ain't a dimmycrat fr'm wan end iv th' road to th' other. i just was over makin' a visit on docherty, an' he'd took down th' picture iv jackson an' cleveland an' put up wan iv grant an' lincoln. willum joyce have come out f'r mckinley f'r prisident, an' th' polisman on th' beat told me las' night that th' left'nant told him that 'twas time f'r a change. th' dimmycrats had rooned th' counthry with their free trade an' their foreign policy an' their i dinnaw what, an' 'twas high time an honest man got a crack at a down-town precinct with a faro bank or two in it. th' polisman agreed with him that cleveland have raised th' divvle with th' constitootion; an', by gar, he's right, too. he's right, jawn. he have a boy in th' wather office. "ye mind maloney, th' la-ad with th' game eye? he tends a bridge over be goose island way, but he was down here iliction day. two weeks before iliction day he was again winter. 'he's no good,' he says. 'he's a boohemian,' he says. 'an' whin they come to ilictin' boohemians f'r mayor,' he says, 'i'll go back to me ol' thrade iv shovellin' mud,' he says. 'besides,' says he, 'if this here winter wint in,' he says, 'ye cudden't stand acrost la salle street an' hand him a peach on a window pole, he'd be that stuck up,' he says. "some wan must 've spoke to him; f'r, whin he come in th' next time, he says, 'they'se no use talkin',' he says, 'that there dutchman is sthrong,' he says. 'i thought he was a boolgahrian,' says i. 'no,' says he, 'he's a german man,' says he. 'an' th' germans is with him to th' bitther end,' he says. 'd'ye know,' he says, 'i believe he'll give th' little bald-headed duck a run f'r his money,' he says. 'thim germans stand together,' he says. 'they're th' most clannish people on earth,' he says. 'i'm goin' over to th' wolfe tones to see what th' la-ads think about it.' sundah night he come an' give a ca-ard f'r winter to ivry man in th' place. 'he'll sweep th' town like a whirlwind,' he says. 'they can't beat him.' 'who?' says i. 'winter, iv coorse.' 'is he a nice man?' says i. 'wan iv th' finest men on earth,' he says. 'a spoort, too,' he says. 'an' liberal.' "he was in here iliction day, an' i had hinnissy's kid runnin' fr'm th' station with rayturns. maloney was talkin' to th' crowd an' buyin' dhrinks. 'ye'd be surprised,' says he, 'to know what a nice fellow this here winter is,' he says. 'ye'd niver take him f'r a german,' he says. 'he have no more accint thin mesilf.' the kid come in, an' says he, 'th' loot says tin precincts show swift have a majority as big as what th' raypublicans got las' fall.' 'that's bad,' says i. 'not at all,' says maloney. 'thim's th' down-town wa-ards,' he says. 'wait till ye hear fr'm th' germans,' he says. th' nex' booletin said swift was gainin', an' had tin thousand majority. 'niver mind,' says maloney. 'th' germans 'll wipe that out,' he says. thin we heerd it was twinty thousand f'r swift. 'glory be,' says maloney, 'th' germans is slow comin' in,' he says. 'maybe,' says i, 'they forgot to vote,' says i. 'maybe they're havin' a schootzenfist,' i says, 'an' are out killin' clay pigeons instid iv attendin' to business,' i says. just thin th' loot come in. 'well,' says he, ''tis quite a waterloo,' says he. 'f'r who?' says i. 'oh,' he says, 'swift got it be forty thousand.' "maloney wiped his face, and took off his hat an' swabbed it inside. thin says he: 'd'ye raymimber me meetin' ye down-town a week ago on dorney's place, loot?' he says. 'yes,' says th' loot. 'd'ye mind what i said thin?' he says, 'i don't call it just now,' says the loot. 'well, i just come fr'm a meetin' iv th' swift marchin' club, an' i niver seen so much enthusyasm; an' i says to ye, i says: 'loot,' i says, 'swift 'll bate him aisy,' i says. 'i knew he would fr'm th' beginnin'. ye take an' put up a good broad liberal man like george b., a man that has frinds an' knows how to be a good fellow, an' run him again a boohemian gazabo who gives ivry man th' marble heart an' 'd turn down his own brother, an' anny fool cud tell who 'd win. they'll be some chance f'r a man with swift over there; but, if this here winter wint in, ye cudden't stand acrost la salle sthreet an' hand him a peach on th' end iv a window pole,' he says. "will he lose his job? not much, jawn. that la-ad 'll be swingin' bridges an' throwin' away th' crust iv his pie whin you an' me are atin' ha-ard coal. he will that. but what do i care? machs nix aus, jawn; an' that being translated manes, 'what th' 'ell.'" a visit to jekyl island. "i'd like to been there," said mr. dooley. "where's that?" mr. hennessy asked. "at shekel island," said mr. dooley, "seein' me frind mack an' me frind tom reed meetin' be th' sad sea waves. "ye see, mack was down there with mark hanna. he was tired out with expandin', an' anxiety f'r fear me frind alger 'd raysign; an' says hanna, he says, 'come down,' he says, 'with me,' he says, 'to shekel island,' he says. ''tis th' home iv rayfinemint an' riches,' he says, 'where us millyionaires rest fr'm takin' care iv th' counthry,' he says. 'there in th' shade iv th' coupon threes,' he says, 'we watch th' sea waves, an' wondher,' he says, 'whin th' goold that's in thim can be exthracted,' he says. 'they'se nawthin' to break th' silence,' he says, 'but th' roarin' iv th' ocean,' he says; 'an' that sounds nat'ral,' he says, 'because 'tis almost like th' sound iv th' stock exchange,' he says. 'a man,' he says, 'that has th' ticker eye,' he says, 'or th' coupon thumb,' he says, 'is cured in no time,' he says. 'come,' he says, 'fly with me,' he says. 'they'se nawthin' to keep ye here,' he says. 'ivry wan iv th' cab'net, includin' th' sicrety iv war, 'll stick to his place,' he says, 'like a man,' he says. "an' mack wint with him. he was settin' on th' beach in a goold chair, surrounded be millyionaires, with th' prisident iv a bank fannin' him an' th' threeasurer iv a dimon' mine poorin' his dhrink; an', though he was feelin' well, they was something on his mind. 'what ails ye?' ast hanna. 'i was thinkin',' says mack, 'how pleasant 'twud be if me ol' frind tom reed was here,' he says. ''twud be paradise if he was here,' he says, whin, lo an' behold, who shud come acrost th' dimon'-studded beach, wadin' through th' bank-notes that 'd been dropped be th' good farmers iv shekel island, but tom reed. "well, sir, to see th' affection that those two great men showed at th' encounther 'd dhraw tears fr'm th' eyes iv a hear-rt iv sthone. 'tom,' says mack, in faltherin' accints, 'where have ye been? f'r days an' days i've skinned yon blue horizon f'r anny sign iv ye,' he says. 'an' ye come not,' he says. 'i didn't think i cud miss ye so,' he says. 'embrace me,' he says, 'if ye ar-re not ar-rmed,' he says. 'mack,' says me frind tom reed, with tears in his eyes, 'this,' he says, 'is th' happiest moment iv me life,' he says. 'i cudden't,' he says, 'i cudden't stay in wash'nton,' he says, 'with you so far away,' he says, 'where i cudden't watch ye,' he says. 'ye're th' on'y man in th' wurruld i care f'r,' he says, 'but mesilf.' he says. 'an',' he says, 'i'd fall weepin' on ye'er shoulder this minyit,' he says; 'but i don't want to be disrayspectful be turnin' me back on misther hanna,' he says. "'well,' says mack, 'sit down,' he says. 'rockyfeller,' he says, 'tell morgan f'r to fetch up a kag iv sherry wine,' he says. 'tom,' he says, 'we've been frinds f'r years,' he says. 'we have,' says tom. 'we've concealed it fr'm th' vulgar an' pryin' public,' he says; 'but in our hear-rts we've been frinds, barrin' th' naygur dillygates at th' convintion,' he says. ''twas a mere incident,' says mack. 'we've been frinds,' he says; 'an' i've always wanted,' he says, 'to do something f'r ye,' he says. 'th' time has come,' he says, 'whin i can realize me wish,' he says. 'i offer ye,' he says, 'th' prisidincy, to succeed me,' he says. 'no, no,' he says, 'i'll not be rayfused,' he says. 'i'm tired iv it,' he says. ''twas foorced on me be foolish frinds,' he says; 'but i'm not th' man f'r th' place,' he says. 'i haven't dhrawn a comfortable breath, not to speak iv salary, since i wint in,' he says. "th' speaker iv th' house burrid his face in his hands, an' sobs shook him partly f'r manny minyits. thin he raised his head, an' says he, 'mack,' he says, 'i can't take it,' he says. ''tis most gin'rous iv ye,' he says, 'but me hear-rt fails me,' he says. 'what is it to be prisident?' says he. 'th' white house,' he says, 'is a prison,' he says, 'to which a man is condimned,' he says, 'f'r fine wurruk at th' polls,' he says. 'th' life iv a prisident is slavery,' he says. 'if i was to take th' job,' he says, 'i'd be tortured day an' night,' he says, 'be th' fear iv assassination,' he says. 'think,' he says, 'iv some arnychist shootin' thirteen-inch shells at me,' he says, 'an' maybe,' he says, 'dentin' me,' he says. 'no,' he says, 'i have a good job where i am,' he says. 'all i've got to do,' he says, 'is to set up at th' desk,' he says, 'an' not recall th' names iv th' gintlemen on th' flure, an' me jooty's done,' he says. 'i thank ye kindly, willum; but i cannot accept ye'er gin'rous offer,' he says. 'go back to th' cell,' he says, 'an' slave like a convict,' he says. 'i will not rob me frind,' he says, 'iv such an honor. but,' he says, 'tell me whin ye thought iv throwin' up th' job, an' lavin' me br-reak into this hateful prison,' he says. 'about th' year two thousan' an' eight, dear frind,' says mack. 'no, no,' says tom reed. 'i cannot accept it,' he says, pressin' mack's hand. ''tis too much,' he says, 'an' too long,' he says. "'i lave ye,' he says, 'but i'll call on ye,' he says. 'take,' he says, 'this little silver-mounted bottle iv broomo-caffeen,' he says, 'an' think iv me,' he says. 'i will,' says mack. 'ar-ren't ye tired iv ye'er long journey?' he says. 'wudden't ye like to take a bath in th' shark pond before ye go?' he says. an' so they backed away fr'm each other, th' tears rollin' down their cheeks. frindship, hinnissy, is a sacred thing." "it is," said mr. hennessy, "if they are; but i don't b'lieve wan wurrud ye tol' me." "well," said mr. dooley, "if they ain't both frinds, wan iv thim is. an', annyhow, i'm glad to know tom reed ain't thryin' to break into jail." slavin contra wagner. "ol' man donahue bought molly a pianny las' week," mr. dooley said in the course of his conversation with mr. mckenna. "she'd been takin' lessons fr'm a dutchman down th' sthreet, an' they say she can play as aisy with her hands crossed as she can with wan finger. she's been whalin' away iver since, an' donahue is dhrinkin' again. "ye see th' other night some iv th' la-ads wint over f'r to see whether they cud smash his table in a frindly game iv forty-fives. i don't know what possessed donahue. he niver asked his frinds into the parlor befure. they used to set in th' dining-room; an', whin mrs. donahue coughed at iliven o'clock, they'd toddle out th' side dure with their hats in their hands. but this here night, whether 'twas that donahue had taken on a dhrink or two too much or not, he asked thim all in th' front room, where mrs. donahue was settin' with molly. 'i've brought me frinds,' he says, 'f'r to hear molly take a fall out iv th' music-box,' he says. 'let me have ye'er hat, mike,' he says. 'ye'll not feel it whin ye get out,' he says. "at anny other time mrs. donahue 'd give him th' marble heart. but they wasn't a man in th' party that had a pianny to his name, an' she knew they'd be throuble whin they wint home an' tould about it. ''tis a mel-odjious insthrument,' says she. 'i cud sit here be the hour an' listen to bootoven and choochooski,' she says. "'what did thim write?' says cassidy. 'chunes,' says donahue, 'chunes: molly,' he says, 'fetch 'er th' wallop to make th' gintlemen feel good,' he says. 'what 'll it be, la-ads?' 'd'ye know "down be th' tan-yard side"?' says slavin. 'no,' says molly. 'it goes like this,' says slavin. 'a-ah, din yadden, yooden a-yadden, arrah yadden ay-a.' 'i dinnaw it,' says th' girl. ''tis a low chune, annyhow,' says mrs. donahue. 'misther slavin ividintly thinks he's at a polis picnic,' she says. 'i'll have no come-all-ye's in this house,' she says. 'molly, give us a few ba-ars fr'm wagner.' 'what wagner's that?' says flannagan. 'no wan ye know,' says donahue; 'he's a german musician.' 'thim germans is hot people f'r music,' says cassidy. 'i knowed wan that cud play th' "wacht am rhine" on a pair iv cymbals,' he says, 'whisht!' says donahue. 'give th' girl a chanst.' "slavin tol' me about it. he says he niver heerd th' like in his born days. he says she fetched th' pianny two or three wallops that made cassidy jump out iv his chair, an' cassidy has charge iv th' steam whistle at th' quarry at that. she wint at it as though she had a gredge at it. first 'twas wan hand an' thin th' other, thin both hands, knuckles down; an' it looked, says slavin, as if she was goin' to leap into th' middle iv it with both feet, whin donahue jumps up. 'hol' on!' he says. 'that's not a rented pianny, ye daft girl,' he says. 'why, pap-pah,' says molly, 'what d'ye mean?' she says. 'that's wagner,' she says. ''tis th' music iv th' future,' she says. 'yes,' says donahue, 'but i don't want me hell on earth. i can wait f'r it,' he says, 'with th' kind permission iv mrs. donahue,' he says. 'play us th' "wicklow mountaineer,"' he says, 'an' threat th' masheen kindly,' he says, 'she'll play no "wicklow mountaineer,"' says mrs. donahue. 'if ye want to hear that kind iv chune, ye can go down to finucane's hall,' she says, 'an' call in crowley, th' blind piper,' she says. 'molly,' she says, 'give us wan iv thim choochooski things,' she said. 'they're so ginteel.' "with that donahue rose up. 'come on,' says he. 'this is no place f'r us,' he says. slavin, with th' politeness iv a man who's gettin' even, turns at th' dure. i'm sorry i can't remain,' he says. 'i think th' wurruld an' all iv choochooski,' he says. 'me brother used to play his chunes,' he says,--'me brother mike, that run th' grip ca-ar,' he says. 'but there's wan thing missin' fr'm molly's playing', he says. 'and what may that be?' says mrs. donahue. 'an ax,' says slavin, backin' out. "so donahue has took to dhrink." grand opera. "jawn," said mr. dooley, "'tis a gr-reat thing to be a polisman. me frind doheny, what used to be at deerin' sthreet, have got on th' crossin' an' they've planted him down be th' audjitooroom. he was up here las' week, an' says he, 'run in, an' look at th' op'ra,' says he. 'run in, an' take a flash iv it,' he says. ''tis gr-reat,' he says. so i takes duggan, an' we goes down together. "well, doheny does be gr-reat paper with thim. he was standin' be th' dure, with white gloves over his hands; an', whin we come, he give th' office to th' la-ad on th' gate, an' says th' la-ad, 'sure thing,' he says. 'sure thing,' an' in we goes. they was a lot iv gazoorios there, some iv thim settin' in seats an' some iv thim in bur-rd cages up above, an' more standin'. thim standin' was th' la-ads that doheny rushed in. ye niver see such a lot iv thim,--cassidy, o'regan, hogan, mulcahey, shay, mullaney, mullvihill, an' th' eight o'neills,--all sint through be doheny without cridintials. sure, it looked like a meetin' iv th' wolf tones. it did that. "th' op'ra was on whin we wint in, an' they was whalin' away in eyetallian. duggan listened; an' says he, 'what's the man sayin'?' he says. 'i dinnaw,' i says. 'he's talkin' chinese, an',' says i, 'they're goin' to sind him to th' laundhry,' says i. 'look,' i says. 'they're puttin' him in th' clothes-basket,' i says. 'if they do,' says he, 'he'll niver come back,' he says, 'or else he'll have another name,' he says. 'let's buy a scoor ca-ard,' says he. so he bought wan, an' was r-readin' it an' lookin' over th' top iv it at th' women in th' boxes, an' wondhrin' why some wan didn't tell thim their dhresses was slippin' down, whin over comes cassidy, and says he, 'what's th' news in th' sixth?' 'nawthin,' says duggan. 'will o'brien win?' says cassidy. 'they can't beat him,' says duggan. 'i dinnaw,' says cassidy. 'come over here, an' i'll tell ye,' says duggan. dinny shay an' hogan an' mullaney jined us, an' we wint an' set on the steps. "'can winter beat swift?' says shay. 'i'd like to know,' says hogan. 'i don't know who to vote f'r,' he says; 'an' mike is in th' wather office,' he says. ''tis a cinch hinky 'll win out in th' first,' says mullaney. 'he have a sthrong man again him,' says hogan. 'gleason have wan or two lodgin'-houses.' 'three,' says shay; 'but hinkey knows all th' lodgers,' he says. ''twas a mane thing th' main guy done with callaghan,' says hogan. 'what's that?' says shay. 'thrun him off th' bridge,' says hogan, 'because he come fr'm kerry,' he says. 'i don't believe wan wurrud iv it,' says mullaney. 'they're more kerry men on bridges thin anny other counties,' he says. 'what has bet hopkins,' he says, 'is his frindship fr'm th' mayo men,' he says. 'th' mayo men is great f'r carryin' prim'ries, afther they're over,' he says. 'but did anny wan iver hear iv thim doin' anny good whin th' votes was bein' cast?' 'i knowed wan that did,' says cassidy, as black as ye'er boot. 'his name was cassidy,' he says; 'an' he done some good,' he says, 'be privintin' a man be th' name iv mullaney,' he says, 'fr'm bein' a dilligate.' 'ye had th' polis with ye,' says mullaney. 'ye was supported be th' fire departmint,' says cassidy. "'let's change th' subject,' says duggan, 'what show has dorsey got in th' twinty-ninth? 'none at all,' says wan iv th' o'neills who 'd come over. 'he have th' civic featheration again him.' 'who cares f'r th' civic featheration?' says mulcahey. 'they don't vote,' he says. 'what 'll kill dorsey,' he says, 'is his bein' an apee-a.' 'he's no apee-a,' says mike o'neill. 'i wint to th' brothers' school with him,' he says. 'whiniver a man comes up that can't be downed anny way, he's called an apee-a,' he says. 'he's no more an apee-a thin ye are,' he says. 'd'ye mean to call me that?' says mulcahey. 'come out, an' have a dhrink,' i says; an' we wint down. "well, jawn, we had wan iv th' liveliest political argumints ye iver see without so much as a blow bein' sthruck. evenly matched, d'ye mind, with a chair f'r ivry man. an' th' bar-tinder was a frind iv mine. i knowed him whin he was with schwartzmeister. a good la-ad,--a good lad." "but what about th' opera?" asked mr. mckenna. "th' op'ra wus gr-reat," said mr. dooley; "but i think mulcahey was right. dorsey can't win." the church fair. "wanst i knew a man," said mr. dooley, laying down his newspaper, "be th' name iv burke, that come fr'm somewhere around derry, though he was no presbyteryan. he was iv th' right sort. well, he was feelin' how-come-ye-so, an' he dhrifted over to where we was holdin' a fair. they was a band outside, an' he thought it was a grand openin'. so he come in with a cigar in th' side iv his mouth an' his hat hangin' onto his ear. it was th' last night iv th' fair, an' ivrything was wide open; f'r th' priest had gone home, an' we wanted f'r to break th' record. this burke was f'r lavin' whin he see where he was; but we run him again th' shootin' gallery, where ye got twinty-five cints, a quarther iv a dollar, f'r ivry time ye rang th' bell. th' ol' gun we had was crooked as a ram's horn, but it must 've fitted into burke's squint; f'r he made that there bell ring as if he was a conducthor iv a grip-car roundin' a curve. he had th' shootin' gallery on its last legs whin we run him again th' wheel iv fortune. he broke it. thin we thried him on th' grab-bag. they was four goold watches an' anny quantity iv brickbats an' chunks iv coal in th' bag. he had four dives, an' got a watch each time. he took a chanst on ivrything; an' he won a foldin'-bed, a doll that cud talk like an old gate, a pianny, a lamp-shade, a life iv st. aloysius, a pair iv shoes, a baseball bat, an ice-cream freezer, an' th' pomes iv mike scanlan. "th' comity was disthracted. here was a man that 'd break th' fair, an' do it with th' best iv humor; f'r he come fr'm another parish. so we held a private session. 'what 'll we do?' says dorgan, th' chairman. they was a man be th' name iv flaherty, a good man thin an' a betther now; f'r he's dead, may he rest in peace! an' flaherty says: 'we've got to take th' bull be th' horns,' he says. 'if ye lave him to me,' he says, 'i'll fix him,' he says. "so he injooced this man burke to come down back iv th' shootin' gallery, an' says he to burke, 'ye're lucky to-night.' 'not so very,' says burke. ''twud be a shame to lave ye get away with all ye won,' says flaherty. ''twill be a great inconvanience,' says burke. 'i'll have to hire two or three dhrays,' he says; 'an' 'tis late.' 'well,' says flaherty, 'i'm appinted be th' parish to cut th' ca-ards with ye,' he says, 'whether ye're to give back what ye won or take what's left.' ''tis fair,' says burke; 'an', whoiver wins, 'tis f'r a good cause.' an' he puts th' watches an' th' money on th' table. "'high man,' says flaherty. 'high man,' says burke. flaherty cut th' king iv spades. burke, th' robber, cut th' ace iv hearts. he was reachin' out f'r th' money, whin flaherty put his hands over it. 'wud ye take it?' says he. 'i wud,' says burke. 'wud ye rob th' church?' says flaherty. 'i wud,' says burke. 'thin,' says flaherty, scoopin' it in, 'ye're a heretic; an' they'se nawthin' comin' to ye.' "burke looked at him, an' he looked at th' comity; an' he says, 'gintlemen, if iver ye come over in th' sixth ward, dhrop in an' see me,' he says. 'i'll thry an' make it plisint f'r ye,' he says. an' he wint away. "th' story got out, an' th' good man heerd iv it. he was mighty mad about it; an' th' nex' sermon he preached was on th' evils iv gamblin', but he asked flaherty f'r to take up th' colliction." the wanderers. "poor la-ads, poor la-ads," said mr. dooley, putting aside his newspaper and rubbing his glasses. "'tis a hard lot theirs, thim that go down into th' sea in ships, as shakespeare says. ye niver see a storm on th' ocean? iv coorse ye didn't. how cud ye, ye that was born away fr'm home? but i have, jawn. may th' saints save me fr'm another! i come over in th' bowels iv a big crazy balloon iv a propeller, like wan iv thim ye see hooked up to dempsey's dock, loaded with lumber an' slabs an' swedes. we watched th' little ol' island fadin' away behind us, with th' sun sthrikin' th' white house-tops iv queenstown an' lightin' up th' chimbleys iv martin hogan's liquor store. not wan iv us but had left near all we loved behind, an' sare a chance that we'd iver spoon th' stirabout out iv th' pot above th' ol' peat fire again. yes, by dad, there was wan,--a lad fr'm th' county roscommon. divvle th' tear he shed. but, whin we had parted fr'm land, he turns to me, an' says, 'well, we're on our way,' he says. 'we are that,' says i. 'no chanst f'r thim to turn around an' go back,' he says. 'divvle th' fut,' says i. 'thin,' he says, raisin' his voice, 'to 'ell with th' prince iv wales,' he says. 'to 'ell with him,' he says. "an' that was th' last we see of sky or sun f'r six days. that night come up th' divvle's own storm. th' waves tore an' walloped th' ol' boat, an' th' wind howled, an' ye cud hear th' machinery snortin' beyant. murther, but i was sick. wan time th' ship 'd be settin' on its tail, another it 'd be standin' on its head, thin rollin' over cow-like on th' side; an' ivry time it lurched me stummick lurched with it, an' i was tore an' rint an' racked till, if death come, it 'd found me willin'. an' th' roscommon man,--glory be, but he was disthressed. he set on th' flure, with his hands on his belt an' his face as white as stone, an' rocked to an' fro. 'ahoo,' he says, 'ahoo, but me insides has torn loose,' he says, 'an' are tumblin' around,' he says. 'say a pather an' avy,' says i, i was that mad f'r th' big bosthoon f'r his blatherin'. 'say a pather an' avy,' i says; f'r ye're near to death's dure, avick.' 'am i?' says he, raising up. 'thin,' he says, 'to 'ell with the whole rile fam'ly,' he says. oh, he was a rebel! "through th' storm there was a babby cryin'. 'twas a little wan, no more thin a year ol'; an' 'twas owned be a tipp'rary man who come fr'm near clonmel, a poor, weak, scarey-lookin' little divvle that lost his wife, an' see th' bailiff walk off with th' cow, an' thin see him come back again with th' process servers. an' so he was comin' over with th' babby, an' bein' mother an' father to it. he'd rock it be th' hour on his knees, an' talk nonsense to it, an' sing it songs, 'aha, 'twas there i met a maiden,' an' 'th' wicklow mountaineer,' an' 'th' rambler fr'm clare,' an' 'o'donnel aboo,' croonin' thim in th' little babby's ears, an' payin' no attintion to th' poorin' thunder above his head, day an' night, day an' night, poor soul. an' th' babby cryin' out his heart, an' him settin' there with his eyes as red as his hair, an' makin' no kick, poor soul. "but wan day th' ship settled down steady, an' ragin' stummicks with it; an' th' roscommon man shakes himself, an' says, 'to 'ell with th' prince iv wales an' th' dook iv edinboroo,' an' goes out. an' near all th' steerage followed; f'r th' storm had done its worst, an' gone on to throuble those that come afther, an' may th' divvle go with it. 'twill be rest f'r that little tipp'rary man; f'r th' waves was r-runnin' low an' peaceful, an' th' babby have sthopped cryin'. "he had been settin' on a stool, but he come over to me. 'th' storm,' says i, 'is over. 'twas wild while it lasted,' says i. 'ye may say so,' says he. 'well, please gawd,' says i, 'that it left none worse off thin us.' 'it blew ill f'r some an' aise f'r others,' says he. 'th' babby is gone.' "an' so it was, jawn, f'r all his rockin' an' singin'. an' in th' avnin' they burried it over th' side into th' sea. an' th' little man see thim do it." making a cabinet. "i suppose, jawn," said mr. dooley, "ye do be afther a governmint job. is it council to athlone or what, i dinnaw?" "i haven't picked out the place yet," said mr. mckenna. "bill wrote me the day after election about it. he says: 'john,' he says, 'take anything you want that's not nailed to the wall,' he says. he heard of my good work in the twenty-ninth. we rolled up eight votes in carey's precinct, and had five of them counted; and that's more of a miracle than carrying new york by three hundred thousand." "it is so," said mr. dooley. "it is f'r a fact. ye must 've give the clerks an' judges morphine, an' ye desarve great credit. ye ought to have a place; an' i think ye'll get wan, if there's enough to go round among th' irish raypublicans. 'tis curious what an effect an iliction has on th' irish raypublican vote. in october an irish raypublican's so rare people point him out on th' sthreet, an' women carry their babies to see him. but th' day afther iliction, glory be, ye run into thim ivrywhere,--on th' sthreet-car, in the sthreet, in saloons principally, an' at th' meetin's iv th' raypublican comity. i've seen as manny iv them as twinty in here to-day, an' ivry wan iv thim fit to run anny job in th' governmint, fr'm directin' th' departmint iv state to carryin' ashes out an' dumpin thim in th' white lot. "they can't all have jobs, but they've got to be attinded to first; an', whin mack's got through with thim, he can turn in an' make up that cabinet iv his. thin he'll have throuble iv his own, th' poor man, on'y comin' into fifty thousand a year and rint free. if 'twas wan iv th' customs iv th' great raypublic iv ours, jawn, f'r to appoint th' most competent men f'r th' places, he'd have a mighty small lot f'r to pick fr'm. but, seein' that on'y thim is iligible that are unfit, he has th' divvle's own time selectin'. f'r sicrety iv state, if he follows all iv what casey calls recent precidints, he's limited to ayether a jack-leg counthry lawyer, that has set around washington f'r twinty years, pickin' up a dollar or two be runnin' errands f'r a foreign imbassy, or a judge that doesn't know whether th' city of booloogne-sure-mere, where tynan was pinched, is in boolgahria or th' county cavan. f'r sicrety iv th' threasury he has a choice iv three kinds iv proud and incompetent fi-nanceers. he can ayether take a bank prisident, that 'll see that his little bank an' its frinds doesn't get th' worst iv it, or a man that cudden't maintain th' par'ty iv a counthry dhry-good store long enough to stand off th' sheriff, or a broken-down congressman, that is full iv red liquor half the year, an' has remorse settin' on his chest th' other half. "on'y wan class is iligible f'r attorney-gin'ral. to fill that job, a man's got to be a first-class thrust lawyer. if he ain't, th' lord knows what 'll happen. be mistake he might prosecute a thrust some day, an' th' whole counthry 'll be rooned. he must be a man competint f'r to avoid such pitfalls an' snares, so 'tis th' rule f'r to have him hang on to his job with th' thrust afther he gets to washington. this keeps him in touch with th' business intherests. "f'r sicrety iv war, th' most like wan is some good prisident iv a sthreet-car company. 'tis exthraordinney how a man learns to manage military affairs be auditin' thrip sheets an' rentin' signs in a sthreet-car to chewin' gum imporyums. if gin'ral washington iv sacred mimory 'd been under a good sthreet-car sicrety iv war, he'd 've wore a bell punch to ring up ivry time he killed a hessian. he wud so, an' they'd 've kep' tab on him, an', if he thried to wurruk a brother-in-law on thim, they'd give him his time. "f'r th' navy departmint ye want a southern congressman fr'm th' cotton belt. a man that iver see salt wather outside iv a pork bar'l 'd be disqualified f'r th' place. he must live so far fr'm th' sea that he don't know a capstan bar fr'm a sheet anchor. that puts him in th' proper position to inspect armor plate f'r th' imminent carnegie, an' insthruct admirals that's been cruisin' an' fightin' an' dhrinkin' mint juleps f'r thirty years. he must know th' difference bechune silo an' insilage, how to wean a bull calf, an' th' best way to cure a spavin. if he has that information, he is fixed f'r th' job. "whin he wants a good postmaster-gin-'ral, take ye'er ol' law partner f'r awhile, an', be th' time he's larned to stick stamps, hist him out, an' put in a school-teacher fr'm a part iv th' counthry where people communicate with each other through a conch. th' sicrety iv th' interior is an important man. if possible, he ought to come fr'm maine or florida. at anny rate, he must be a resident iv an atlantic seacoast town, an' niver been west iv cohoes. if he gets th' idee there are anny white people in ann arbor or columbus, he loses his job. "th' last place on th' list is sicrety iv agriculture. a good, lively business man that was born in th' first ward an' moved to th' twinty-foorth after th' fire is best suited to this office. thin he'll have no prejudices against sindin' a farmer cactus seeds whin he's on'y lookin' f'r wheat, an' he will have a proper understandin' iv th' importance iv an' early agricultural bureau rayport to th' bucket-shops. "no prisident can go far away that follows cleveland's cabinet appintmints, although it may be hard f'r mack, bein' new at th' business, to select th' right man f'r th' wrong place. but i'm sure he'll be advised be his frinds, an' fr'm th' lists iv candydates i've seen he'll have no throuble in findin' timber." old age. "skatin'," said mr. dooley, "was intinded f'r th' young an' gay. 'tis not f'r th' likes iv me, now that age has crept into me bones an' whitened th' head iv me. divvle take th' rheumatics! an' to think iv me twinty years ago cuttin' capers like a bally dancer, whin th' desplaines backed up an' th' pee-raires was covered with ice fr'm th' mills to riverside. manny's th' time i done th' thrick, jawn, me an' th' others; but now i break me back broachin' a kag iv beer, an' th' height iv me daily exercise is to wind th' clock befure turnin' in, an' count up th' cash." "you haven't been trying to skate?" mr. mckenna asked in tones of alarm. "not me," said mr. dooley. "not me, but hinnissy have. hinnissy, th' gay young man; hinnissy, th' high-hearted, divvle-may-care sphread-th'-light,--hinnissy's been skatin' again. may th' lord give that man sinse befure he dies! an' he needs it right away. he ain't got long to live, if me cousin, misther justice dooley, don't appoint a garjeen f'r him. "i had no more thought whin i wint over with him that th' silly goat 'd thry his pranks thin i have iv flyin' over this here bar mesilf. hinnissy is--let me see how ol' hinnissy is. he was a good foot taller thin me th' st. john's night whin th' comet was in th' sky. let me see, let me see! jawn dorgan was marrid to th' widdy casey (her that was dora o'brien) in th' spring iv fifty-two, an' mike callahan wint to austhreelia in th' winter iv sixty. hinnissy's oldest brother was too old to inlist in th' army. six an' thirty is thirty-six. twict thirty-six is sivinty-two, less eight is sixty-four, an' nine, carry wan,--let me see. well, hinnissy is ol' enough to know betther. "we wint to th' pond together, an' passed th' time iv day with our frinds an' watched th' boys an' girls playin' shinny an' sky-larkin' hand in hand. they come separate, jawn; but they go home together, thim young wans. i see be his face spoort hinnissy was growin' excited. 'sure,' says he, 'there's nawthin' like it,' he says. 'martin,' he says, 'i'll challenge ye to race,' he says. 'so ye will,' says i. 'so ye will,' i says. 'will ye do it?' says he. 'hinnissy,' says i, 'come home,' i says, 'an' don't disgrace ye'er gray hairs befure th' whole parish,' says i. 'i'll have ye to know,' says he, 'that 'tis not long since i cud cut a double eight with anny wan in bridgeport,' he says. "at that tom gallagher's young fly-be-night joined in; an' says he, 'misther hinnissy,' he says, 'if ye'll go on,' he says, 'i'll fetch ye a pair iv skates.' 'bring thim along,' says hinnissy. an' he put thim on. well, jawn, he sthud up an' made wan step, an' wan iv his feet wint that way an' wan this; an' he thrun his hands in th' air, an' come down on his back. i give him th' merry laugh. he wint clear daft, an' thried to sthruggle to his feet; an', th' more he thried, th' more th' skates wint fr'm undher him, till he looked f'r all th' wurruld like wan iv thim little squirrels that goes roun' on th' wheel in schneider's burrud store. "gallagher's lad picked him up an' sthud him on his feet; an' says he, politely, 'come on,' he says, 'go roun' with me.' mind ye, he took him out to th' middle iv th' pond, hinnissy movin' like a bridge horse on a slippery thrack; an' th' lad shook him off, an' skated away. 'come back!' says hinnissy. 'come back!' he says. 'tom, i'll flay ye alive whin i catch ye on th' sthreet! come here, like a good boy, an' help me off. dooley,' he roars to me, 'ain't ye goin' to do annything?' he says. 'ne'er a thing,' says i, 'but go home.' 'but how 'm i goin' to cross?' he says. 'go down on ye'er knees an' crawl,' says i. 'foolish man!' i says. an' he done it, jawn. it took him tin minyits to get down in sections, but he done it. an' i sthud there, an' waited f'r him while he crawled wan block over th' ice, mutterin' prayers at ivry fut. "i wint home with him aftherwards; an' what d'ye think he said? 'martin,' says he, 'i've been a sinful man in me time; but i niver had th' like iv that f'r a pinance,' he says. 'think iv doin' th' stations iv th' cross on th' ice,' he says. 'hinnissy,' i says, 'they'se no crime in th' catalogue akel to bein' old,' i says. 'th' nearest thing to it,' i says, 'is bein' a fool,' i says; 'an' ye're both,' i says." the divided skirt. "jawn," said mr. dooley, "did ye iver hear th' puzzle whin a woman's not a woman?" "faith, i have," said mr. mckenna. "when i was a kid, i knew the answer." "ye didn't know this answer," said mr. dooley. "whin is a woman not a woman? 'twas give to me las' satthurdah night be young callaghan, th' sthreet-car man that have all th' latest jokes that does be out. whin is a woman not a woman? mind ye. whin's she's on a bicycle, by dad. yes, yes. whin she's on a bicycle, jawn. d'ye know molly donahue?" "i know her father," said mr. mckenna. "well, well, the dacint man sint his daughter molly to have a convint schoolin'; an' she larned to pass th' butther in frinch an' to paint all th' chiny dishes in th' cubb'rd, so that, whin donahue come home wan night an' et his supper, he ate a green paint ha-arp along with his cabbage, an' they had to sind f'r docthor hinnissy f'r to pump th' a-art work out iv him. so they did. but donahue, bein' a quite man, niver minded that, but let her go on with her do-se-does an' bought her a bicycle. all th' bicycles th' poor man had himsilf whin he was her age was th' dhray he used to dhrive f'r comiskey; but he says, 'tis all th' thing,' he says. 'let th' poor child go her way,' he says to his wife, he says. 'honoria,' he says, 'she'll get over it.' "no wan knowed she had th' bicycle, because she wint out afther dark an' practised on it down be th' dump. but las' friday ev'nin', lo an' behold, whin th' r-road was crowded with people fr'm th' brick-yards an' th' gas-house an' th' mills, who shud come ridin' along be th' thracks, bumpin' an' holdin' on, but molly donahue? an' dhressed! how d'ye suppose she was dhressed? in pa-ants, jawn avick. in pa-ants. oh, th' shame iv it! ivry wan on th' sthreet stopped f'r to yell. little julia dorgan called out, 'who stole molly's dhress?' ol' man murphy was settin' asleep on his stoop. he heerd th' noise, an' woke up an' set his bull tarrier lydia pinkham on her. malachi dorsey, vice-prisident iv th' st. aloysius society, was comin' out iv th' german's, an' see her. he put his hands to his face, an' wint back to th' house. "but she wint bumpin' on, jawn, till she come up be th' house. father kelly was standin' out in front, an' ol' man donahue was layin' down th' law to him about th' tariff, whin along come th' poor foolish girl with all th' kids in bridgeport afther her. donahue turned white. 'say a pather an' avy quick,' he says to the priest. thin he called out to his wife. 'honoria,' he says, 'bring a bar'l,' he says. 'molly has come away without annything on,' he says, 'but sarsfield's pa-ants.' thin he turned on his daughter. 'may th' lord forgive ye, molly donahue,' he says, 'this night!' he says. 'child, where is ye'er dhress?' 'tut, tut!' says th' good man. 'molly,' he says, 'ye look well on that there bicycle,' he says. 'but 'tis th' first time i ever knowed ye was bow-legged,' he says, says th' soggarth aroon. "well, sir, she wint into th' house as if she'd been shot fr'm a gun, an' th' nex' mornin' i see doheny's express wagon haulin' th' bicycle away." "didn't father kelly do anything about it?" asked mr. mckenna. "no," replied mr. dooley. "there was some expicted she'd be read fr'm th' altar at high mass, but she wasn't." a bit of history. mr. mckenna found mr. dooley standing at the end of his bargain counter with the glasses on the tip of his nose. he was in deep contemplation of a pile of green paper which he was thumbing over. "jawn," said he, as mr. mckenna walked over and looked on curiously, "d'ye know a good man that i cud thrust to remodel th' shop?" "and what's got into you?" asked mr. mckenna. "im goin' to have two large mirrors put on th' side an' wan below. thin i'm goin' to have th' ceilin' painted green, an' a bull-yard table put in th' back room. 'twill be a place to par'lyze ye whin it is through with." "and what 'll pay for it?" asked mr. mckenna, in blank amazement. "this," said mr. dooley, whacking the pile before him. "here's twinty thousand dollars iv th' bonds iv th' raypublic. they bear inthrest at twinty-five per cint; an' they're signed be xavier o'malley, pagan o'leary (th' wicked man), an' o'brien, th' threeasurer. me cousin mike put thim up with me f'r a loan iv five. he wurruked in th' threeasurer's office; an', whin th' polis broke up th' irish rivolution, he put on his coat an' stuck a month's bond issue in his pocket. 'they'll come in handy wan day,' he says; for he was a philosopher, if he did take a dhrop too much. whin he give me th' bonds, he says, says he, 'hol' to thim,' he says, 'an' some time or other they'll make a rich man iv ye.' jawn, i feel th' time has come. cleveland's on th' rampage; an', if ireland ain't a raypublic befure a month, i'll give ye these here documents f'r what i paid on thim. i have me information fr'm hinnissy, an' hinnissy have it fr'm willum joyce, an' ye know how close joyce is to finerty. hinnissy was in last night. 'well,' says i, 'what's th' news?' i says. 'news?' says he. 'they'se on'y wan thing talked about,' he says. 'we're goin' to have a war with england,' he says. 'an' th' whole irish army has inlisted,' he says. 'has finerty gone in?' says i. 'he has,' he says. 'thin,' says i, ''tis all off with th' sassenach. we'll run thim fr'm th' face iv th' earth,' i says. ''tis th' prisint intintion iv mesilf to hire a good big tug an' put a hook into ireland, an' tow it over th' big dhrink, an' anchor it ayether in th' harbor iv new york or in th' lake. "d'ye know, jawn, 'twas cleveland that definded th' fenians whin they was took up f'r invadin' canada. 'twas so. he was not much in thim days,--a kid iv a lawyer, like doheny's youngest, with a lot iv hair an' a long coat an' a hungry look. whin th' fenians come back fr'm canada in a boat an' landed in th' city iv buf-falo, new york, they was all run in; an' sare a lawyer cud they get to defind thim till this here cleveland come up, an' says he: 'i'll take th' job,' he says. 'i'll go in an' do th' best i can f'r ye.' me uncle mike was along with thim, an' he looked cleveland over; an' says he: 'ye'll do th' best ye can f'r us,' he says, 'will ye?' he says. 'well,' he says, 'i'll take no chances,' he says. 'sind f'r th' desk sergeant,' he says. 'i'm goin' to plead guilty an' turn informer,' he says. 'tis lucky f'r cleveland me uncle died befure he r-run f'r president. he'd 've had wan vote less. "i'll niver forget th' night me uncle mike come back fr'm canada. ye know he was wan iv th' most des'prit fenians that iver lived; an', whin th' movement begun, he had to thread on no wan's shadow befure he was off f'r th' battle. ivry wan in town knew he was goin'; an' he wint away with a thrunk full iv bottles an' all th' good wishes iv th' neighborhood, more be reason iv th' fact that he was a boistherous man whin he was th' worse f'r wear, with a bad habit iv throwin' bricks through his neighbors' windys. we cud see him as th' thrain moved out, walkin' up an' down th' aisle, askin' iv there was anny englishman in th' car that 'd like to go out on th' platform an' rowl off with him. "well, he got up in new york an' met a lot iv other des'prite men like himsilf, an' they wint across th' bordher singin' songs an' carryin' on, an' all th' militia iv new york was undher ar-rms; f'r it 'd been just like thim to turn round an' do their fightin' in new york. 'twas little me uncle mike cared where he fought. "but, be hook or crook, they got to where th' other fenians was, an' jined th' army. they come fr'm far an' near; an' they were young an' old, poor lads, some iv thim bent on sthrikin' th' blow that 'd break th' back iv british tyranny an' some jus' crazed f'r fightin'. they had big guns an' little guns an' soord canes an' pitchforks an' scythes, an' wan or two men had come over armed with baseball bats. they had more gin'rals thin ye cud find in a raypublican west town convintion, an' ivry private was at laste a colonel. they made me uncle mike a brigadier gin'ral. 'that 'll do f'r a time,' says he; 'but, whin th' fun begins, i'll pull dorney off his horse, an' be a major gin'ral,' he says. an' he'd 've done it, too, on'y they was no fightin'. "they marched on, an' th' british run away fr'm thim; an', be hivins, me uncle mike cud niver get a shot at a redcoat, though he searched high an' low f'r wan. thin a big rain-storm come, an' they was no tents to protect thim; an' they set aroun', shiverin' an' swearin'. me uncle mike was a bit iv a politician; an' he organized a meetin' iv th' lads that had come over with him, an' sint a comity to wait on th' major gin'ral. 'dorney,' says me uncle mike, f'r he was chairman iv th' comity, 'dorney,' he says, 'me an' me associated warriors wants to know,' he says. 'what d'ye mane?' says dorney. 'ye brought us up here,' says me uncle mike, 'to fight the british,' he says. 'if ye think,' he says, 'that we come over,' he says, 'to engage in a six days' go-as-you-please walkin' match,' he says, 'ye'd betther go an' have ye'er head looked into,' he says. 'have ye anny british around here? have ye e'er a sassenach concealed about ye'er clothes?' he says. 'we can't do annything if they won't stand f'r us,' says dorney. 'thin,' says me uncle mike, 'i wash me hands iv th' whole invasion,' he says. 'i'll throuble ye f'r me voucher,' he says. 'i'm goin back to a counthry where they grow men that 'll stand up an' fight back,' he says; an' he an' his la-ads wint over to buf-falo, an' was locked up f'r rivolution. "me uncle mike come home on th' bumpers iv a freight car, which is th' way most rivolutioners come home, excipt thim that comes home in th' baggage car in crates. 'uncle mike,' says i to him, 'what's war like, annyhow?' 'well,' says he, 'in some rayspicts it is like missin' th' last car,' he says; 'an' in other rayspicts 'tis like gettin' gay in front iv a polis station,' he says. an', by dad, whin i come to think what they call wars nowadays, i believe me uncle mike was right. 'twas different whin i was a lad. they had wars in thim days that was wars." the ruling class. "i see be th' pa-apers," said mr. dooley, "that arnychy's torch do be lifted, an' what it means i dinnaw; but this here i know, jawn, that all arnychists is inimies iv governmint, an' all iv thim ought to be hung f'r th' first offence an' bathed f'r th' second. who are they, annyhow, but foreigners, an' what right have they to be holdin' torchlight procissions in this land iv th' free an' home iv th' brave? did ye iver see an american or an irishman an arnychist? no, an' ye niver will. whin an irishman thinks th' way iv thim la-ads, he goes on th' polis force an' dhraws his eighty-three-thirty-three f'r throwin' lodgin'-house bums into th' pathrol wagon. an' there ye a-are. "i niver knowed but th' wan arnychist, an' he was th' divvle an' all f'r slaughtherin' th' rich. he was a boolgahrian man that lived down be cologne sthreet, acrost th' river; but he come over to bridgeport whin he did have his skates on him, f'r th' liftenant over there was again arnychists, an' 'twas little our own jawnny shea cared f'r thim so long as they didn't bother him. well, sir, this here man's name was owsky or something iv that sort, but i always called him casey be way iv a joke. he had whiskers on him like thim on a cokynut, an' i heerd he swore an oath niver to get shaved till he killed a man that wore a stove-pipe hat. "be that as it may, jawn, he was a most ferocious man. manny's th' time i've heerd him lecture to little matt doolan asleep like a log behind th' stove. what a-are we comin' to?' he'd say. 'what a-are we comin' to?' d'ye mind, jawn, that's th' way he always began. 'th' poor do be gettin' richer,' says he, 'an' th' rich poorer,' says he. 'th' governmint,' says he, 'is in th' hands iv th' monno-polists,' he says, 'an' they're crushin' th' life out iv th' prolotoorios.' a prolotoorio, jawn, is th' same thing as a hobo. 'look at th' willum haitch vanderbilts,' says he, 'an' th' gools an' th' astors,' says he, 'an' thin look at us,' he says, 'groun' down,' he says, 'till we cries f'r bread on th' sthreet,' he says; 'an' they give us a stone,' he says. 'dooley,' he says, 'fetch in a tub iv beer, an' lave th' collar off,' he says. "doolan 'd wake up with a start, an' applaud at that. he was a little tailor-man that wurruked in a panthry down town, an' i seen him weep whin a dog was r-run over be a dhray. thin casey 'd call on doolan f'r to stand his ground an' desthroy th' polis,--'th' onions iv th' monno-polists,' he called thim,--an' doolan 'd say, 'hear, hear,' till i thrun thim both out. "i thought me frind casey 'd be taken up f'r histin' a polisman f'r sure, though, to be fair with him, i niver knowed him to do but wan arnychist thing, and that was to make faces at willum joyce because he lived in a two-story an' bay-window brick house. doolan said that was goin' too far, because willum joyce usually had th' price. wan day casey disappeared, an' i heerd he was married. he niver showed up f'r a year; an', whin he come in, i hardly knowed him. his whiskers had been filed an' his hair cut, an' he was dhressed up to kill. he wint into th' back room, an' doolan was asleep there. he woke him, an' made a speech to him that was full iv slaughther and bloodshed. pretty soon in come a little woman, with a shawl over her head,--a little german lady. says she, 'where's me hoosband?' in a german brogue ye cud cut with an ax. 'i don't know ye'er husband, ma'am,' says i. 'what's his name?' she told me, an' i seen she was casey's wife; 'he's in there,' i says. 'in back,' i says, 'talking to doolan, th' prolotoorio.' i wint back with her, an' there was casey whalin' away. 'ar-re ye men or ar-re ye slaves?' he says to doolan. 'julius,' says his wife, 'vat ye doin' there, ye blackgaard,' she says. 'comin' ze, or be hivens i'll break ye'er jaw,' she says. well, sir, he turned white, an' come over as meek as a lamb. she grabbed him be th' arm an' led him off, an' 'twas th' last i seen iv him. "afther a while doolan woke up, an' says he, 'where's me frind?' 'gone,' says i. 'his wife came in, an' hooked him off.' 'well,' says doolan, ''tis on'y another victhry iv the rulin' classes,' he says." the optimist. "aho," said mr. dooley, drawing a long, deep breath. "ah-ho, glory be to th' saints!" he was sitting out in front of his liquor shop with mr. mckenna, their chairs tilted against the door-posts. if it had been hot elsewhere, what had it been in archey road? the street-car horses reeled in the dust from the tracks. the drivers, leaning over the dash-boards, flogged the brutes with the viciousness of weakness. the piles of coke in the gas-house yards sent up waves of heat like smoke. even the little girls playing on the sidewalks were flaming pink in color. but the night saw archey road out in all gayety, its flannel shirt open at the breast to the cooling blast and the cries of its children filling the air. it also saw mr. dooley luxuriating like a polar bear, and bowing cordially to all who passed. "glory be to th' saints," he said, "but it's been a thryin' five days. i've been mean enough to commit murdher without th' strength even to kill a fly. i expect to have a fight on me hands; f'r i've insulted half th' road, an' th' on'y thing that saved me was that no wan was sthrong enough to come over th' bar. 'i cud lick ye f'r that, if it was not so hot,' said dorsey, whin i told him i'd change no bill f'r him. 'ye cud not,' says i, 'if 'twas cooler,' i says. it's cool enough f'r him now. look, jawn dear, an' see if there's an ice-pick undher me chair. "it 'd be more thin th' patience iv job 'd stand to go through such weather, an' be fit f'r society. they's on'y wan man in all th' wurruld cud do it, an' that man's little tim clancy. he wurruks out in th' mills, tin hours a day, runnin' a wheelbarrow loaded with cindhers. he lives down beyant. wan side iv his house is up again a brewery, an' th' other touches elbows with twinty-percint murphy's flats. a few years back they found out that he didn't own on'y th' front half iv th' lot, an' he can set on his back stoop an' put his feet over th' fince now. he can, faith. whin he's indures, he breathes up th' chimbley; an' he has a wife an' eight kids. he dhraws wan twinty-five a day--whin he wurruks. "he come in here th' other night to talk over matthers; an' i was stewin' in me shirt, an' sayin' cross things to all th' wurruld fr'm th' tail iv me eye. ''tis hot,' says i. ''tis war-rum,' he says. ''tis dam hot,' says i. 'well,' he says, ''tis good weather f'r th' crops,' he says. 'things grows in this weather. i mind wanst,' he says, 'we had days just like these, an' we raised forty bushels iv oats to an acre,' he says. 'whin neville, th' landlord, come with wagons to take it off, he was that surprised ye cud iv knocked him down with a sthraw. 'tis great growin' weather,' he says. an', jawn, by dad, barrin' where th' brewery horse spilt oats on th' durestep an' th' patches iv grass on th' dump, sare a growin' thing but childher has that little man seen in twinty years. "'twas hotter whin i seen him nex', an' i said so. ''tis war-rum,' he says, laughin'. 'by dad, i think th' ice 'll break up in th' river befure mornin',' he says. 'but look how cold it was last winter,' he says. 'th' crops need weather like this,' he says. i'd like to have hit him with a chair. sundah night i wint over to see him. he was sittin' out in front, with a babby on each knee. 'good avnin',' says i. 'good avnin',' he says. 'this is th' divvle's own weather,' i says. 'i'm suffocatin'.' ''tis quite a thaw,' he says. 'how's all th' folks?' says i. 'all well, thank ye kindly,' he says. 'save an' except th' wife an' little eleen,' he says. 'they're not so well,' he says. 'but what can ye expect? they've had th' best iv health all th' year.' 'it must be har-rd wurrukin' at th' mills this weather,' i says. ''tis war-rum,' he says; 'but ye can't look f'r snow-storms this time iv th' year,' he says. 'thin,' says he, 'me mind's taken aff th' heat be me wurruk,' he says. 'dorsey that had th' big cinder-pile--the wan near th' fence--was sun-struck fridah, an' i've been promoted to his job. 'tis a most res-sponsible place,' he says; 'an' a man, to fill it rightly an' properly, has no time to think f'r th' crops,' he says. an' i wint away, lavin' him singin' 'on th' three-tops' to th' kids on his knees. "well, he comes down th' road tonight afther th' wind had turned, with his old hat on th' back iv his head, whistlin' 'th' rambler fr'm clare' and i stopped to talk with him. 'glory be,' says i, ''tis pleasant to breathe th' cool air,' says i. 'ah,' he says, ''tis a rale good avnin',' he says. 'd'ye know,' he says, 'i haven't slept much these nights, f'r wan reason 'r another. but,' he says, 'i'm afraid this here change won't be good f'r th' crops,' he says. 'if we'd had wan or two more war-rum days an' thin a sprinkle iv rain,' he says, 'how they would grow, how they would grow!'" mr. dooley sat up in his chair, and looked over at mr. mckenna. "jawn," he said, "d'ye know that, whin i think iv th' thoughts that's been in my head f'r a week, i don't dare to look tim clancy in th' face." prosperity. "th' defeat iv humanity be prosperity was wan iv th' raysults iv th' iliction," said mr. dooley. "what are you talking about?" asked mr. mckenna, gruffly. "well," said mr. dooley, "i thought it was mckinley an' hobart that won out, but i see now that it's mckinley an' prosperity. if bryan had been elected, humanity would have had a front seat an' a tab. th' sufferin's iv all th' wurruld would have ended; an' jawn h. humanity would be in th' white house, throwin' his feet over th' furniture an' receivin' th' attintions iv diplomats an' pleeniapotentiaries. it was decided otherwise be th' fates, as th' good book says. prosperity is th' bucko now. barrin' a sthrike at th' stock-yards an' a hold-up here an' there, prosperity has come leapin' in as if it had jumped fr'm a springboard. th' mills are opened, th' factories are goin' to go, th' railroads are watherin' stocks, long processions iv workin'men are marchin' fr'm th' pay-car to their peaceful saloons, their wives are takin' in washin' again, th' price iv wheat is goin' up an' down, creditors are beginnin' to sue debtors; an' thus all th' wurruld is merry with th' on'y rational enjoyments iv life. "an' th' stock exchange has opened. that's wan iv th' strongest signs iv prosperity. i min' wanst whin me frind mike mcdonald was controllin' th' city, an' conductin' an exchange down be clark sthreet. th' game had been goin' hard again th' house. they hadn't been a split f'r five deals. whin ivrybody was on th' queen to win, with th' sivin spot coppered, th' queen won, th' sivin spot lost. wan lad amused himsilf be callin' th' turn twinty-wan times in succession, an' th' check rack was down to a margin iv eleven whites an' fifty-three cints in change. mike looked around th' crowd, an' turned down th' box. 'gintlemen,' says he, 'th' game is closed. business conditions are such,' he says, 'that i will not be able to cash in ye'er checks,' he says. 'please go out softly, so's not to disturb th' gintlemen at th' roulette wheel,' he says, 'an' come back afther th' iliction, whin confidence is restored an' prosperity returns to th' channels iv thrade an' industhry,' he says. 'th' exchange 'll be opened promptly; an' th' usual rule iv chips f'r money an' money f'r chips, fifty on cases an' sivinty-five f'r doubles, a hard-boiled egg an' a dhrink f'r losers, will prevail,' he says. 'return with th' glad tidings iv renewed commerce, an' thank th' lord i haven't took ye'er clothes.' his was th' first stock exchange we had. "yes, prosperity has come hollerin' an screamin'. to read th' papers, it seems to be a kind iv a vagrancy law. no wan can loaf anny more. th' end iv vacation has gone f'r manny a happy lad that has spint six months ridin' through th' counthry, dodgin' wurruk, or loafin' under his own vine or hat-three. prosperity grabs ivry man be th' neck, an' sets him shovellin' slag or coke or runnin' up an' down a ladder with a hod iv mortar. it won't let th' wurruld rest. if humanity 'd been victoryous, no wan 'd iver have to do a lick again to th' end iv his days. but prosperity's a horse iv another color. it goes round like a polisman givin' th' hot fut to happy people that are snoozin' in th' sun. 'get up,' says prosperity. 'get up, an' hustle over to th' rollin' mills: there's a man over there wants ye to carry a ton iv coal on ye'er back.' 'but i don't want to wurruk,' says th' lad. 'i'm very comfortable th' way i am.' 'it makes no difference,' says prosperity. 'ye've got to do ye'er lick. wurruk, f'r th' night is comin'. get out, an' hustle. wurruk, or ye can't be unhappy; an', if th' wurruld isn't unhappy, they'se no such a thing as prosperity.' "that's wan thing i can't understand," mr. dooley went on. "th' newspapers is run be a lot iv gazabos that thinks wurruk is th' ambition iv mankind. most iv th' people i know 'd be happiest layin' on a lounge with a can near by, or stretchin' thimsilves f'r another nap at eight in th' mornin'. but th' papers make it out that there 'd be no sunshine in th' land without you an' me, hinnissy, was up before daybreak pullin' a sthreet-car or poundin' sand with a shovel. i seen a line, 'prosperity effects on th' pinnsylvania railroad'; an' i read on to find that th' road intinded to make th' men in their shops wurruk tin hours instead iv eight, an' it says 'there's no reasons why they should not wurruk sundahs iv they choose.' if they choose! an' what chance has a man got that wants to make th' wurruld brighter an' happier be rollin' car-wheels but to miss mass an' be at th' shops?" "we must all work," said mr. mckenna, sententiously. "yes," said mr. dooley, "or be wurruked." the great hot spell. it was sultry everywhere, but particularly in archey road; for in summer archey road is a tunnel for the south-west wind, which refreshes itself at the rolling-mill blasts, and spills its wrath upon the just and the unjust alike. wherefore mr. dooley and mr. mckenna were both steaming, as they sat at either side of the door of mr. dooley's place, with their chairs tilted back against the posts. "hot," said mr. mckenna. "warrum," said mr. dooley. "i think this is the hottest september that ever was," said mr. mckenna. "so ye say," said mr. dooley. "an' that's because ye're a young man, a kid. if ye was my age, ye'd know betther. how d'ye do, mrs. murphy? go in, an' fill it ye'ersilf. ye'll find th' funnel undher th' see-gar case.--ye'd know betther thin that. th' siptimber iv th' year eighteen sixty-eight was so much hotter thin this that, if ye wint fr'm wan to th' other, ye'd take noomoney iv th' lungs,--ye wud so. 'twas a remarkable summer, takin' it all in all. on th' foorth iv july they was a fut iv ice in haley's slough, an' i was near flooded out be th' wather pipe bustin'. a man be th' name iv maloney froze his hand settin' off a roman candle near main sthreet, an'--tin cints, please, ma'am. thank ye kindly. how's th' good man?--as i said, it was a remarkable summer. it rained all august, an' th' boys wint about on rafts; an' a sthreet-car got lost fr'm th' road, an' i dhrove into th' canal, an' all on boord--'avnin', mike. ah-ha, 'twas a great fight. an' buck got his eye, did he? a good man. "well, jawn, along come siptimber. it begun fairly warrum, wan hundherd or so in th' shade; but no wan minded that. thin it got hotter an' hotter, an' people begun to complain a little. they was sthrong in thim days,--not like th' joods they raise now,--an' a little heat more or less didn't kill thim. but afther a while it was more thin most iv thim wanted. the sthreet-car thracks got so soft they spread all over th' sthreet, an' th' river run dhry. afther boilin' f'r five days like a--how are ye, dempsey? ye don't tell me? now th' likes iv him runnin' f'r aldherman! i'd as lave vote f'r th' tillygraph pole. well, be good to ye'ersilf. folks all well? thanks be.--they shut off th' furnaces out at th' mills, an' melted th' iron be puttin' it out in th' sun. th' puddlers wurruked in iron cases, an' was kept alive be men playin' a hose on thim fr'm th' packin' house refrigerator. wan iv thim poked his head out to light his pipe, an' he was--well, well, timothy, ye are quite a sthranger. ah, dear oh me, that's too ba-ad, too ba-ad. i'll tell ye what ye do. ye rub th' hand in half iv a potato, an' say tin pather an' avy's over it ivry day f'r tin days. 'tis a sure cure. i had wan wanst. th' kids are thrivin', i dinnaw? that's good. betther to hear thim yellin' in th' sthreet thin th' sound iv th' docthor's gig at th' dure. "well, jawn, things wint fr'm bad to worse. all th' beer in th' house was mulled; an' mrs. dinny hogan--her that was odelia o'brien--burned her face atin' ice-crame down be th' italyan man's place, on halsthed sthreet. 'twas no sthrange sight to see an ice-wagon goin' along th' sthreet on fire--mccarthy! mccarthy! come over here! sure, ye're gettin' proud, passin' by ye'er ol' frinds. how's thricks in th' ninth? d'ye think he will? well, i've heerd that, too; but they was a man in here to-day that says the boohemians is out f'r him with axes. good-night. don't forget th' number. "they was a man be th' name iv daheny, jawn, a cousin iv th' wan ye know, that started to walk up th' r-road fr'm th' bridge. befure he got to halsthed sthreet, his shoes was on fire. he turned in an alarm; but th' fire departmint was all down on mitchigan avnoo, puttin' out th' lake, an'"--"putting out what?" demanded mr. mckenna. "puttin' out th' lake," replied mr. dooley, stolidly. "they was no insurance--a good avnin' to ye, mrs. doyle. ye're goin' over, thin? i was there las' night, an' a finer wake i niver see. they do nawthin' be halves. how was himsilf? as natural as life? yes, ma'am, rayqueem high mass, be carredges to calv'ry. "on th' twinty-fifth iv siptimber a change come. it was very sudden; an', steppin' out iv th' ice-box where i slept in th' mornin', i got a chill. i wint for me flannels, an' stopped to look at th' thermomether. it was four hundherd an' sixty-five." "how much?" asked mr. mckenna. "four hundherd an' sixty-five." "fahrenheit?" "no, it belonged to dorsey. ah! well, well, an' here's cassidy. come in, frind, an' have a shell iv beer. i've been tellin' jawnny about th' big thaw iv eighteen sixty-eight. feel th' wind, man alive. 'tis turnin' cool, an' we'll sleep to-night." keeping lent. mr. mckenna had observed mr. dooley in the act of spinning a long, thin spoon in a compound which reeked pleasantly and smelt of the humming water of commerce; and he laughed and mocked at the philosopher. "ah-ha," he said, "that's th' way you keep lent, is it? two weeks from ash wednesday, and you tanking up." mr. dooley went on deliberately to finish the experiment, leisurely dusting the surface with nutmeg and tasting the product before setting down the glass daintily. then he folded his apron, and lay back in ample luxury while he began: "jawn, th' holy season iv lent was sent to us f'r to teach us th' weakness iv th' human flesh. man proposes, an' th' lord disposes, as hinnissy says. "i mind as well as though it was yesterday th' struggle iv me father f'r to keep lent. he began to talk it a month befure th' time. 'on ash winsdah,' he'd say, 'i'll go in f'r a rale season iv fast an' abstinince,' he'd say. an' sure enough, whin ash winsdah come round at midnight, he'd take a long dhraw at his pipe an' knock th' ashes out slowly again his heel, an' thin put th' dhudeen up behind th' clock. 'there,' says he, 'there ye stay till easter morn,' he says. ash winsdah he talked iv nawthin but th' pipe. ''tis exthraordinney how easy it is f'r to lave off,' he says. 'all ye need is will power,' he says. 'i dinnaw that i'll iver put a pipe in me mouth again. 'tis a bad habit, smokin' is,' he says; 'an' it costs money. a man's betther off without it. i find i dig twict as well,' he says; 'an', as f'r cuttin' turf, they'se not me like in th' parish since i left off th' pipe,' he says. "well, th' nex' day an' th' nex' day he talked th' same way; but fridah he was sour, an' looked up at th' clock where th' pipe was. saturdah me mother, thinkin' to be plazin to him, says: 'terrence,' she says, 'ye're iver so much betther without th' tobacco,' she says. 'i'm glad to find you don't need it. ye'll save money,' she says. 'be quite, woman,' says he. 'dear, oh dear,' he says, 'i'd like a pull at th' clay,' he says. 'whin easter comes, plaze gawd, i'll smoke mesilf black an' blue in th' face,' he says. "that was th' beginnin' iv th' downfall. choosdah he was settin' in front iv th' fire with a pipe in his mouth. 'why, terrence,' says me mother, 'ye're smokin' again.' 'i'm not,' says he: ''tis a dhry smoke,' he says; ''tisn't lighted,' he says. wan week afther th' swear-off he came fr'm th' field with th' pipe in his face, an' him puffin' away like a chimney. 'terrence,' says me mother, 'it isn't easter morn.' 'ah-ho,' says he, 'i know it,' he says; 'but,' he says, 'what th' divvle do i care?' he says. 'i wanted f'r to find out whether it had th' masthery over me; an',' he says, 'i've proved that it hasn't,' he says. 'but what's th' good iv swearin' off, if ye don't break it?' he says. 'an' annyhow,' he says, 'i glory in me shame.' "now, jawn," mr. dooley went on, "i've got what hogan calls a theery, an' it's this: that what's thrue iv wan man's thrue iv all men. i'm me father's son a'most to th' hour an' day. put me in th' county roscommon forty year ago, an' i'd done what he'd done. put him on th' ar-rchey road, an' he'd be deliverin' ye a lecture on th' sin iv thinkin' ye're able to overcome th' pride iv th' flesh, as father kelly says. two weeks ago i looked with contimpt on hinnissy f'r an' because he'd not even promise to fast an' obstain fr'm croquet durin' lent. to-night you see me mixin' me toddy without th' shadow iv remorse about me. i'm proud iv it. an' why not? i was histin' in me first wan whin th' soggarth come down fr'm a sick call, an' looked in at me. 'in lent?' he says, half-laughin' out in thim quare eyes iv his. 'yes,' said i. 'well,' he says, 'i'm not authorized to say this be th' propaganda,' he says, 'an' 'tis no part iv th' directions f'r lent,' he says; 'but,' he says, 'i'll tell ye this, martin,' he says, 'that they'se more ways than wan iv keepin' th' season,' he says. 'i've knowed thim that starved th' stomach to feast th' evil temper,' he says. 'they'se a little priest down be th' ninth ward that niver was known to keep a fast day; but lent or christmas tide, day in an' day out, he goes to th' hospital where they put th' people that has th' small-pox. starvation don't always mean salvation. if it did,' he says, 'they'd have to insure th' pavemint in wan place, an' they'd be money to burn in another. not,' he says, 'that i want ye to undherstand that i look kindly on th' sin iv'-- "''tis a cold night out,' says i. "'well,' he says, th' dear man, 'ye may. on'y,' he says, ''tis lent.' "'yes,' says i. "'well, thin,' he says, 'by ye'er lave i'll take but half a lump iv sugar in mine,' he says." the quick and the dead. mr. dooley and mr. mckenna sat outside the ample door of the little liquor store, the evening being hot, and wrapped their legs around the chair, and their lips around two especially long and soothing drinks. they talked politics and religion, the people up and down the street, the chances of murphy, the tinsmith, getting on the force, and a great deal about the weather. a woman in white started mr. mckenna's nerves. "glory be, i thought it was a ghost!" said mr. mckenna, whereupon the conversation drifted to those interesting phenomena. mr. dooley asked mr. mckenna if he had ever seen one. mr. mckenna replied that he hadn't, and didn't want to. had mr. dooley? "no," said the philosopher, "i niver did; an' it's always been more thin sthrange to me that annywan shud come back afther he'd been stuck in a crate five feet deep, with a ton iv mud upon him. 'tis onplisint iv thim, annyhow, not to say ongrateful. f'r mesilf, if i was wanst pushed off, an' they'd waked me kindly, an' had a solemn rayqueem high mass f'r me, an' a funeral with roddey's hi-beryan band, an' th' a-ho-aitches, i have too much pride to come back f'r an encore. i wud so, jawn. whin a man's dead, he ought to make th' best iv a bad job, an' not be thrapsin' around, lookin' f'r throuble among his own kind. "no, i niver see wan, but i know there are such things; f'r twinty years ago all th' road was talkin' about how flaherty, th' tailor, laid out th' ghost iv tim o'grady. o'grady was a big sthrappin' connock man, as wide across th' shoulders as a freight car. he was a plastherer be thrade whin wages was high, an' o'grady was rowlin' in wealth. ivry sundah ye'd see him, with his horse an' buggy an' his goold watch an' chain, in front iv th' sullivans' house, waitin' f'r mary ann sullivan to go f'r a buggy ride with him over to mcallister place; an' he fin'lly married her, again th' wishes iv flaherty, who took to histin' in dhrinks, an' missed his jooty, an' was a scandal in th' parish f'r six months. "o'grady didn't improve with mathrimony, but got to lanin' again th' ol' stuff, an' walkin' up an' down th' sidewalk in his shirt-sleeves, with his thumbs stuck in his vest, an' his little pipe turned upside down; an', whin he see flaherty, 'twas his custom to run him up an alley, so that th' little tailor man niver had a minyit iv peace. ivry wan supposed he lived in a three most iv th' time, to be out iv th' way iv o'grady. "well, wan day o'grady he seen flaherty walkin' down th' sthreet with a pair iv lavender pants f'r willum joyce to wear to th' ogden grove picnic, an' thried to heave a brick at him. he lost his balance, an' fell fr'm th' scaffoldin' he was wurrukin' on; an' th' last wurruds he said was, 'did i get him or didn't i?' mrs. o'grady said it was th' will iv gawd; an' he was burrid at calvary with a funeral iv eighty hacks, an' a great manny people in their own buggies. dorsey, th' conthractor, was there with his wife. he thought th' wurruld an' all iv o'grady. "wan year aftherward flaherty begun makin' up to mrs. o'grady; an' ivry wan in th' parish seen it, an' was glad iv it, an' said it was scandalous. how it iver got out to o'grady's pew in th' burryin' ground, i'll niver tell ye, an' th' lord knows; but wan evenin' th' ghost iv o'grady come back. flaherty was settin' in th' parlor, smokin' a seegar, with o'grady's slippers on his feet, whin th' spook come in in th' mos' natural way in the wurruld, kickin' th' dog. 'what ar-re ye doin' here, ye little farryer iv pants?' he says. mrs. o'grady was f'r faintin'; but o'flaherty he says, says he: 'be quite,' he says, 'i'll dale with him.' thin to th' ghost: 'have ye paid th' rint here, ye big ape?' he says. 'what d'ye mane be comin' back, whin th' landlord ain't heerd fr'm ye f'r a year?' he says. well, o'grady's ghost was that surprised he cud hardly speak. 'ye ought to have betther manners thin insultin' th' dead,' he says. 'ye ought to have betther manners thin to be lavin' ye'er coffin at this hour iv th' night, an' breakin' in on dacint people,' says flaherty. 'what good does it do to have rayqueem masses f'r th' raypose iv th' like iv you,' he says, 'that doesn't know his place?' he says. "i'm masther iv this house,' says th' ghost. 'not on ye'er life,' says flaherty. 'get out iv here, or i'll make th' ghost iv a ghost out iv ye. i can lick anny dead man that iver lived,' he said. "with that th' ghost iv o'grady made a pass at him, an' they clinched an' rowled on th' flure. now a ghost is no aisy mark f'r anny man, an' o'grady's ghost was as sthrong as a cow. it had flaherty down on th' flure an' was feedin' him with a book they call th' 'christyan martyrs,' whin mrs. o'grady put a bottle in flaherty's hands. 'what's this?' says flaherty. 'howly wather,' says mrs. o'grady. 'sprinkle it on him,' says mrs. o'grady. 'woman,' says th' tailor between th' chapter iv th' book, 'this is no time f'r miracles,' he says. an' he give o'grady's ghost a treminjous wallop on th' head. now, whether it was th' wather or th' wallop, i'll not tell ye; but, annyhow, th' ghost give wan yell an' disappeared. an' th' very next sundah, whin father kelly wint into th' pulpit at th' gospel, he read th' names iv roger kickham flaherty an' mary ann o'grady." "did the ghost ever come back?" asked mr. mckenna. "niver," said mr. dooley. "wanst was enough. but, mind ye, i'd hate to have been wan iv th' other ghosts th' night o'grady got home fr'm th' visit to o'flaherty's. there might be ghosts that cud stand him off with th' gloves, but in a round an' tumble fight he cud lick a st. patrick's day procession iv thim." the soft spot. "anny more cyclone news?" mr. dooley asked mr. mckenna, as he came in with a copy of an extra paper in his hand. "nothing much," mr. mckenna responded. "this paper says the angel of death has give up riding on the whirlwind." "tis betther so," said mr. dooley: "a bicycle is more satisfactory f'r a steady thing. but, faith, 'tis no jokin' matter. may th' lord forgive me f'r makin' light iv it! jawn, whin i read about thim poor people down in st. looey, sthruck be th' wrath iv hivin' without more warnin' thin a man gets in a polock church fight an' swept to their graves be th' hundherds, me heart ached in me. "but they'se always some compinsation in th' likes iv this. to see th' wurruld as it r-runs along in its ordinrey coorse, with ivry man seemin' to be lookin' f'r th' best iv it an' carryin' a little hammer f'r his fellow-suff'rers, ye'd think what hinnissy calls th' springs iv human sympathy was as dhry in th' breast as a bricklayer's boot in a box iv mortar. but let annything happen like this, an' men ye'd suspect iv goin' round with a cold chisel liftin' name-plates off iv coffins comes to th' front with their lips full iv comfort an' kindliness an', what's more to th' point, their hands full iv coin. "years ago there used to be a man be th' name iv o'brien--no relation iv th' sinitor--lived down be th' dumps. he was well off, an' had quit wur-rkin' f'r a living. well, whether he'd been disappointed in love or just naturally had a kick up to him again th' wurruld i niver knew; but this here ol' la-ad put in his time from morn till night handin' out contimpt an' hathred to all mankind. no wan was harder to rent fr'm. he had some houses near halsted sthreet, an' i've see him servin' five days' notices on his tenants whin' th' weather was that cold ye cudden't see th' inside iv th' furnace-rooms at th' mill f'r th' frost on th' window. of all th' landlords on earth, th' lord deliver me fr'm an' irish wan. whether 'tis that fr'm niver holdin' anny land in th' ol' counthry they put too high a fondness on their places whin they get a lot or two over here, i don't know; but they're quicker with th' constable thin anny others. i've seen men, that 'd divide their last cint with ye pay night, as hard, whin it come to gather in th' rent f'r two rooms in th' rear, as if they was an irish peer's agents; an' o'brien had no such start iv binivolence to go on. he niver seemed to pass th' poor-box in church without wantin' to break into it. he charged cint per cint whin casey, th' plumber, buried his wife an' borrid money f'r th' funeral expenses. i see him wanst chasin' th' agent iv th' saint vincent de pauls down th' road f'r darin' to ask him f'r a contribution. to look at his har-rsh red face, as he sat at his window markin' up his accounts, ye'd know he was hard in th' bit an' heavy in th' hand. an' so he was,--as hard an' heavy as anny man i iver seen in all me born days. "well, peter o'brien had lived on long enough to have th' pious curses iv th' entire parish, whin th' fire broke out, th' second fire iv sivinty-four, whin th' damage was tin or twinty millions iv dollars an' i lost a bull terrier be th' name iv robert immitt, r-runnin' afther th' ingines. o'brien disappeared fr'm th' r-road durin' th' fire,--he had some property on th' south side,--an' wasn't seen or heerd tell iv f'r a day. th' nex' mornin' th' rayport come in that he was seen walkin' over th' red bridge with a baby in his arms. 'glory be!' says i: 'is th' man goin' to add canniballing to his other crimes?' sure enough, as i sthud in th' dureway, along come o'brien, with his hands scalded, his eyebrows gone, an' most iv his clothes tore fr'm his back, but silent an' grim as iver, with a mite iv a girl held tight to his breast, an' her fast asleep. "he had a house back iv my place,--he ownded th' fifty feet frontin' on grove sthreet, bought it fr'm a man named grogan,--an' 'twas rinted be a widdy lady be th' name iv sullivan, wife iv a bricklayer iv th' same name. he was sthridin' into th' widow sullivan's house; an' says he, 'mistress sullivan,' he says. 'yes,' says she, in a thremble, knottin' her apron in her hands an' standin' in front iv her own little wans, 'what can i do f'r ye?' she says. 'th' rent's not due till to-morrow.' 'i very well know that,' he says; 'an' i want ye to take care iv this wan', he says. 'an' i'll pay ye f'r ye'er throuble,' he says. "we niver knew where he got th' child: he niver told annywan. docthor casey said he was badly burnt about th' head an' hands. he testified to it in a suit he brought again o'brien f'r curin' him. f'r th' man o'brien, instead iv rayformin' like they do in th' play, was a long sight meaner afther he done this wan thing thin iver befure. if he was tight-fisted wanst, he was as close now as calcimine on a rough-finished wall. he put his tinints out in th' cold without mercy, he kicked blind beggars fr'm th' dure, an' on his dyin'-bed he come as near bein' left be raison iv his thryin' to bargain with th' good man f'r th' rayqueems as annywan ye iver see. but he raised th' little girl; an' i sometimes think that, whin they count up th' cash, they'll let o'brien off with a character f'r that wan thing, though there's some pretty hard tabs again him. "they ain't much point in what i've told ye more thin this,--that beneath ivry man's outside coat there lies some good feelin'. we ain't as bad as we make ourselves out. we've been stringin' ropes across th' sthreet f'r th' people iv saint looey f'r thirty years an' handin' thim bricks fr'm th' chimbleys whiniver we got a chance, but we've on'y got wurruds an' loose change f'r thim whin th' hard times comes." "yes," said mr. mckenna, "i see even the aldhermen has come to the front, offering relief." "well," said mr. dooley, thoughtfully, "i on'y hope they won't go to saint looey to disthri-bute it thimsilves. that would be a long sight worse thin th' cyclone." the irishman abroad. mr. dooley laid down his morning paper, and looked thoughtfully at the chandeliers. "taaffe," he said musingly,--"taaffe--where th' divvle? th' name's familiar." "he lives in the nineteenth," said mr. mckenna. "if i remember right, he has a boy on th' force." "goowan," said mr. dooley, "with ye'er nineteenth wa-ards. th' taaffe i mane is in austhria. where in all, where in all? no: yes, by gar, i have it. a-ha! "but cur-rsed be th' day, whin lord taaffe grew faint-hearted an sthud not n'r cha-arged, but in panic depa-arted." "d'ye mind it,--th' pome by joyce? no, not bill joyce. joyce, th' irish pote that wrote th' pome about th' wa-ars whin me people raysisted cromwell, while yours was carryin' turf on their backs to make fires for th' crool invader, as finerty says whin th' sub-scriptions r-runs low. 'tis th' same name, a good ol' meath name in th' days gone by; an' be th' same token i have in me head that this here count taaffe, whether he's an austrich or a canary bur-rd now, is wan iv th' ol' fam'ly. there's manny iv thim in europe an' all th' wurruld beside. there was pat mcmahon, th' frinchman, that bate looey napoleon; an' o'donnell, the spanish juke; an' o'dhriscoll an' lynch, who do be th' whole thing down be south america, not to mention patsy bolivar. ye can't go annywhere fr'm sweden to boolgahria without findin' a turk settin' up beside th' king an' dalin' out th' deek with his own hand. jawn, our people makes poor irishmen, but good dutchmen; an', th' more i see iv thim, th' more i says to mesilf that th' rale boney fide irishman is no more thin a foreigner born away from home. 'tis so. "look at thim, jawn," continued mr. dooley, becoming eloquent. "whin there's battles to be won, who do they sind for? mcmahon or shurdan or phil kearney or colonel colby. whin there's books to be wrote, who writes thim but char-les lever or oliver goldsmith or willum carleton? whin there's speeches to be made, who makes thim but edmund burke or macchew p. brady? there's not a land on th' face iv th' wurruld but th' wan where an irishman doesn't stand with his fellow-man, or above thim. whin th' king iv siam wants a plisint evenin', who does he sind f'r but a lively kerry man that can sing a song or play a good hand at spile-five? whin th' sultan iv boolgahria takes tea, 'tis tin to wan th' man across fr'm him is more to home in a caubeen thin in a turban. there's mac's an' o's in ivry capital iv europe atin' off silver plates whin their relations is staggerin' under th' creels iv turf in th' connaught bogs. "wirra, 'tis hard. ye'd sa-ay off hand, 'why don't they do as much for their own counthry?' light-spoken are thim that suggests th' like iv that. 'tis asier said than done. ye can't grow flowers in a granite block, jawn dear, much less whin th' first shoot 'd be thrampled under foot without pity. 'tis aisy f'r us over here, with our bellies full, to talk iv th' cowardice iv th' irish; but what would ye have wan man iv thim do again a rig'mint? 'tis little fightin' th' lad will want that will have to be up before sunrise to keep th' smoke curlin' fr'm th' chimbley or to patch th' rush roof to keep out th' march rain. no, faith, jawn, there's no soil in ireland f'r th' greatness iv th' race; an' there has been none since th' wild geese wint across th' say to france, hangin' like flies to th' side iv th' fr-rinch ship. 'tis only f'r women an' childher now, an' thim that can't get away. will th' good days ever come again? says ye. who knows!" the serenade. "by dad, if it wasn't f'r that there molly donahue," said mr. dooley to mr. mckenna, "half th' life 'd be gone out iv bridgeport." "what has molly donahue been doin'?" asked mr. mckenna. "she have been causin' felix pindergasht to be sint to th' sisters iv mercy hospital with inflammathry rhoomatism. ye know felix. he is a musical janius. before he was tin year old he had me mind disthracted be playin' wan iv thim little mouth organs on th' corner near me bedroom window. thin he larned to play th' ack-car-jeen, an' cud swing it between his legs an' give an imitation iv th' cathedral bell that 'd make ye dig in ye'er pocket to see iv ye had a dime f'r a seat. thin he used to sit in his window in his shirt-sleeves, blowin' 'th' vale iv avoca' on a cornet. he was wan whole month before he cud get th' 'shall fade fr'm me heart' right. half th' neighborhood 'd be out on th' sidewalk yellin' 'lift it, felix,--lift an' scatther it. shall fade fr'm me ha-a-rt,--lift it, ye clumsy piper.' "a few months back th' stupid gawk begun to be attintive to molly donahue, an', like th' wild wan she is, she dhrew him on. did ye iver see th' wan that wudden't? faith, they're all alike. if it ain't a sthraight stick, it's a crooked wan; an' th' man was niver yet born, if he had a hump on his back as big as coal-scuttle an' had a face like th' back iv a hack, that cudden't get th' wink iv th' eye fr'm some woman. they're all alike, all alike. not that i've annything again thim: 'tis thim that divides our sorrows an' doubles our joys, an' sews chiny buttons on our pa-ants an' mends our shirts with blue yarn. but they'll lead a man to desthruction an' back again, thim same women. "well, felix had no luck coortin' molly donahue. wan night she wasn't in; an' th' nex' night ol' man donahue come to th' dure, an' says, 'ye can put in th' coal at th' back dure,' he says, an' near broke th' la-ad's heart. las' week he pulled himself together, an' wint up th' r-road again. he took his cornet with him in a green bag; an', whin he got in front iv donahue's house, he outs with th' horn, an' begins to play. well, sir, at th' first note half th' block was in th' sthreet. women come fr'm their houses, with their shawls on their heads; an' all th' forty-fives games was broke up be raison iv th' la-ads lavin' f'r to hear the music. befure felix had got fairly started f'r to serrynade molly donahue, th' crowd was big an' boistherous. he started on th' ol' favor-ite, 'th' vale iv avoca'; an' near ivry man in th' crowd had heerd him practisin' it. he wint along splendid till he come to 'shall fade fr'm me heart,' an' thin he broke, 'thry again,' says th' crowd; an' he stharted over. he done no betther on th' second whirl. 'niver say die, felix,' says th' crowd. "go afther it. we're all with ye.' at that th' poor, deluded loon tackled it again; an' th' crowd yells: 'hist it up. there ye go. no, be hivins he fell at th' last jump.' an', by dad, though he thried f'r half an hour, he cud not land th' 'shall fade fr'm me heart.' at th' last break th' light in molly donahue's window wint out, an' th' crowd dispersed. felix was discons'late. 'i had it right befure i come up,' he says, 'but i missed me holt whin th' crowd come. me heart's broke,' he says. 'th' cornet's not ye'er insthrument,' says dorsey. 'ye shud thry to play th' base dhrum. it's asier.'" "is that all that's going on?" asked mr. mckenna. "that an' th' death iv wan iv hinnissy's goats,--marguerite. no, no, not that wan. that's odalia. th' wan with th' brown spots. that's her. she thried to ate wan iv thim new theayter posthers, an' perished in great ag'ny. they say th' corpse turned red at th' wake, but ye can't believe all ye hear." the hay fleet. mr. dooley had been reading about general shafter's unfortunately abandoned enterprise for capturing santiago by means of a load of hay, and it filled him with great enthusiasm. laying down his paper, he said: "by dad, i always said they give me frind shafter th' worst iv it. if they'd left him do th' job th' way he wanted to do it, he'd 've taken sandago without losin' an ounce." "how was it he wanted to do it?" mr. hennessy asked. "well," said mr. dooley, "'twas this way. this is th' way it was. ol' cervera's fleet was in th' harbor an' bottled up, as th' man says. shafter he says to sampson: 'look here, me bucko, what th' divvle ar-re ye loafin' ar-round out there f'r,' he says, 'like a dep'ty sheriff at a prize fight?' he says. 'why don't ye go in, an' smash th' castiles?' he says. 'i'm doin' well where i am,' says sampson. 'th' navy iv th' united states,' he says, 'which is wan iv th' best, if not th' best, in th' wurruld,' he says, 'was not,' he says, 'intinded f'r sthreet fightin',' he says. 'we'll stay here,' he says, 'where we ar-re,' he says, 'until,' he says, 'we can equip th' ships with noomatic tire wheels,' he says, 'an' ball bearin's,' he says. "'well,' says shafter, 'if ye won't go in,' he says, 'we'll show ye th' way,' he says. an' he calls on cap brice, that was wan iv th' youngest an' tastiest dhressers in th' whole crool an' devastatin' war. 'cap,' he says, 'is they anny hay in th' camp?' he says. 'slathers iv it,' says th' cap. 'onless,' he says, 'th' sojers et it,' he says. 'th' las' load iv beef that come down fr'm th' undhertakers,' he says, 'was not good,' he says. 'ayether,' he says, ''twas improperly waked,' he says, 'or,' he says, 'th' pall-bearers was careless,' he says. 'annyhow,' he says, 'th' sojers won't eat it; an', whin i left, they was lookin' greedily at th' hay,' he says. 'cap,' says gin'ral shafter, 'if anny man ates a wisp, shoot him on th' spot,' he says. 'those hungry sojers may desthroy me hopes iv victhry,' he says. 'what d'ye mane?' says cap brice. 'i mane this,' says gin'ral shafter. 'i mane to take yon fortress,' he says. 'i'll sind ye in, cap,' he says, 'in a ship protected be hay,' he says. 'her turrets 'll be alfalfa, she'll have three inches iv solid timithy to th' water line, an' wan inch iv th' best clover below th' wather line,' he says. 'did ye iver see an eight-inch shell pinithrate a bale iv hay?' he says. 'i niver did,' says cap brice. 'maybe that was because i niver see it thried,' he says. 'be that as it may,' says gin'ral shafter, 'ye niver see it done. no more did i,' he says. 'onless,' he says, 'they shoot pitchforks,' he says, 'they'll niver hur-rt ye,' he says. 'ye'll be onvincible,' he says. 'ye'll pro-ceed into th' harbor,' he says, 'behind th' sturdy armor iv projuce,' he says. 'let ye'er watchword be "stay on th' far-rm," an' go on to victhry,' he says. 'gin'ral,' says cap brice, 'how can i thank ye f'r th' honor?' he says. ''tis no wondher th' men call ye their fodder,' he says. 'twas a joke cap brice med at th' time. 'i'll do th' best i can,' he says; 'an', if i die in th' attempt,' he says, 'bury me where the bran-mash 'll wave over me grave,' he says. "an' gin'ral shafter he got together his fleet, an' put th' armor on it. 'twas a formidable sight. they was th' cruiser 'box stall,' full armored with sixty-eight bales iv th' finest grade iv chopped feed; th' 'r-red barn,' a modhern hay battleship, protected be a whole mow iv timothy; an' th' gallant little 'haycock,' a torpedo boat shootin' deadly missiles iv explosive oats. th' expedition was delayed be wan iv th' mules sthrollin' down to th' shore an' atin' up th' afther batthry an' par-rt iv th' ram iv th' 'r-red barn' an', befure repairs was made, admiral cervera heerd iv what was goin' on. 'glory be to the saints,' he says, 'what an injaynious thribe these yankees is!' says he. 'on'y a few weeks ago they thried to desthroy me be dumpin' a load iv coal on me,' he says; 'an' now,' he says, 'they're goin' to smother me in feed,' he says. 'they'll be rollin' bar'ls iv flour on me fr'm th' heights next,' he says. 'i'd betther get out,' he says. ''tis far nobler,' he says, 'to purrish on th' ragin' main,' he says, 'thin to die with ye'er lungs full iv hayseed an' ye'er eyes full iv dust,' he says. 'i was born in a large city,' he says; 'an' i don't know th' rules iv th' barn,' he says. an' he wint out, an' took his lickin'. "'twas too bad shafter didn't get a chanst at him, but he's give th' tip to th' la-ads that makes th' boats. no more ixpinsive steel an' ir'n, but good ol' grass fr'm th' twinty-acre meadow. th' ship-yards 'll be moved fr'm th' say, an' laid down in th' neighborhood iv polo, illinye, an' all th' mississippi valley 'll ring with th' sound iv th' scythe an' th' pitchfork buildin' th' definse iv our counthry's honor. thank th' lord, we've winrows an' winrows iv shafter's armor plate between here an' dubuque." mr. hennessy said good-night. "as me cousin used to say," he remarked, "we're through with wan hell iv a bad year, an' here goes f'r another like it." "well," said mr. dooley, "may th' lord niver sind us a foolisher wan than this!" the performances of lieutenant hobson. "if i'd been down to th' audjitooroom th' other night," said mr. hennessy, "an' had a chunk iv coal fr'm th' sunk 'merrimac,' i'd iv handed it to that man loot hobson. i wud so. th' idee iv a hero standin' up befure thousan's iv men with fam'lies an' bein' assaulted be ondacint females. it med me blush down to th' soles iv me feet. if they let this thing go on, be hivins, why do they stop th' hootchy-kootchy?" "ividinces iv affection is always odjious to an irishman," said mr. dooley, "an' to all reel affectionate people. but me frind hobson's not to blame. 'tis th' way th' good lord has iv makin' us cow'rds continted with our lot that he niver med a brave man yet that wasn't half a fool. i've more sinse an' wisdom in th' back iv me thumb thin all th' heroes in th' wurruld. that's why i ain't a hero. if hobson had intilligence, he'd be wurrukin' in th' post-office; an', if anny ol' hin thried to kiss him, he'd call f'r th' polis. bein' young an' foolish, whin me frind sampson says, 'is there anny man here that 'll take this ol' coal barge in beyant an' sink it, an' save us th' throuble iv dhrownin' on our way home?' loot hobson says, says he: 'here i am, cap,' says he. 'i'll take it in,' he says, 'an' seal up th' hated castiles,' he says, 'so that they can niver get out,' he says. 'but,' he says, 'i'll lave a hole f'r thim to get out whin they want to get out,' he says. an' he tuk some other la-ads,--i f'rget their names,--they wasn't heroes, annyhow, but was wurrukin' be th' day; an' he wint in in his undherclothes, so's not to spoil his suit, an' th' castiles hurled death an' desthruction on him. an' it niver touched him no more thin it did anny wan else; an' thin they riscued him fr'm himsilf, an' locked him up in th' polis station an' fed him th' best they knew how. an' he wint on a lecther tour, an' here he is. be hivins, i think he's more iv a hero now thin iver he was. i'd stand up befure a cross-eyed spanish gunner an' take his shootin' without a mask mesilf; but i'd shy hard if anny ol' heifer come up, an' thried to kiss me. "on th' flure iv th' 'merrimac,' in his light undherclothes, loot hobson was a sthrong, foolish man. on th' stage iv th' audjitooroom, bein' caressed be women that 'd kiss th' indyun in front iv a see-gar sthore, if he didn't carry a tommyhawk, he's still foolish, but not sthrong. 'tis so with all heroes. napolyeon bonyparte, th' impror iv th' fr-rinch, had manny carryin's on, i've heerd tell; an' ivry man knows that, whin jawn sullivan wasn't in th' r-ring, he was no incyclopedja f'r intelligence. no wan thried to kiss him, though. they knew betther. "an' hobson 'll larn. he's young yet, th' loot is; an' he's goin' out to th' ph'lippeens to wurruk f'r cousin george. cousin george is no hero, an' 'tisn't on record that anny wan iver thried to scandalize his good name be kissin' him. i'd as lave, if i was a foolish woman, which, thanks be, i'm not, hug a whitehead torpedo as cousin george. he'll be settin' up on th' roof iv his boat, smokin' a good see-gar, an' wondhrin' how manny iv th' babbies named afther him 'll be in th' pinitinchry be th' time he gets back home. up comes me br-rave hobson. 'who ar-re ye, disturbin' me quite?' says cousin george. 'i'm a hero,' says th' loot. 'ar-re ye, faith?' says cousin george. 'well,' he says, 'i can't do annything f'r ye in that line,' he says. 'all th' hero jobs on this boat,' he says, 'is compitintly filled,' he says, 'be mesilf,' he says. 'i like to see th' wurruk well done,' he says, 'so,' he says, 'i don't thrust it to anny wan,' he says. 'with th' aid iv a small boy, who can shovel more love letthers an' pothry overboard thin anny wan i iver see,' he says, 'i'm able to clane up me hero business before noon ivry day,' he says. 'what's ye'er name?' he says. 'hobson,' says th' loot. 'niver heerd iv ye, says cousin george. 'where 'd ye wurruk last?' 'why,' says th' loot, 'i'm th' man that sunk th' ship,' he says; 'an' i've been kissed be hundherds iv women at home,' he says. 'is that so?' says cousin george. 'well, i don't b'lieve in sinkin' me own ship,' he says. 'whin i'm lookin' f'r a divarsion iv that kind, i sink somebody else's,' he says. ''tis cheaper. as f'r th' other thing,' he says, 'th' less ye say about that, th' betther,' he says. 'if some iv these beauchious ph'lippeen belles ar-round here hears,' he says, 'that ye're in that line, they may call on ye to give ye a chaste salute,' he says, 'an',' he says, 'f'rget,' he says, 'to take th' see-gars out iv their mouths,' he says. 'ye desthroyed a lot iv coal, ye tell me,' he says. 'do ye,' he says, 'go downstairs now, an' shovel up a ton or two iv it,' he says. 'afther which,' he says, 'ye can roll a kag iv beer into me bedroom,' he says; 'f'r 'tis dhry wurruk settin' up here watchin' ixpansion ixpand,' he says. "that's what cousin george 'll say to th' loot. an', whin th' loot comes back, he won't be a hero anny more; an', if anny woman thries to kiss him, he'll climb a three. cousin george 'll make a man iv him. 'tis kicks, not kisses, that makes men iv heroes." "well, mebbe ye're r-right," said mr. hennessy. "he's nawthin' but a kid, annyhow,--no oldher thin me oldest boy; an' i know what a fool he'd be if anny wan ast him to be more iv a fool thin he is. hobson 'll be famous, no matther what foolish things he does." "i dinnaw," said mr. dooley. "it was headed f'r him; but i'm afraid, as th' bull-yard players 'd say, fame's been kissed off." the decline of national feeling. "what ar-re ye goin' to do patrick's day?" asked mr. hennessy. "patrick's day?" said mr. dooley. "patrick's day? it seems to me i've heard th' name befure. oh, ye mane th' day th' low irish that hasn't anny votes cillybrates th' birth iv their naytional saint, who was a fr-rinchman." "ye know what i mane," said mr. hennessy, with rising wrath. "don't ye get gay with me now." "well," said mr. dooley, "i may cillybrate it an' i may not. i'm thinkin' iv savin' me enthusyasm f'r th' queen's birthday, whiniver it is that that blessid holiday comes ar-round. ye see, hinnissy, patrick's day is out iv fashion now. a few years ago ye'd see the prisident iv th' united states marchin' down pinnsylvanya avnoo, with the green scarf iv th' ancient ordher on his shoulders an' a shamrock in his hat. now what is mack doin'? he's settin' in his parlor, writin' letthers to th' queen, be hivins, askin' afther her health. he was fr'm th' north iv ireland two years ago, an' not so far north ayether,--just far enough north f'r to be on good terms with derry an' not far enough to be bad frinds with limerick. he was raised on butthermilk an' haggis, an' he dhrank his irish nate with a dash iv orange bitthers in it. he's been movin' steadily north since; an', if he keeps on movin', he'll go r-round th' globe, an' bring up somewhere in th' south iv england. "an' hinnery cabin lodge! i used to think that hinnery would niver die contint till he'd took th' prince iv wales be th' hair iv th' head,--an' 'tis little th' poor man's got,--an' dhrag him fr'm th' tower iv london to kilmainham jail, an' hand him over to th' tindher mercies, as hogan says, iv michael davitt. thim was th' days whin ye'd hear hinnery in th' sinit, spreadin' fear to th' hear-rts iv th' british aristocracy. 'gintlemen,' he says, 'an' fellow-sinitors, th' time has come,' he says, 'whin th' eagle burrud iv freedom,' he says, 'lavin',' he says, 'its home in th' mountains,' he says, 'an' circlin',' he says, 'undher th' jool 'd hivin,' he says, 'fr'm where,' he says, 'th' passamaquoddy rushes into lake erastus k. ropes,' he says, 'to where rowls th' oregon,' he says, 'fr'm th' lakes to th' gulf,' he says, 'fr'm th' atlantic to th' passific where rowls th' oregon,' he says, 'an' fr'm ivry american who has th' blood iv his ancesthors' hathred iv tyranny in his veins,--your ancesthors an' mine, mr. mcadoo,' he says,--'there goes up a mute prayer that th' nation as wan man, fr'm bangor, maine, to where rowls th' oregon, that,' he says, 'is full iv salmon, which is later put up in cans, but has th' same inthrest as all others in this question,' he says, 'that,' he says, 'th' descindants iv wash'nton an',' he says, 'iv immitt,' he says, 'will jine hands f'r to protect,' he says, 'th' codfisheries again th' vandal hand iv th' british line,' he says. 'i therefore move ye, mr. prisident, that it is th' sinse iv this house, if anny such there be, that tay pay o'connor is a greater man thin lord salisberry,' he says. "now where's hinnery? where's th' bould fenian? where's th' moonlighter? where's th' pikeman? faith, he's changed his chune, an' 'tis 'sthrangers wanst, but brothers now,' with him, an' 'hands acrost th' sea an' into some wan's pocket,' an' 'take up th' white man's burden an' hand it to th' coons,' an' 'an open back dure an' a closed fr-ront dure.' 'tis th' same with all iv thim. they'se me frind joe choate. where 'd joe spind th' night? whisper, in windsor castle, no less, in a night-shirt iv th' prince iv wales; an' the nex' mornin', whin he come downstairs, they tol' him th' rile fam'ly was late risers, but, if he wanted a good time, he cud go down an' look at th' cimitry! an' he done it. he went out an' wept over th' grave iv th' father iv his counthry. ye'er man, george washington, hinnissy, was on'y th' stepfather. "well, glory be, th' times has changed since me frind jawn finerty come out iv th' house iv riprisintatives; an', whin some wan ast him what was goin' on, he says, 'oh, nawthin' at all but some damned american business.' thim was th' days! an' what's changed thim? well, i might be sayin' 'twas like wanst whin me cousin mike an' a kerry man be th' name iv sullivan had a gredge again a man named doherty, that was half a kerry man himsilf. they kept doherty indures f 'r a day, but by an' by me cousin mike lost inthrest in th' gredge, havin' others that was newer, an' he wint over to th' ya-ards; an' doherty an' sullivan begin to bow to each other, an' afther a while they found that they were blood relations, an', what's closer thin that whin ye're away fr'm home, townies. an' they hooked arms, an' sthrutted up an' down th' road, as proud as imprors. an' says they, 'we can lick annything in th' ward,' says they. but, before they injyed th' 'lieance f'r long, around th' corner comes me cousin mike, with a half-brick in each hand; an' me brave sullivan gives doherty th' kerry man's thrip, an' says he, 'mike,' he says, 'i was on'y pullin' him on to give ye a crack at him,' he says. an' they desthroyed doherty, so that he was in bed f'r a week." "well, i wondher will mike come back?" said mr. hennessy. "me cousin mike," said mr. dooley, "niver missed an iliction. an' whin th' campaign opened, there wasn't a man on th' ticket, fr'm mayor to constable, that didn't claim him f'r a first cousin. there are different kinds iv hands from acrost th' sea. there are pothry hands an' rollin'-mill hands; but on'y wan kind has votes." "cyrano de bergerac." "ivry winter hogan's la-ad gives a show with what he calls th' sixth wa-ard shakspere an' willum j. bryan club, an' i was sayjooced into goin' to wan las' night at finucane's hall," said mr. dooley. "th' girls was goin'," said mr. hennessy; "but th' sthovepipe come down on th' pianny, an' we had a minsthrel show iv our own. what was it about, i dinnaw?" "well, sir," said mr. dooley, "i ain't much on th' theayter. i niver wint to wan that i didn't have to stand where i cud see a man in blue overalls scratchin' his leg just beyant where the heeroyne was prayin' on th' palace stairs, an' i don't know much about it; but it seemed to me, an' it seemed to hartigan, th' plumber, that was with me, that 'twas a good play if they'd been a fire in th' first act. they was a lot iv people there; an', if it cud 've been arranged f'r to have injine company fifteen with cap'n duffy at th' head iv thim come in through a window an' carry off th' crowd, 'twud've med a hit with me. "'tis not like anny play i iver see before or since. in 'tur-rble tom; or, th' boys iv ninety-eight,' that i see wanst, th' man that's th' main guy iv th' thing he waits till ivry wan has said what he has to say, an' he has a clean field; an' thin he jumps in as th' man that plays th' big dhrum gives it an upper cut. but with this here play iv 'cyrus o'bergerac' 'tis far diff'rent. th' curtain goes up an' shows bill delaney an' little tim scanlan an' mark toolan an' packy dugan, that wurruks in the shoe store, an' molly donahue an' th' casey sisters, thim that scandalized th' parish be doin' a skirt dance at th' fair, all walkin' up an' down talkin'. 'tin to wan on sharkey,' says toolan. 'i go ye, an' make it a hundherd,' says tim scanlan. 'was ye at th' cake walk?' 'who stole me hat?' 'cudden't ye die waltzin'?' 'they say murphy has gone on th' foorce.' 'hivins, there goes th' las' car!' 'pass th' butther, please: i'm far fr'm home.' all iv thim talkin' away at once, niver carin' f'r no wan, whin all at wanst up stheps me bold hogan with a nose on him,--glory be, such a nose! i niver see th' like on a man or an illyphant. "well, sir, hogan is cy in th' play; an' th' beak is pa-art iv him. what does he do? he goes up to toolan, an' says he: 'ye don't like me nose. it's an ilicthric light globe. blow it out. it's a swiss cheese. cut it off, if ye want to. it's a brick in a hat. kick it. it's a balloon. hang a basket on it, an' we'll have an' ascinsion. it's a dure-bell knob. ring it. it's a punchin' bag. hit it, if ye dahr. f'r two pins i'd push in th' face iv ye.' an', mind ye, hinnissy, toolan had said not wan wurrud about th' beak,--not wan wurrud. an' ivry wan in th' house was talkin' about it, an' wondhrin' whin it 'd come off an' smash somewan's fut. i looked f'r a fight there an' thin. but toolan's a poor-spirited thing, an' he wint away. at that up comes scanlan; an' says he: 'look here, young fellow,' he says, 'don't get gay,' he says, 'don't get gay,' he says. 'what's that?' says hogan. whin a man says, 'what's that?' in a bar-room, it manes a fight, if he says it wanst. if he says it twict, it manes a fut race. 'i say,' says scanlan, 'that, if ye make anny more funny cracks, i'll hitch a horse to that basket fender,' he says, 'an' dhrag it fr'm ye,' he says. at that hogan dhrew his soord, an' says he: 'come on,' he says, 'come on, an' take a lickin,' he says. an' scanlan dhrew his soord, too. 'wait,' says hogan. 'wait a minyit,' he says. 'i must think,' he says. 'i must think a pome,' he says. 'whiniver i fight,' he says, 'i always have a pome,' he says. 'glory be,' says i, 'there's scanlan's chanst to give it to him,' i says. but scanlan was as slow as a dhray; an', before he cud get action, hogan was at him, l'adin' with th' pome an' counthrin' with the soord. 'i'll call this pome,' he says, 'a pome about a gazabo i wanst had a dool with in finucane's hall,' he says. 'i'll threat ye r-right,' he says, 'an' at the last line i'll hand ye wan,' he says. an' he done it. 'go in,' he says in th' pome, 'go in an' do ye'er worst,' he says. 'i make a pass at ye'er stomach,' he says, 'i cross ye with me right,' he says; 'an,' he says at th' last line, he says, 'i soak ye,' he says. an' he done it. th' minyit 'twas over with th' pome 'twas off with scanlan. th' soord wint into him, an' he sunk down to th' flure; an' they had to carry him off. well, sir, hogan was that proud ye cudden't hold him f'r th' rest iv th' night. he wint around ivrywhere stickin' people an' soakin' thim with pothry. he's a gr-reat pote is this here hogan, an' a gr-reat fighter. he done thim all at both; but, like me ol' frind jawn l., he come to th' end. a man dhropped a two-be-four on his head wan day, an' he died. honoria casey was with him as he passed away, an' she says, 'how d'ye feel?' 'all right,' says hogan. 'but wan thing i'll tell ye has made life worth livin',' he says. 'what's that?' says miss casey. 'i know,' says i. 'annywan cud guess it. he manes his nose,' i says. but ivrywan on th' stage give it up. 'ye don't know,' says hogan. ''tis me hat,' he says; an', makin a low bow to th' aujience, he fell to th' flure so hard that his nose fell off an' rowled down on mike finnegan. 'i don't like th' play,' says finnegan, 'an' i'll break ye'er nose,' he says; an' he done it. he's a wild divvle. hogan thried to rayturn th' compliment on th' sidewalk afterward; but he cudden't think iv a pome, an' finnegan done him." "well, said mr. hennessy, "i'd like to've been there to see th' fightin'." "in th' play?" asked mr. dooley. "no," said mr. hennessy. "on th' sidewalk." the union of two great fortunes. "they'se wan thing that always makes me feel sure iv what hogan calls th' safety iv our dimmycratic institutions," said mr. dooley, "an' that's th' intherest th' good people iv new york takes in a weddin' iv th' millyionaires. anny time a millyionaire condiscinds to enther th' martial state, as hogan says, an', as hogan says, make vows to hyman, which is the jew god iv marredge, he can fill th' house an' turn people away fr'm th' dure. an' he does. th' sthreets is crowded. th' cars can har'ly get through. th' polis foorce is out, an' hammerin' th' heads iv th' delighted throng. riprisintatives iv th' free an' inlightened press, th' pollutyem iv our liberties, as hogan says, bright, intilligent young journalists, iver ready to probe fraud an' sham, disgeezed as waithers, is dashin' madly about, makin' notes on their cuffs. business is suspinded. they'se no money in wall sthreet. it's all at th' sacred scene. hour be hour, as th' prisints ar-re delivered, th' bank rates go up. th' threeasury departmint has to go on a silver basis, there bein' no goold to mannyfacther into plunks. "inside th' house th' prisints cast a goolden gleam on th' beauchious scene. th' happy father is seen seated at a table, dictattin' millyion-dollar checks to a stinographer. th' goold chandeliers is draped with r-ropes iv dimon's an' pearls. th' hired girl is passin' dhrinks in goolden goblets. twinty firemen fr'm th' new york cinthral railroad is shovellin' dimon'-studded pickle crutes into th' back yard, among th' yachts an' horses. chansy depoo enthers an' thrips over a box iv bonds. 'ar-re these th' holy bonds iv mathrimony?' he says; f'r he is a wild divvle, an' ye can't stop his jokin', avin on solemn occasions. "th' soggarth comes in afther a while, carryin' a goold prayer-book, th' gift iv th' rothscheelds, an' stands behind a small but vallyable pree doo. to th' soft, meelojous chune iv th' wagner palace weddin' march fr'm 'long green,' th' groom enthers, simply but ixpinsively attired in governmint fours, an' fannin' himsilf with a bunch iv first morgedge bonds. "th' prayers f'r th' occasion, printed on negotyable paper, is disthributed among th' guests. th' bride was delayed be th' crowd outside. women screamed an' waved their handkerchefs, sthrong men cheered an' wept; an' 'twas not until th' polis had clubbed tin hardy pathrites to death that th' lady cud enther th' house where her fate was to be sealed. but fin'lly she med it; an' th' two happy, happy childher, whose sunshiny youth riprisinted five thousan' miles iv thrack, eight goold mines, wan hundherd millyion dollars' worth iv rollin' stock, an' a majority intherest in th' chicago stock yards, was r-ready f'r th' nicissary thransfers that wud establish th' combination. "th' ceremony was brief, but intherestin'. th' happy father foorced his way through dimon' stomachers; an' they was tears in his eyes as he handed th' clargyman, whose name was murphy,--but he carried himsilf as well as if he was used to it,--handed him a check f'r tin millyion dollars. i don't blame him. divvle th' bit! me own hear-rt is har-rd an' me eyes ar-re dhry, but i'd break down if i had to hand anny wan that much. 'i suppose th' check is good,' says th' clargyman, ''tis certified,' says th' weepin' father. 'do ye take this check,' says th' clargyman, 'to have an' to hold, until some wan parts ye fr'm it?' he says. 'i do,' says th' young man. 'thin,' says th' clargyman, 'i see no reason why ye shudden't be marrid an' live comfortable,' he says. an' marrid they were, in th' same ol' foolish way that people's been marrid in f'r cinchries. 'tis a wondher to me th' ceremony ain't changed. th' time is comin', hinnissy, whin millyionaires 'll not be marrid be father murphy, but be th' gov'nors iv th' stock exchange. they'll be put through th' clearin' house, me faith, an' securities 'll be issued be th' combination. twinty-year, goold-secured, four per cint bonds iv mathrimony! aha, 'tis a joke that chansy depoo might 've med! "th' crowd outside waited, cheerin' an' fightin' th' polis. in this here land iv liberty an' akequality, hinnissy, ivry man is as good as ivry other man, except a polisman. an' it showed how thrue th' people in new york is to th' thraditions iv jefferson that divvle a wan iv thim 'd move away till th' check 'd been passed fr'm father to son, an' th' important part iv th' sacred ceremony was over. thin a few iv thim wint home to cook dinner f'r their husbands, who was previnted be their jooties at th' gas-house fr'm attindin' th' function. th' rest raymained an' see th' two gr-reat fortunes get into their carredge, pursued be th' guests to th' amount iv five hundherd millyions, peltin' thim with seed pearls." "sure," said mr. hennessy, "mebbe 'twasn't as bad as th' pa-apers let on. ye can't always thrust thim." "p'rhaps not," said mr. dooley. "th' pa-apers say, 'two gr-reat fortunes united'; an', if that's it, they didn't need th' sarvices iv a priest, but a lawyer an' a thrust comp'ny. p'rhaps, with all th' certyfied checks, 'twas two rale people that was marrid; an', if that's so, it explains th' prisince if father murphy." the dreyfus case. i. "th' scene was treemenjously excitin'. th' little city iv rennes was thronged with des'prit journalists that had pledged their fortunes an' their sacred honors, an' manny iv thim their watches, to be prisint an' protect th' public again th' degradin' facts. niver since th' war in cubia has so manny iv these brave fellows been gathered together at th' risk iv their lives fr'm overcrowdin' th' resthrants. no wan has iver sufficiently described th' turrors iv a corryspondint's life excipt th' corryspondints thimsilves. gin'rals an' other liars is rewarded. th' corryspondint gets no credit. no wan will give him credit. still he sticks to his post; an' on this pearlous day he was at rennes, fightin' th' other corryspondints, or, if he was an english journalist, defindin' th' honor iv fr-rance again hersilf. 'tis a good thing for fr-rance that there ar-re silf-sacrificin' men that don't undherstand her language, to presint her vicious nature to th' english an' american public. otherwise, hinnissy, she might think she was as good as th' rest iv us. "well, while th' sthreets in rennes was packed with these dauntless souls, ar-rmed with death-dealin' kodaks, there was a commotion near th' coort-house. was it a rivolution? was this th' beginnin' iv another saint barth'mew's day, whin th' degraded passions in fr-rance, pent up durin' three hundherd years, 'd break forth again? was it th' signal iv another div'lish outbreak that 'd show th' thrue nature iv th' fr-rinch people, disgeezed behind a varnish iv ojoous politeness which our waiters know nawthin' about? no, alas! alas! 'twas nawthin' a man cud make more thin a column iv. 'twas th' ac-cursed janitor goin' in to open th' degraded windows. abase th' janitor, abase th' windows! fear followed uncertainty. no wan knew what moment he might be called upon to defind his life with his honor. suddenly th' brutal polisman who sthud on gyard waved his hand. what cud the brave men do? they were obliged to rethreat in disordher. but our special corryspondint was able f'r to obtain a fine view of th' thrillin' scene that followed. first came th' coort, weepin'. they was followed be th' gin'rals in th' fr-rinch ar-rmy, stalwart, fearless men, with coarse, disagreeable faces. each gin'ral was attinded be his private bodygyard iv thried and thrusted perjurers, an' was followed be a wagon-load iv forgeries, bogus affidavies, an' other statements iv major estherhazy. afther thim come th' former ministers iv th' fr-rinch governmint, makin' an imposin' line, which took three hours passin' a given point. as they marched, it was seen that they were shyly kickin' each other. "an interval iv silence followed, in which cud be heard cries iv 'abase dhryfuss!' an' 'abase fr-rance!' an' thin come th' man on whom th' lies iv all th' wurruld is cinthred. captain dhryfuss plainly shows his throubles, which have made him look tin years younger. his raven hair is intirely white; an' his stalwart frame, with th' shoulders thrown back, is stooped an' weary. his haggard face was flushed with insolent confidence, an' th' cowa'dice in his face showed in his fearless eye. as he passed, a young fr-rinch sojer was with diff'culty resthrained fr'm sthrikin' him an' embracin' him with tears in his eyes. "in th' coort-room th' scene baffled description. it was an inspirin' sight f'r th' judges, whin they were awake. row on row iv journalists, sharpin' pencils an' slappin' each other's faces, r-rose to th' ceilin'. here an' there cud be seen a brillyant uniform, denotin' th' prisince iv th' london times corryspondint. th' lawn behind th' coort was thronged with ex-mimbers iv th' fr-rinch governmint. th' gin'ral staff, bein' witnesses f'r th' prosecution, sat with th' coort: th' pris'ner, not bein' able to find a chair, sat on th' window-sill. his inthrest in th' proceedin's was much noticed, an' caused gr-reat amusement. ivrybody was talkin' about th' mysteryous lady in white. who is she? some say she is a dhryfussard in th' imploy iv rothscheeld; others, that she is an agent iv th' anti-semites. no wan has learned her name. she says she is madame lucille gazahs, iv wan hundherd an' eight rue le bombon, an' is a fav'rite iv th' fr-rinch stage. she is wan iv th' great mysthries iv this ree-markable thrile. "afther th' coort had kissed th' witnesses, th' proceedin's opined. 'tis thrue, they kiss each other. i wanst see a fr-rinchman go f'r to kiss a man be th' name iv doherty, that inthrajooced risolutions in favor iv fr-rance again germany at a convintion. doherty thought he was afther his ear, an' laid him out. but in fr-rance 'tis different. they begin be kissin', an' this thrile opined this way. "'pris'ner,' said th' prisident iv th' coort, 'th' eyes iv fr-rance is upon us, th' honor iv th' nation is at stake. th' naytional definces, th' integrity iv that ar-rmy upon which fr-rance must depind in time iv peace, th' virtue iv public life, an' th' receipts iv th' exposition is involved. incidentally, ye ar-re bein' thried. but why dhrag in matthers iv no importance? we ar-re insthructed, accordin' to th' pa-apers, be th' coort iv cassation, to permit no ividince that does not apply to your connection with th' case. as sojers, we bow to th' superyor will. we will follow out th' instructions iv th' supreme coort. we have not had time to read thim, but we will look at thim afther th' thrile. in th' mane time we will call upon gin'ral merceer, that gallant man, to tell us th' sthory iv his life.' "'i obey, mon colonel,' says gin'ral merceer, kissin' th' coort. 'not to begin too far back, an' to make a long sthory short, i am an honest man, an' th' son iv an honest man. i admit it.' "'good,' says th' prisident. 'd'ye recognize th' pris'ner?' 'i do,' says gin'ral merceer, 'i seen him wanst dhrinkin' a shell iv munich beer in a caafe. [marked sensation in th' coort, an' cries iv 'abase la bock.'] "'i says to mesilf thin, "this man is a thraitor." but th' thrainin' iv a sojer makes wan cautious. i determined to fortify mesilf with ividince. i put spies on this man, this perfiejous wretch, an' discovered nawthin'. i was paralyzed. an officer iv th' fr-rinch ar-rmy, an' nawthin' suspicyous about him! damnable! i was with difficulty resthrained fr'm killin' him. but i desisted. [cries iv 'shame!'] i said to mesilf: "th' honor iv fr-rance is at stake. th' whole wurruld is lookin' at me, at me, bill merceer. i will go to bed an' think it over." i wint to bed. sleep, blessed sleep that sews up th' confused coat-sleeve iv care, as th' perfiejous shakspere [cries iv 'conspuez shakspere!'] says, dayscinded on me tired eyes. [the coort weeps.] i laid aside me honor [cries iv 'brave gin'ral'] with me coat [murmurs]. i slept. "'i dhreamed that i see th' german impror playin' a jew's-harp. [cries iv 'abase rothscheeld!' an' sensation.] i woke with a vi'lent start, th' perspiration poorin' fr'm me rugged brow. "cap dhryfuss is guilty," i cried. but no, i will confirm me ividince. i darted into me r-red pants. i dhruv with fury to th' home iv madame cleepathry, th' cillibrated agyptian asthrologist an' med'cin woman. [th' coort, 'we know her, she supplies ividence to all fr-rinch coorts.'] i tol' her me dhream. she projoosed a pack iv cards. she tur-rned a r-red king an' a black knave. "th' impror willum an' cap dhryfuss," i says, in a fury. i burst forth. i had cap dhryfuss arristed. i dashed to th' prisident. he was a-receivin' rayfusals f'r a new cabinet. "i have found th' thraitor," says i. "hush!" says he. "if th' impror willum hears ye, he'll declare war," he says. i was stupefied. "oh, my beloved counthry!" i cried. "oh, hivin!" i cried. "what shall i do?" i cried. they was not a minyit to lose. i disbanded th' ar-rmy. i ordhered th' navy into dhry dock. i had me pitcher took, i wint home an' hid in th' cellar. f'r wan night fr-rance was safe.' "they was hardly a dhry eye in th' house whin th' gin'ral paused. th' coort wept. th' aujience wept. siv'ral of th' minor journalists was swept out iv th' room in th' flood. a man shovellin' coal in th' cellar sint up f'r an umbrella. th' lawn shook with th' convulsive sobs iv th' former ministers. gin'ral merceer raised his damp face, an' blew a kiss to a former minister at wan iv th' windows, an' resumed his tistimony." the dreyfus case. ii. "'it was about this time or some years later,' continues gin'ral merceer, 'that i received ividince iv th' cap's guilt. i made it mesilf. it was a letter written be me fr'm th' cap to a german grocer, askin' f'r twinty r-rounds iv sausage. [turmoil in the coort.] it was impossible, mon colonel, that this here letter cud have been written be estherhazy. in th' first place he was in paris at th' time, in th' sicond place he was in london. th' letter is not in his handwritin', but in th' handwritin' iv colonel pat th' clam. thin again i wrote th' letter mesilf. thin who cud 've written it? it must 've been cap dhryfuss. [cheers fr'm th' coort.] i give me reasons as they occurred to me: first, th' armeenyan athrocities; sicond, th' risignation iv gin'ral alger; third, th' marriage iv prince lobengula; fourth, th' scarcity iv sarvint girls in th' sooburban towns; fifth, th' price iv gas. [cries iv 'abase th' price iv gas!'] i thank th' aujience. i will raysume where i left off. i was speakin' iv gin'ral guns. i met him on th' sthreet. th' moon was clear in th' sky. i says, "guns," i says, "lave us go down to hogan's, an' i'll buy ye a tub iv obsceenthe." as we sthrolled through th' bullyvard, i saw a man that looked like a german dhrivin' a cab. i was overcome with terror. i ran madly home, followed be guns. it was a week befure i cud hold a glass iv obsceenthe without spillin' th' liquor. shortly afther this, or it may've been tin years befure, or it may niver have occurred [the coort, 'spoken like a fr-rinchman an' a sojer'], in th' middle iv july a man tol' me that the divine sara [wild an' continyous applause, cries iv 'sara foriver!'] was about to projooce th' immortal play iv "omlet" [cheers] be th' wretched shakspere [hisses]. cud annything be clearer? i will detain th' coort not longer thin a day while i give me opinyon on this marvellous performance.' "cap dhryfuss was settin' on th' window-sill, whistlin' 'garry owen,' an' makin' faces at th' gallant corryspondint iv th' daily wrongs iv man. at this point he cried out laughingly: 'i will not conthradict th' gin'ral. i will say he lies. i saw th' letter mesilf, an' that man was esterhazy.' [sensation.] "'let me ask this canal iv a jew a question,' says th' corryspondint iv th' evening rothscheeld roaster, a fr-rinchman be th' name iv sol levi. "'ask it,' says cap dhryfuss. "'you are a despicable thraitor,' says th' gallant corryspondint. [sensation.] "'th' pris'ner must answer,' says th' coort. 'it is now nearly six o'clock iv th' mornin', an' time to get up an' dhress.' "'i refuse to make anny commint,' says cap dhryfuss, "the pris'ner's remark, uttered in tones iv despair, caused gr-reat emotion in th' aujience. there were angry cries iv 'lynch him!' an' all eyes were tur-rned to th' cap. "'silence!' roared th' coort, bendin' a stern, inflexible look on th' pris'ner. 'this is a coort iv justice. we ar-re disposed f'r to grant ivry indulgence; but, if outsiders persist in intherferin' with these proceedin's,' he says, 'we'll expel thim fr'm th' r-room. what does th' prisoner think this is?' "'i thought it was a thrile,' says th' cap; 'but, be th' number iv vet'ran journalists here, it must be th' openin' iv a new hotel.' "'not another wurrud,' says th' coort, 'or ye'll be fired out. no wan shall insult th' honest, hard-wurrukin', sober, sensible journalists iv fr-rance. not if this coort knows it. ye bet ye, boys, th' coort is with ye. th' press is th' palajeen iv our liberties. gin'ral merceer will raysume his tistimony. he was speakin' of th' game iv goluf.' "'perhaps i'd betther sing it,' says th' gin'ral. "'i'll play an accompanymint f'r ye on th' flute,' says th' prisident iv th' coort. 'while gin'ral merceer is proceedin' with his remarks, call colonel pat th' clam, who is sick an' can't come. swear gin'ral billot, gin'ral boisdeffer, gin'ral chammy, an' th' former mimbers iv th' governmint.' "'i object to thim bein' sworn,' says matther blamange. "'they must be sworn,' says th' prisident. 'how th' divvle can they perjure thimsilves if they ain't sworn? an' who ar-re ye, annyhow?' "'i'm th' counsel f'r th' pris'ner,' says matther blamange. 'get out ye'ersilf,' says matther blamange. 'i'm as good a man as ye ar-re. i will ask that gintleman who jest wint out the dure, does it pay to keep up appearances?' [groans.] "'gin'ral billot,' says th' prisident, 'what d'ye know about this infernal case which is broodin' like a nightmare over our belovid counthry, an' gettin' us up ivry mornin' befure milkin' time?' "'nawthin' at all,' says gin'ral billot. "'nayther do i,' says th' prisident. 'but i think th' cap's guilty.' "'i'm glad to hear ye say that,' says th' gin'ral, 'if ye didn't, i'd rayjooce ye to th' r-ranks to-morrah. i niver see th' man befure; an', be hivins, i don't want to see him again. but i have a letter here fr'm him, askin' me if he cud knock off wurruk at four o'clock to go to his aunt's fun'ral.' "'cap,' says th' prisident, 'what ye got to say to this? did ye write th' letter?' "'i did,' says th' cap. "'throw it out thin,' says th' prisident. 'we must be guided be th' laws iv ividence. th' witness will confine himself to forgeries. have ye e'er a forgery about ye'er clothes, mon gin'ral?' "'i wish to confront th' witness,' says matther blamange. "'sit down,'" says th' prisident. "'d'ye raymimber meetin' me at dinner at moosoo de bozoo's. it was years ago, durin' th' time iv napolyeon, befure th' big fire? if i raymimber right, we had peas. wasn't it a lovely night? oh dear, oh dear, gintlemen iv th' press an' mon prisident, ye ought to have been there. well, i says to gin'ral billot, i says, "gin'ral," i says, "how ar-re ye, annyhow." an' the gin'ral replies, "f'r an ol' man, well." i made up me mind thin that th' cap was innocent, an' this was before he was born. "'me distinguished colleague in th' thrile iv this case, th' editor iv wan iv th' paris papers,' says th' prisident, 'has received a letter fr'm th' military attachay or spy iv th' impror iv austhrich, sayin' that he did not write th' letter referred to be prisident kruger, an', if he did, it's a forgery. but what cud ye ixpict? i will throw both letters into the secret dossier.' "'what's that?' says matther blamange. "'it's a collection iv pomes wrote to th' paris papers be spies,' says th' prisident. 'call colonel peekhart, if th' others ar-re not through. what, you again, peekhart? set down, sir.' "'gintlemen iv fr-rance,' says colonel peekhart. 'unaccustomed as i am to public speakin', i wish to addhress ye a few wurruds on th' situation iv th' poor in china.' "'assassin!' hisses th' coort. "'canal!' says matther blamange. "at this moment th' door was burst open; an' an ex-prisident iv fr-rance come boundin' in, an', r-rushin' up th' steps iv th' thrybune, smacked gin'ral merceer in th' eye. th' gr-reatest rayspict was shown f'r th' former chief magistrate iv th' raypublic. no wan shot at him. he was white with rage. 'th' honor iv fr-rance is at stake,' he says. 'our counthry lies prostrate in th' mud. i must presarve th' dignity iv me high office; but, if gin'ral merceer will step out into th' back yard, i'll beat his head off. i don't know annything about this accursed case. it was all referred to me whin i was prisident. i am here to see that th' honor iv me high office is not assailed. i protest i did not say what an anonymous corryspondint in to-night's sore says i said. i did me jooty. whin i saw th' ar-rmy disorganized an' fr-rance beset be foreign foes, i raysigned. what was i to do? was i to stay in office, an' have me hat smashed in ivry time i wint out to walk? i tell ye, gintlemen, that office is no signcure. until hats are made iv cast iron, no poor man can be prisident iv fr-rance. but i was not speakin' iv th' dhryfuss case.' "'don't dare to mintion that matter in this coort,' says th' prisident. 'i'm surprised a man iv ye'er intilligence 'd thry to dhrag in exthranyous matther, whin th' honor iv th' ar-rmy is at stake. gin'ral merceer, stand beside this witness. now both speak at wanst! annybody else that has annything to say, lave him say it now, so it won't be heard.' "'mon colonel,' says a former minister iv th' fr-rinch governmint, who was th' polisman at th' dure, 'judge crazy th' boorepare is here, demandin' to be heard.' "'gr-reat hivins!' says th' coort; an' they wint out through th' windows. "that night they was gr-reat excitement in rennes. th' citizens dhrivin home their cows cud har'ly make their way through th' excited throngs on th' sthreet. th' corryspondints iv th' english papers do not dare to go to bed befure nine o'clock on account iv rumors iv a gin'ral massacre. madame sara bernhardt gave a magnificint performance at th' theaytre, an' was wildly cheered. it was believed in london, budapesth, posen, new york, cookham, an' upper sandusky that fr-rance is about to perish. as i go to press, th' news has excited no commint in fr-rance." the dreyfus case. iii. "while th' thrillin' scenes i'm tellin' ye about is goin' on, hinnissy, worse is bein' enacted in beautiful paris. in that lovely city with its miles an' miles iv sparklin' resthrants,--la belly paree, as hogan 'd say,--th' largest american city in th' wurruld, a rivolution's begun. if ye don't believe it, read th' pa-apers. they've arrested a pote. that was all r-right; f'r fr-rance is sufferin' fr'm too much pothry that 'll scan, as hogan says, an' too much morality that won't. they ought to be a rule f'r th' polis to pinch anny pote caught poting between th' hours iv twelve an' twelve. but th' mistake th' chief iv th' polis made was to r-run in a butcher at th' same time. what th' butcher done i dinnaw; but annyhow they accused him iv wantin' to poleaxe th' governmint; an' they thrun him into a cell. now th' butcher he had a frind be th' name iv guerin,--an irish name it is, but this la-ad don't appear to be wan iv us,--jools guerin. he was wanst in th' thripe business; but he is now r-runnin' a newspaper, like most iv th' people iv fr-rance. as a thripe butcher, his circulation was larger an' among a betther class than his newspaper. bein' a la-ad with a fine sinse iv gratichood, an' havin' been wanst fed an' clothed be a jew man, he calls his pa-aper th' anti-jew; an' its principle is, whin ye see a jew, hand him a crack in th' jaw. 'tis a good principle, though i wanst knew a man be th' name iv solomon felsenthal, that was known in th' ring as mike gallegher, th' tipp'rary cyclone, as a thribute to th' feelin's iv th' pathrons iv spoort; an', if jools had thried to carry out his platform with solly, they'd be no siege in fort chabrool. not anny. that jew man 'd been champeen iv th' wurruld if all iv him cud 've kept out iv close quarthers with th' man again him. "i don't quarrel with jools' feelin's, mind ye. 'tis th' histhry iv th' wurruld that th' jews takes our watches fr'm us be tin per cint a month, an' we take thim back be means iv a jimmy an' a piece iv lead pipe. they're on'y two known methods iv finance,--bankin' an' burglary. th' jews has th' first down fine, but all th' rest iv th' wurruld is at home in th' second. so jools's all r-right as far as he goes. but he don't go far. "well, whin jools hear-rd that his frind th' butcher was sloughed up, he wint fairly wild. he says to himsilf, he says, 'i'll go home,' he says, 'an' defy th' governmint,' he says. 'i'll start a rivolution,' he says. 'but,' he says, 'i must first notify th' polis,' he says, 'so's to prevint disordher,' he says. so he wint to th' chief iv polis, who was an ol' frind iv his,--they was in th' same newspaper office or thripe dairy or something,--an' th' chief kissed jools, an' asked him what he cud do f'r him. 'i wish,' said jools, 'ye'd sind down tin or a dozen good men in uniform an' a few detectives in citizen's clothes,' he says. "i've asked some ladies an' gintlemen to a five o'clock rivolution at my house,' he says; 'an' i'd like to be sure they'll be no disordher,' he says. 'well,' says th' chief, ''twill not be aisy,' he says. 'ye see th' prisident--i f'rget his name--has been asked to go to th' r-races with some frinds,' he says; 'an' they will prob'bly thry to kill him,' he says. 'we can't play anny fav'rites here,' he says. 'we have to protect th' low as well as th' high,' he says. 'if annything happens to this man, th' case is li'ble to be taken up be th' ex-prisidents' association; an' they're num'rous enough to make throuble f'r us,' he says. 'but,' he says, 'i'll do what i can f'r ye, me ol' frind,' he says. 'give us th' best ye have,' says jools; 'an', if ye've nawthin' to do afther ye close up, ye might dhrop in,' he says, 'an' have a manifesto with us,' he says. 'come just as ye ar-re,' he says. ''tis an informal rivolution,' he says. "an' away he wint. at sharp five o'clock th' rivolution begun. th' sthreets was dinsely packed with busy journalists, polis, sojers, an' fash'nably dhressed ladies who come down fr'm th' chang's all easy in motocycles. there was gr-reat excitement as jools come to th' windy an' pinned a copy iv his vallyable journal on th' sill, accompanied be a thrusty liftnant wavin' a statement iv th' circulation iv th' anti-jew. jools at this moment was a tur-rble sight. he was dhressed fr'm head to foot in harveyized, bomb-proof steel, with an asbestos rose in his buttonhole. round his waist was sthrapped four hundherd rounds iv ca'tridges an' eight days' provisions. he car-rid a mauser rifle on each shoulder, a machine gun undher wan ar-rm, a dinnymite bomb undher another, an' he was smoking a cigareet. 'ladies an' gintlemen,' he says, 'i'm proud an' pleased to see ye prisint in such lar-rge numbers at th' first rivolution iv th' prisint season,' he says. 'with th' kind permission iv th' hated polis undher th' di-rection iv me good frind an' fellow-journalist, loot franswoo coppere, an' th' ar-rmy, f'r whose honor ivry fr-renchman 'll lay down his life, th' siege will now begin. we will not,' he says, 'lave this house till we have driven ivry cur-rsed cosmypollitan or jew,' he says, 'fr'm this noble land iv th' br-rave an' home iv th' flea,' he says. 'veev fr-rance!' he says. 'veev jools guerin!' he says. 'conspuez rothscheeld!' he says. 'it's ye'er move, loot,' he says to th' polisman. "'i defer to th' ar-rmy whose honor is beyond reproach,' says th' polisman, 'or recognition,' he says. 'veev l'army!' he says. "'thank ye,' says gin'ral bellow, salutin'. 'i will do me jooty. man can do no more,' he says. 'jools,' he says, 'surrinder,' he says. 'ye cannot longer hol' out,' he says. 'ye have provisions on'y f'r eight years.' "'we will remain till th' last wan iv us perishes iv indigestion,' says jools. "'thin i must take sthrong measures,' says th' gin'ral. 'at a given signal we will storm th' house, bate down th' dures, smash in th' roofs, cut off th' gas, poison th' wather supply, back up th' sewer, break th' windys, an' r-raise th' rint.'" "'do ye'er worst,' says jools, proudly. "'thin,' says th' gin'ral, imprissively, 'if these measures do not suffice, i will suspind th' deliv'ry iv th' mails,' he says. "'miscreant!' cries jools, tur-rnin' white. 'an' this is called a merciful governmint,' he says. 'mong doo,' he says, 'what cr-rimes will not fr-rinchmen commit again' fr-rinchmen!' he says. 'but,' he says, 'ye little know us, if ye think we can be quelled be vi'lence,' he says. 'i have a last card,' he says. 'i refuse to give th' signal,' he says. "'thin,' says th' gin'ral, tur-rnin' away with tears in his eyes, 'we must adopt other measures.' "'very well,' says jools. 'but mark wan thing,--that, if ye attempt to make me ridiculous, ye shall suffer.' "'i assure ye, mong editor,' says th' gin'ral, earnestly, 'that th' governmint will not make ye anny more ridiculous than it makes itsilf,' says he. "'me honor is satisfied,' says jools. 'do ye'er worst,' he says. "at eight o'clock th' minister iv war ar-rived, an' took command. he ordhered up twinty rig'mints iv cav'lry, tin batthries iv artillery, an' two divisions iv fut sojers. it was his intintion to sind th' cav'lry in over th' roofs, while th' army carried th' front stoop, protected be fire fr'm th' heavy artillery, while th' fr-rinch navy shelled th' back dure. but this was seen to be impossible, because th' man that owned th' wine-shop next dure, he said 'twud dhrive away custom. all th' sthreets f'r miles ar-round was blockaded without effect. th' fire departmint was called to put jools out, but wather niver touched him. th' sewer gang wint down an' blocked th' dhrains, an' jools soon had inspiration f'r a year's writin'. at last accounts th' garrison was still holdin' out bravely again a witherin' fire iv canned food, lobsters, omelets, an' hams. a brave gossoon in th' sivinth artill'ry did partic'larly effective wurruk, hur-rlin' a plate iv scrambled eggs acrost th' sthreet without spillin' a dhrop, an' is now thrainin' a pie like mother used to make on th' first windy iv th' sicond flure. it is reported that th' minister iv war at four o'clock to-morrow mornin' will dhrop a bundle iv copies iv jools' paper through th' chimbley. whin he opens th' windy, a pome be paul deroulede 'll be read to him. this is again th' articles iv war, but th' case is desp'rate. "but i was thinkin', hinnissy, as i walked down th' roo chabrool, how i'd like to see a chicago polisman come sthrollin' along with his hat on th' back iv his head. i don't love chicago polismen. they seem to think ivry man's head's as hard as their own. but i'd give forty-three francs, or eight dollars an' sixty cints iv our money, if th' fr-rinch governmint 'd sind f'r jawnny shea, an' ask him to put down this here rivolution. th' nex' day they'd move th' office iv th' anti-seemite society to th' morgue." the dreyfus case. iv. "well, hinnissy, to get back to rennes. whin i left off, th' air was full iv rumors iv an approachin' massacree. it was still full at daybreak. exthraordinney measures was adopted to provide again disturbance. th' gyard was doubled, an' both polismen had all they cud do to keep th' crowd in ordher. th' english an' american journalists appeared at th' thrile wrapped up in th' flags iv their rayspictive counthries. all th' jews, excipt th' owners iv anti-jew papers fr'm paris, wore heavy masks an' kep' their hands in their pockets. at four o'clock th' prisident called th' aujience to disordher, an', havin' disentangled gin'ral merceer an' a former prisident iv th' raypublic, demanded if moosoo bertillon was in th' room. "'here,' says that gr-reat janius, descindin' fr'm th' roof in a parachute. ye know bertillon. ye don't? iv coorse ye do, hinnissy. he's th' la-ad that invinted th' system iv ditictive wurruk med aisy that they use down in th' cintral polis station. i mind wanst, afther 'twas inthrojooced, th' loot says to andy rohan,--he's a sergeant now, be hivins!--he says, 'go out,' he says, 'an' fetch in mike mcgool, th' safe robber,' he says. 'here's his description,' he says: 'eyelashes, eight killomethres long; eyes, blue an' assymethrical; jaw, bituminous; measuremint fr'm abaft th' left ear to base iv maxillory glan's, four hectograms; a r-red scar runnin' fr'm th' noomo-gasthric narve to th' sicond dorsal verteebree,' he says. 'tis so. i have th' description at home in th' cash dhrawer. well, andy come in about six o'clock that night, lookin' as though he'd been thryin' to r-run a fut race acrost a pile iv scrap ir'n; an' says he, 'loot,' he says, 'i've got him,' he says. "i didn't take th' measuremints,' he says, 'because, whin i pulled out th' tape line, he rowled me eighty hectograms down th' sthreet,' he says. 'but 'tis mike mcgool,' he says. 'i don't know annything about his noomo-gasthric narves,' he says, 'but i reco'nized his face,' he says. 'i've r-run him in fifty times,' he says. "bertillon, besides bein' a profissor iv detictives, is a handwritin' expert, which is wan iv th' principal industhries iv fr-rance at th' prisint time. he was accompanied be a throop iv assistants carryin' a camera, a mutoscope, a magic lantern, a tib iv dye, a telescope, a calceem light, a sextant, a compass, a thermometer, a barometer, a thrunkful iv speeches, a duplicate to th' agyptian obelisk, an ink-eraser, an' a rayceipt f'r makin' goold out iv lead pipe. "'well, sir,' says bertillon, 'what d'ye want?' "'nawthin',' says th' coort. 'didn't ye ask to be called here?' "'no,' says bertillon, 'an' ye didn't ask me, ayther. i come. ye said jus' now, why do i believe th' cap's guilty? i will show ye. in th' spring iv ninety-five or th' fall iv sixty-eight, i disraymimber which, gin'ral merceer'-- "'ye lie,' says gin'ral merceer, coldly. "'--called on me; an' says he, "bertillon," he says, "ye'er fam'ly's been a little cracked, an' i thought to ask ye to identify this letther which i've jus' had written be a frind iv mine, major estherhazy," he says. "i don't care to mintion who we suspect; but he's a canal jew in th' artillery, an' his name's cap dhryfuss," he says. "it's not aisy," i says; "but, if th' honor iv th' ar-rmy's at stake, i'll thry to fix th' raysponsibility," i says. an' i wint to wurruk. i discovered in th' first place that all sentences begun with capitals, an' they was a peryod at th' end iv each. this aroused me suspicions. clearly, this letther was written be a jew. here i paused, f'r i had no samples iv th' cap's writin' to compare with it. so i wrote wan mesilf. they was much th' same. "sure," says i, "th' cap's guilty," i says. but how did he do it? i thried a number iv experiments. i first laid down over th' letther a piece of common tissue paper. th' writin' was perfectly plain through this. thin i threw it on a screen eighteen hands high. thin i threw it off. thin i set it to music, an' played it on a flute. thin i cooked it over a slow fire, an' left it in a cool airy place to dhry. in an instant it flashed over me how th' forgery was done. "th' cap first give it to his little boy to write. thin he had his wife copy it in imitation iv macchew dhryfuss's handwritin'. thin macchew wrote it in imitation iv estherhazy. thin th' cap had it put on a typewriter, an' r-run through a wringer. thin he laid it transversely acrost a piece of wall paper; an', whereiver th' key wurrud sponge-cake appeared, he was thereby able f'r to make a sympathic lesion, acquirin' all th' characteristics iv th' race, an' a dam sight more." "'i follow ye like a horse afther a hay wagon,' says th' prisident, 'hungrily, but unsatisfacthrly. ye do not prove that th' throuble was symotic, mong expert.' "'parfictly,' says moosoo bertillon. 'i will have me assistants put up a screen, an' on this i will projooce ividince'--"'go away,' says th' prisident. 'call colonel prystalter. mong colonel, ye thraitor, describe th' conversation ye had with colonel schneider, th' honorable but lyin' spy or confidential envoy iv th' vin'rable impror iv austhrich, may th' divvle fly way with him! but mind ye, ye must mintion no names.' "'i know no man more honest,' says th' witness. "'thin your acquaintance is limited to ye'ersilf,' says gin'ral merceer. "'colonel schneider,' says th' witness, 'th' austhrich,--whom i will designate, f'r fear iv internaytional entanglements, merely as colonel schneider,--says to me, he says: "th' letther pretindin' to be fr'm me is a forgery." "how's that?" says i. "didn't ye write an' sign it?" i says. "i did," says he. "but some wan else sint it to th' pa-apers." "'thin 'tis clearly a forgery,' says th' prisident. "'i wish to ask this witness wan question,' says gin'ral merceer. 'was it th' robin shell or th' day befure?' "'my answer to that,' says th' witness, 'is decidedly, who?' "'thin,' says gin'ral merceer, 'all i can say is, this wretch's tistimony is all a pack iv lies.' "'hol' on there!' calls a voice from th' aujience. "'what d'ye want?' says th' prisident. "'i'm th' corryspondint iv th' georgia daily lyncher, an' i can't undherstand a wurrud ye say. i've lost me dictionary. th' people iv th' state iv georgia mus' not be deprived iv their information about th' scand'lous conduct iv this infamious coort.' "'thrue,' says th' prisident. 'fr-rance 'd soon perish if georgia shud thransfer its intherest fr'm fr-rinch coorts to its own sacred timples iv justice. perhaps some confrere 'll lind th' distinguished gazabo a copy iv his ollendorff. manewhile'-- "'mong prisident,' says a white-faced polisman, 'judge crazy the boore'-- "'gr-reat hivins!' cried th' prisident. 'thin th' quarantine at oporto is a farce.' an' he plunged into th' seething mass iv handwritin' experts an' ex-prisidents iv th' raypublic in th' coort-yard below." the dreyfus case. v. "an' i was thinking hinnissy" (mr. dooley said in conclusion), "as i set in that there coort, surrounded be me fellow-journalists, spies, perjurers, an' other statesmen, that i'd give four dollars if th' prisident iv th' coort 'd call out, 'moosoo dooley, take th' stand.' "'here,' says i; an' i'd thread me way with dignity through th' fr-rinch gin'rals an' ministers on th' flure, an' give me hand to th' prisident to kiss. if he went anny further, i'd break his head. no man 'll kiss me, hinnissy, an' live. what's that ye say? he wudden't want to? well, niver mind. "'here,' says i, 'mong colonel, what d'ye want with me?' "'what d'ye know about this case, mong bar-tinder.' "'nawthin',' says i. 'but i know as much as annywan else. i know more thin most iv thim la-ads down below; f'r i can't undherstand a wurrud ye say, so i'm onable,' i says, 'f'r to make mistakes. i won't give anny tistimony, because 'twud be out iv place in this sacred timple devoted to th' practice iv orathry,' i says; 'but i can make as good a speech as annywan, an' here goes.' "gin'ral merceer--'may i ask this polluted witness wan question?' "th' witness.--'set down, ye infamious ol' polthroon!' says i. 'set down an' pondher ye'er sins,' i says. 'if ye had ye'er dues, ye'd be cooprin' a bar'l in th' pinitinchry. if ye're afraid iv th' impror willum, be hivins, ye want to be afraid iv th' impror dooley; f'r he's dutch, an' i ain't. i'll raysume me speech. lady an' gintlemen, prisoner at th' bar, freeman that ought to be there, lawyers, gin'rals, ex-prisidents, former mimbers iv th' cabinet, an' you, me gin'rous confreres iv th' wurruld's press, i come fr'm a land where injustice is unknown, where ivry man is akel befure th' law, but some are betther thin others behind it, where th' accused always has a fair thrile ayether,' i says, 'in th' criminal coort or at th' coroner's inquest,' i says. 'i have just been in another counthry where such conduct as we've witnessed here wud be unknown at a second thrile,' i says, 'because they have no second thriles,' i says. 'we anglo-saxons ar-re th' salt iv th' earth, an' don't ye f'rget it, boys. all our affairs ar-re in ordher. we convict no innocent men an' very few guilty wans, perjury is unknown amongst us, we have no military scandals, an' our private life is beyond rebuke. so we have th' time an' th' inclination to study th' vile offences iv our neighbors, an' give thim advice free iv cost. an' that is why i'm here to-day in this degraded counthry to tell ye what's th' matther with ye an' what ye ought to do. "'an' this is me opinyon: i don't think cap. dhryfuss wr-rote th' borderoo. i think he was th' on'y man in fr-rance that didn't. but i ain't got as high an opinyon iv th' cap as i had. i ain't no purity brigade; but, th' older i get, th' more i think wan wife's enough f'r anny man, an' too manny f'r some. they was a time, cap, whin 'twas seryously thought iv takin' ye fr'm th' divvle's own island an' makin' ye prisident iv th' women's rescue league. but i'm afraid, cap, ye're disqualified f'r that position be what we've heard fr'm ye'er own lips durin th' thrile. ye lost a good job. thin there ar-re some other things about ye i don't undherstand. i can't make out what ye meant be pretindin' to go to it'ly an' doublin' back into germany; an' i wish f'r me own peace iv mind all ye'er explanations 'd mate. but, sure, if ivry man that was too free with his affections was to be sint to th' divvle's own island, they'd have to build an intinsion to that far-famed winther resort. an' if suspicyous actions was proof iv guilt, mong colonel, ye'd have th' mimbers iv th' gin'ral staff sthrung up in as manny cages as ye see at th' zoo-illogical gardens [laughter an' cries iv 'veev dooley!'] "'th' throuble is, mong colonel, lady an' gintlemen, that it ain't been cap dhryfuss that's been on thrile, but th' honor iv th' nation an' th' honor iv th' ar-rmy. if 'twas th' cap that was charged, ye'd say to him, "cap, we haven't anny proof again ye; but we don't like ye, an' ye'll have to move on." an' that 'd be th' end iv th' row. the cap 'd go over to england an' go into th' south african minin' business, an' become what hogan calls "a casey's bellows." but, because some la-ad on th' gin'ral staff got caught lyin' in th' start an' had to lie some more to make th' first wan stick, an' th' other gin'rals had to jine him f'r fear he might compromise thim if he wint on telling his fairy stories, an' they was la-ads r-runnin' newspapers in paris that needed to make a little money out iv th' popylation, ye said, "th' honor iv th' fr-rinch people an' th' honor iv th' fr-rinch ar-rmy is on thrile"; an' ye've put thim in th' dock instead iv th' cap. th' honor iv fr-rance is all right, me boy, an' will be so long as th' fr-rinch newspapers is not read out iv paree,' i says. 'an', if th' honor iv th' fr-rinch ar-rmy can stand thim pants that ye hew out iv red flannel f'r thim, a little threachery won't injure it at all,' i says. 'yes,' says i, 'th' honor iv fr-rance an' th' honor iv th' ar-rmy 'll come out all r-right,' i says; 'but it wudden't do anny harm f'r to sind th' honor iv th' fr-rinch gin'rals to th' laundhry,' i says. 'i think ye'd have to sind gin'ral merceer's to th' dyer's,' i says. 'ye niver can take out th' spots, an' it might as well all be th' same color,' i says. 'mong colonel,' i says imprissively, 'so long as ivry man looks out f'r his own honor, th' honor iv th' counthry 'll look out f'r itsilf,' i says. 'no wan iver heard iv a nation stealin' a lead pipe or committin' perjury,' i says. ''tis th' men that makes up th' nation that goes in f'r these diversions,' i says. 'i'd hate to insure again burglars th' naytional honor that was guarded be that ol' gazabo,' says i, indicatin' merceer with th' toe iv me boot. "'that's wan point. they's another, mong colonel. ye're all afraid. that's th' truth iv th' matther. ye're like a lot iv ol' women that thinks ivry time th' shutter creaks burglars is goin' to break into th' house. ye're afraid iv rothscheeld, an' th' impror iv germany, an' th' dook d'orleans, vik bonaparte, an' joe chamberlain, an' bill mckinley. be hivins, i believe ye're even afraid iv gin'ral otis! ye're afraid iv th' newspapers, ye're afraid iv jools guerin, ye're afraid iv a pote, even whin he is not ar-rmed with his pothry, an' ye're afraid iv each other. brace up! be men! if i was a fr-rinchman, i'd be afraid iv no man but th' cab-dhrivers; an' i wudden't be afraid iv thim long, f'r i'd be a cab-dhriver mesilf. "'wan thing more, an' thin me tistimony's over. ye want me advice. ye didn't ask f'r it. if i was prisident iv this coort-martial, i'd say to cap dhryfuss: "cap, get out. ye may not be a thraitor, but ye're worse. ye're become a bore." an' i'd give him money enough to lave th' counthry. thin i'd sind th' gin'ral staff off to some quiet counthry village where they'd be free fr'm rumors iv war, an' have nawthin' else to do but set around in rockin'-chairs an' play with th' cat. thin i'd cut th' cable to england; an' thin i'd gather all the journalists iv paris together, an' i'd say, "gintlemen," i'd say, "th' press is th' palajeem iv our liberties," i'd say; "but our liberties no longer requires a palajeem," i'd say. "this wan, whativer it means, is frayed at th' risbands, an' th' buttonholes is broken, annyhow," i'd say. "i've bought all iv ye tickets to johannisberg," i'd say, "an' ye'll be shipped there tonight," i'd say. "ye'er confreres iv that gr-reat city is worn out with their exertions, an' ye'll find plenty iv wurruk to do. in fact, those iv ye that're anti-seemites 'll niver lack imployment," i'd say. "hinceforth fr-rance will be free--fr'm th' likes iv ye," i'd say. an' th' nex' mornin' paris 'd awake ca'm an' peaceful, with no newspapers, an' there 'd be more room in our own papers f'r th' base-ball news,' says i. "'but, mong liquor dealer, what ye propose 'd depopylate france,' says th' prisident. "'if that's th' case,' says i, 'fr-rance ought to be depopylated,' i says. 'i've been thinkin' that's th' on'y way it can be made fit to live in f'r a man fr'm chicago, where th' jambons come fr'm,' says i, lavin' th' stand." * * * * * "arrah, what ar-re ye talkin' about?" demanded mr. hennessy. "ye niver got a peek in th' dure." "what have you been doin'?" mr. dooley asked, disregarding the interruption. "i wint out to see th' rowlin' mills," said mr. hennessy. "they have a very good plant; an' a man be th' name iv mechell onnessy or mike hennessy, a cousin iv mine that come over th' fenian time with stevens, is boss iv a gang. he speaks fr-rinch like a boardin'-school. i talked with wan iv th' la-ads through him. "did ye ask him about th' dhryfuss case?" asked mr. dooley, eagerly. "i did." "what did he say?" "he said he niver heerd of it." gullible's travels, etc. _by_ ring w. lardner _author of_ you know me, al, etc. _illustrated by_ may wilson preston indianapolis the bobbs-merrill company publishers copyright the curtis publishing company copyright the bobbs-merrill company press of braunworth & co. book manufacturers brooklyn, n. y. [illustration: "please see that they's some towels put in ."] contents carmen three kings and a pair gullible's travels the water cure three without, doubled gullible's travels, etc. carmen we was playin' rummy over to hatch's, and hatch must of fell in a bed of four-leaf clovers on his way home the night before, because he plays rummy like he does everything else; but this night i refer to you couldn't beat him, and besides him havin' all the luck my missus played like she'd been bought off, so when we come to settle up we was plain seven and a half out. you know who paid it. so hatch says: "they must be some game you can play." "no," i says, "not and beat you. i can run two blocks w'ile you're stoopin' over to start, but if we was runnin' a foot race between each other, and suppose i was leadin' by eighty yards, a flivver'd prob'ly come up and hit you in the back and bump you over the finishin' line ahead o' me." so mrs. hatch thinks i'm sore on account o' the seven-fifty, so she says: "it don't seem fair for us to have all the luck." "sure it's fair!" i says. "if you didn't have the luck, what would you have?" "i know," she says; "but i don't never feel right winnin' money at cards." "i don't blame you," i says. "i know," she says; "but it seems like we should ought to give it back or else stand treat, either one." "jim's too old to change all his habits," i says. "oh, well," says mrs. hatch, "i guess if i told him to loosen up he'd loosen up. i ain't lived with him all these years for nothin'." "you'd be a sucker if you did," i says. so they all laughed, and when they'd quieted down mrs. hatch says: "i don't suppose you'd feel like takin' the money back?" "not without a gun," i says. "jim's pretty husky." so that give them another good laugh; but finally she says: "what do you say, jim, to us takin' the money they lose to us and gettin' four tickets to some show?" jim managed to stay conscious, but he couldn't answer nothin'; so my missus says: "that'd be grand of you to do it, but don't think you got to." well, of course, mrs. hatch knowed all the w'ile she didn't have to, but from what my missus says she could tell that if they really give us the invitation we wouldn't start no fight. so they talked it over between themself w'ile i and hatch went out in the kitchen and split a pint o' beer, and hatch done the pourin' and his best friend couldn't say he give himself the worst of it. so when we come back my missus and mrs. hatch had it all framed that the hatches was goin' to take us to a show, and the next thing was what show would it be. so hatch found the afternoon paper, that somebody'd left on the street-car, and read us off a list o' the shows that was in town. i spoke for the columbia, but the missus give me the sign to stay out; so they argued back and forth and finally mrs. hatch says: "let's see that paper a minute." "what for?" says hatch. "i didn't hold nothin' out on you." but he give her the paper and she run through the list herself, and then she says: "you did, too, hold out on us. you didn't say nothin' about the auditorium." "what could i say about it?" says hatch. "i never was inside." "it's time you was then," says mrs. hatch. "what's playin' there?" i says. "grand op'ra," says mrs. hatch. "oh!" says my missus. "wouldn't that be wonderful?" "what do you say?" says mrs. hatch to me. "i think it'd be grand for you girls," i says. "i and jim could leave you there and go down on madison and see charley chaplin, and then come back after you." "nothin' doin'!" says mrs. hatch. "we'll pick a show that everybody wants to see." well, if i hadn't of looked at my missus then we'd of been o. k. but my eyes happened to light on where she was settin' and she was chewin' her lips so's she wouldn't cry. that finished me. "i was just kiddin'," i says to mrs. hatch. "they ain't nothin' i'd like better than grand op'ra." "nothin' except gettin' trimmed in a rummy game," says hatch, but he didn't get no rise. well, the missus let loose of her lips so's she could smile and her and mrs. hatch got all excited, and i and hatch pretended like we was excited too. so hatch ast what night could we go, and mrs. hatch says that depended on what did we want to hear, because they changed the bill every day. so her and the missus looked at the paper again and found out where friday night was goin' to be a big special night and the bill was a musical show called _carmen_, and all the stars was goin' to sing, includin' mooratory and alda and genevieve farr'r, that was in the movies a w'ile till they found out she could sing, and some fella they called daddy, but i don't know his real name. so the girls both says friday night was the best, but hatch says he would have to go to lodge that evenin'. "lodge!" says mrs. hatch. "what do you care about lodge when you got a chance to see genevieve farr'r in _carmen_?" "chance!" says hatch. "if that's what you call a chance, i got a chance to buy a thousand shares o' bethlehem steel. who's goin' to pay for my chance?" "all right," says mrs. hatch, "go to your old lodge and spoil everything!" so this time it was her that choked up and made like she was goin' to blubber. so hatch changed his mind all of a sudden and decided to disappoint the brother owls. so all of us was satisfied except fifty per cent., and i and the missus beat it home, and on the way she says how nice mrs. hatch was to give us this treat. "yes," i says, "but if you hadn't of had a regular epidemic o' discardin' deuces and treys hatch would of treated us to groceries for a week." i says: "i always thought they was only twelve pitcher cards in the deck till i seen them hands you saved up to-night." "you lose as much as i did," she says. "yes," i says, "and i always will as long as you forget to fetch your purse along." so they wasn't no come-back to that, so we went on home without no more dialogue. well, mrs. hatch called up the next night and says jim had the tickets boughten and we was to be sure and be ready at seven o'clock friday night because the show started at eight. so when i was down-town friday the missus sent my evenin' dress suit over to katzes' and had it pressed up and when i come home it was laid out on the bed like a corpse. "what's that for?" i says. "for the op'ra," she says. "everybody wears them to the op'ra." "did you ask the hatches what was they goin' to wear?" i says. "no," says she. "they know what to wear without me tellin' them. they ain't goin' to the auditorium in their nightgown." so i clumb into the soup and fish, and the missus spent about a hour puttin' on a dress that she could have left off without nobody knowin' the difference, and she didn't have time for no supper at all, and i just managed to surround a piece o' steak as big as your eye and spill some gravy on my clo'es when the bell rung and there was the hatches. well, hatch didn't have no more evenin' dress suit on than a kewpie. i could see his pants under his overcoat and they was the same old bay pants he'd wore the day he got mad at his kid and christened him kenneth. and his shoes was a last year's edition o' the kind that's supposed to give your feet a chance, and if his feet had of been the kind that takes chances they was two or three places where they could of got away without much trouble. i could tell from the expression on mrs. hatch's face when she seen our make-up that we'd crossed her. she looked about as comf'table as a belgium. "oh!" she says. "i didn't think you'd dress up." "we thought you would," says my frau. "we!" i says. "where do you get that 'we'?" "if it ain't too late we'll run in and change," says my missus. "not me," i says. "i didn't go to all this trouble and expense for a splash o' gravy. when this here uniform retires it'll be to make room for pyjamas." "come on!" says hatch. "what's the difference? you can pretend like you ain't with us." "it don't really make no difference," says mrs. hatch. and maybe it didn't. but we all stood within whisperin' distance of each other on the car goin' in, and if you had a dollar for every word that was talked among us you couldn't mail a postcard from hammond to gary. when we got off at congress my missus tried to thaw out the party. "the prices is awful high, aren't they?" she says. "outrageous," says mrs. hatch. well, even if the prices was awful high, they didn't have nothin' on our seats. if i was in trainin' to be a steeple jack i'd go to grand op'ra every night and leave hatch buy my ticket. and where he took us i'd of been more at home in overalls and a sport shirt. "how do you like denver?" says i to the missus, but she'd sank for the third time. "we're safe here," i says to hatch. "them french guns can't never reach us. we'd ought to brought more bumbs." "what did the seats cost?" i says to hatch. "one-fifty," he says. "very reasonable," says i. "one o' them aviators wouldn't take you more than half this height for a five-spot." the hatches had their overcoats off by this time and i got a look at their full costume. hatch had went without his vest durin' the hot months and when it was alongside his coat and pants it looked like two different families. he had a pink shirt with prune-colored horizontal bars, and a tie to match his neck, and a collar that would of took care of him and i both, and them shoes i told you about, and burlap hosiery. they wasn't nothin' the matter with mrs. hatch except she must of thought that, instead o' dressin' for the op'ra, she was gettin' ready for kenneth's bath. and there was my missus, just within the law, and me all spicked and spanned with my soup and fish and gravy! well, we all set there and tried to get the focus till about a half-hour after the show was billed to commence, and finally a lilliputhian with a match in his hand come out and started up the orchestry and they played a few o' the hits and then the lights was turned out and up went the curtain. well, sir, you'd be surprised at how good we could hear and see after we got used to it. but the hearin' didn't do us no good--that is, the words part of it. all the actors had been smuggled in from europe and they wasn't none o' them that could talk english. so all their songs was gave in different languages and i wouldn't of never knew what was goin' on only for hatch havin' all the nerve in the world. after the first act a lady that was settin' in front of us dropped somethin' and hatch stooped over and picked it up, and it was one o' these here books they call a liberetto, and it's got all the words they're singin' on the stage wrote out in english. so the lady begin lookin' all over for it and hatch was goin' to give it back because he thought it was a shoe catalogue, but he happened to see at the top of it where it says "price cents," so he tossed it in his lap and stuck his hat over it. and the lady kept lookin' and lookin' and finally she turned round and looked hatch right in the eye, but he dropped down inside his collar and left her wear herself out. so when she'd gave up i says somethin' about i'd like to have a drink. "let's go," says hatch. "no," i says. "i don't want it bad enough to go back to town after it. i thought maybe we could get it sent up to the room." "i'm goin' alone then," says hatch. "you're liable to miss the second act," i says. "i'd never miss it," says hatch. "all right," says i. "i hope you have good weather." so he slipped me the book to keep for him and beat it. so i seen the lady had forgot us, and i opened up the book and that's how i come to find out what the show was about. i read her all through, the part that was in english, before the curtain went up again, so when the second act begin i knowed what had came off and what was comin' off, and hatch and mrs. hatch hadn't no idear if the show was comical or dry. my missus hadn't, neither, till we got home and i told her the plot. * * * * * _carmen_ ain't no regular musical show where a couple o' yids comes out and pulls a few lines o' dialogue and then a girl and a he-flirt sings a song that ain't got nothin' to do with it. _carmen's_ a regular play, only instead o' them sayin' the lines, they sing them, and in for'n languages so's the actors can pick up some loose change offen the sale o' the liberettos. the music was wrote by george s. busy, and it must of kept him that way about two mont's. the words was either throwed together by the stage carpenter or else took down by a stenographer outdoors durin' a drizzle. anyway, they ain't nobody claims them. every oncet in three or four pages they forget themself and rhyme. you got to read each verse over two or three times before you learn what they're hintin' at, but the management gives you plenty o' time to do it between acts and still sneak a couple o' hours' sleep. the first act opens up somewheres in spain, about the corner o' chicago avenue and wells. on one side o' the stage they's a pill mill where the employees is all girls, or was girls a few years ago. on the other side they's a soldiers' garage where they keep the militia in case of a strike. in the back o' the stage they's a bridge, but it ain't over no water or no railroad tracks or nothin'. it's prob'ly somethin' the cat dragged in. well, the soldiers stands out in front o' the garage hittin' up some barber shops, and pretty soon a girl blows in from the hero's home town, janesville or somewheres. she runs a few steps every little w'ile and then stops, like the rails was slippery. the soldiers sings at her and she tells them she's came to look for don joss that run the chop-suey dump up to janesville, but when they shet down on him servin' beer he quit and joined the army. so the soldiers never heard o' the bird, but they all ask her if they won't do just as good, but she says nothin' doin' and skids off the stage. she ain't no sooner gone when the chinaman from janesville and some more soldiers and some alley rats comes in to help out the singin'. the book says that this new gang o' soldiers was sent on to relieve the others, but if anything happened to wear out the first ones it must of took place at rehearsal. well, one o' the boys tells joss about the girl askin' for him and he says: "oh, yes; that must be the little michaels girl from up in wisconsin." so pretty soon the whistle blows for noon and the girls comes out o' the pill mill smokin' up the mornin' receipts and a crowd o' the unemployed comes in to shoot the snipes. so the soldiers notices that genevieve farr'r ain't on yet, so they ask where she's at, and that's her cue. she puts on a song number and a spanish dance, and then she slips her bouquet to the chink, though he ain't sang a note since the whistle blowed. but now it's one o'clock and genevieve and the rest o' the girls beats it back to the coffin factory and the vags chases down to the loop to get the last home edition and look at the want ads to see if they's any jobs open with fair pay and nothin' to do. and the soldiers mosey into the garage for a well-earned rest and that leaves don all alone on the stage. but he ain't no more than started on his next song when back comes the michaels girl. it oozes out here that she's in love with the joss party, but she stalls and pretends like his mother'd sent her to get the receipt for makin' eggs _fo yung_. and she says his mother ast her to kiss him and she slips him a dime, so he leaves her kiss him on the scalp and he asks her if she can stay in town that evenin' and see a nickel show, but they's a important meetin' o' the maccabees at janesville that night, so away she goes to catch the two-ten and don starts in on another song number, but the rest o' the company don't like his stuff and he ain't hardly past the vamp when they's a riot. it seems like genevieve and one o' the chorus girls has quarreled over a second-hand stick o' gum and the chorus girl got the gum, but genevieve relieved her of part of a earlobe, so they pinch genevieve and leave joss to watch her till the wagon comes, but the wagon's went out to the night desk sergeant's house with a case o' quarts and before it gets round to pick up genevieve she's bunked the chink into settin' her free. so she makes a getaway, tellin' don to meet her later on at lily and pat's place acrost the indiana line. so that winds up the first act. well, the next act's out to lily and pat's, and it ain't no y.m.c.a. headquarters, but it's a hang-out for dips and policemans. they's a cabaret and genevieve's one o' the performers, but she forgets the words to her first song and winds up with tra-la-la, and she could of forgot the whole song as far as i'm concerned, because it wasn't nothin' you'd want to buy and take along home. finally pat comes in and says it's one o'clock and he's got to close up, but they won't none o' them make a move, and pretty soon they's a live one blows into the joint and he's eskimo bill, one o' the butchers out to the yards. he's got paid that day and he ain't never goin' home. he sings a song and it's the hit o' the show. then he buys a drink and starts flirtin' with genevieve, but pat chases everybody but the performers and a couple o' dips that ain't got nowheres else to sleep. the dips or stick-up guys, or whatever they are, tries to get genevieve to go along with them in the car w'ile they pull off somethin', but she's still expectin' the chinaman. so they pass her up and blow, and along comes don and she lets him in, and it seems like he'd been in jail for two mont's, or ever since the end o' the first act. so he asks her how everything has been goin' down to the pill mill and she tells him that she's quit and became a entertainer. so he says, "what can you do?" and she beats time with a pair o' chopsticks and dances the chinese blues. after a w'ile they's a bugle call somewhere outdoors and don says that means he's got to go back to the garage. so she gets sore and tries to bean him with a spanish onion. then he reaches inside his coat and pulls out the bouquet she give him in atto first to show her he ain't changed his clo'es, and then the sheriff comes in and tries to coax him with a razor to go back to his job. they fight like it was the first time either o' them ever tried it and the sheriff's leadin' on points when genevieve hollers for the dips, who dashes in with their gats pulled and it's good night, mister sheriff! they put him in moth balls and they ask joss to join their tong. he says all right and they're all pretty well lit by this time and they've reached the singin' stage, and pat can't get them to go home and he's scared some o' the hammond people'll put in a complaint, so he has the curtain rang down. then they's a relapse of it don't say how long, and don and genevieve and the yeggs and their lady friends is all out in the country somewheres attendin' a bohunk sokol verein picnic and don starts whinin' about his old lady that he'd left up to janesville. "i wisht i was back there," he says. "you got nothin' on me," says genevieve. "only janesville ain't far enough. i wisht you was back in hongkong." so w'ile they're flatterin' each other back and forth, a couple o' the girls is monkeyin' with the pasteboards and tellin' their fortunes, and one o' them turns up a two-spot and that's a sign they're goin' to sing a duet. so it comes true and then genevieve horns into the game and they play three-handed rummy, singin' all the w'ile to bother each other, but finally the fellas that's runnin' the picnic says it's time for the fat man's one-legged race and everybody goes offen the stage. so the michaels girl comes on and is gettin' by pretty good with a song when she's scared by the noise o' the gun that's fired to start the race for the bay-window championship. so she trips back to her dressin'-room and then don and eskimo bill put on a little slap-stick stuff. when they first meet they're pals, but as soon as they get wise that the both o' them's bugs over the same girl their relations to'rds each other becomes strange. here's the talk they spill: "where do you tend bar?" says don. "you got me guessed wrong," says bill. "i work out to the yards." "got anything on the hip?" says don. "you took the words out o' my mouth," says bill. "i'm drier than st. petersgrad." "stick round a w'ile and maybe we can scare up somethin'," says don. "i'll stick all right," says bill. "they's a jane in your party that's knocked me dead." "what's her name?" says don. "carmen," says bill, carmen bein' the girl's name in the show that genevieve was takin' that part. "carmen!" says joss. "get offen that stuff! i and carmen's just like two pavin' bricks." "i should worry!" says bill. "i ain't goin' to run away from no rat-eater." "you're a rat-eater yourself, you rat-eater!" says don. "i'll rat-eat you!" says bill. and they go to it with a carvin' set, but they couldn't neither one o' them handle their utensils. don may of been all right slicin' toadstools for the suey and bill prob'ly could of massacreed a flock o' sheep with one stab, but they was all up in the air when it come to stickin' each other. they'd of did it better with dice. pretty soon the other actors can't stand it no longer and they come on yellin' "fake!" so don and bill fold up their razors and bill invites the whole bunch to come out and go through the yards some mornin' and then he beats it, and the michaels girl ain't did nothin' for fifteen minutes, so the management shoots her out for another song and she sings to don about how he should ought to go home on account of his old lady bein' sick, so he asks genevieve if she cares if he goes back to janesville. "sure, i care," says genevieve. "go ahead!" so the act winds up with everybody satisfied. the last act's outside the yards on the halsted street end. bill's ast the entire company to come in and watch him croak a steer. the scene opens up with the crowd buyin' perfume and smellin' salts from the guys that's got the concessions. pretty soon eskimo bill and carmen drive in, all dressed up like a horse. don's came in from wisconsin and is hidin' in the bunch. he's sore at carmen for not meetin' him on the elevated platform. he lays low till everybody's went inside, only carmen. then he braces her. he tells her his old lady's died and left him the laundry, and he wants her to go in with him and do the ironin'. "not me!" she says. "what do you mean--'not me'?" says don. "i and bill's goin' to run a kosher market," she says. just about now you can hear noises behind the scenes like the cattle's gettin' theirs, so carmen don't want to miss none of it, so she makes a break for the gate. "where you goin'?" says joss. "i want to see the butcherin'," she says. "stick round and i'll show you how it's done," says joss. so he pulls his knife and makes a pass at her, just foolin'. he misses her as far as from here to des moines. but she don't know he's kiddin' and she's scared to death. yes, sir, she topples over as dead as the federal league. it was prob'ly her heart. so now the whole crowd comes dashin' out because they's been a report that the place is infested with the hoof and mouth disease. they tell don about it, but he's all excited over carmen dyin'. he's delirious and gets himself mixed up with a irish policeman. "i yield me prisoner," he says. then the house doctor says the curtain's got to come down to prevent the epidemic from spreadin' to the audience. so the show's over and the company's quarantined. * * * * * well, hatch was out all durin' the second act and part o' the third, and when he finally come back he didn't have to tell nobody where he'd been. and he dozed off the minute he hit his seat. i was for lettin' him sleep so's the rest o' the audience'd think we had one o' the op'ra bass singers in our party. but mrs. hatch wasn't lookin' for no publicity, on account of her costume, so she reached over and prodded him with a hatpin every time he begin a new aria. goin' out, i says to him: "how'd you like it?" "pretty good," he says, "only they was too much gin in the last one." "i mean the op'ra," i says. "don't ask him!" says mrs. hatch. "he didn't hear half of it and he didn't understand none of it." "oh, i wouldn't say that," says i. "jim here ain't no boob, and they wasn't nothin' hard about it to understand." "not if you know the plot," says mrs. hatch. "and somethin' about music," says my missus. "and got a little knowledge o' french," says mrs. hatch. "was that french they was singin'?" says hatch. "i thought it was wop or ostrich." "that shows you up," says his frau. well, when we got on the car for home they wasn't only one vacant seat and, o' course, hatch had to have that. so i and my missus and mrs. hatch clubbed together on the straps and i got a earful o' the real dope. "what do you think o' farr'r's costumes?" says mrs. hatch. "heavenly!" says my missus. "specially the one in the second act. it was all colors o' the rainbow." "hatch is right in style then," i says. "and her actin' is perfect," says mrs. hatch. "her voice too," says the wife. "i liked her actin' better," says mrs. h. "i thought her voice yodeled in the up-stairs registers." "what do you suppose killed her?" i says. "she was stabbed by her lover," says the missus. "you wasn't lookin'," i says. "he never touched her. it was prob'ly tobacco heart." "he stabs her in the book," says mrs. hatch. "it never went through the bindin'," i says. "and wasn't mooratory grand?" says the wife. "splendid!" says mrs. hatch. "his actin' and singin' was both grand." "i preferred his actin'," i says. "i thought his voice hissed in the down-stairs radiators." this give them a good laugh, but they was soon at it again. "and how sweet alda was!" my missus remarks. "which was her?" i ast them. "the good girl," says mrs. hatch. "the girl that sung that beautiful aria in atto three." "atto girl!" i says. "i liked her too; the little michaels girl. she came from janesville." "she did!" says mrs. hatch. "how do you know?" so i thought i'd kid them along. "my uncle told me," i says. "he used to be postmaster up there." "what uncle was that?" says my wife. "he ain't really my uncle," i says. "we all used to call him our uncle just like all these here singers calls the one o' them daddy." "they was a lady in back o' me," says mrs. hatch, "that says daddy didn't appear to-night." "prob'ly the missus' night out," i says. "how'd you like the tor'ador?" says mrs. hatch. "i thought she moaned in the chimney," says i. "it wasn't no 'she'," says the missus. "we're talkin' about the bull-fighter." "i didn't see no bull-fight," i says. "it come off behind the scenes," says the missus. "when was you behind the scenes?" i says. "i wasn't never," says my missus. "but that's where it's supposed to come off." "well," i says, "you can take it from me that it wasn't pulled. do you think the mayor'd stand for that stuff when he won't even leave them stage a box fight? you two girls has got a fine idear o' this here op'ra!" "you know all about it, i guess," says the missus. "you talk french so good!" "i talk as much french as you do," i says. "but not nowheres near as much english, if you could call it that." that kept her quiet, but mrs. hatch buzzed all the way home, and she was scared to death that the motorman wouldn't know where she'd been spendin' the evenin'. and if there was anybody in the car besides me that knowed _carmen_ it must of been a joke to them hearin' her chatter. it wasn't no joke to me though. hatch's berth was way off from us and they didn't nobody suspect him o' bein' in our party. i was standin' right up there with her where people couldn't help seein' that we was together. i didn't want them to think she was my wife. so i kept smilin' at her. and when it finally come time to get off i hollered out loud at hatch and says: "all right, hatch! here's our street. your missus'll keep you awake the rest o' the way with her liberetto." "it can't hurt no more than them hatpins," he says. well, when the paper come the next mornin' my missus had to grab it up and turn right away to the place where the op'ras is wrote up. under the article they was a list o' the ladies and gents in the boxes and what they wore, but it didn't say nothin' about what the gents wore, only the ladies. prob'ly the ladies happened to have the most comical costumes that night, but i bet if the reporters could of saw hatch they would of gave him a page to himself. "is your name there?" i says to the missus. "o' course not," she says. "they wasn't none o' them reporters tall enough to see us. you got to set in a box to be mentioned." "well," i says, "you don't care nothin' about bein' mentioned, do you?" "o' course not," she says; but i could tell from how she said it that she wouldn't run down-town and horsewhip the editor if he made a mistake and printed about she and her costume; her costume wouldn't of et up all the space he had neither. "how much does box seats cost?" i ast her. "about six or seven dollars," she says. "well," i says, "let's i and you show hatch up." "what do you mean?" she says. "i mean we should ought to return the compliment," says i. "we should ought to give them a party right back." "we'd be broke for six weeks," she says. "oh, we'd do it with their money like they done it with ours," i says. "yes," she says; "but if you can ever win enough from the hatches to buy four box seats to the op'ra i'd rather spend the money on a dress." "who said anything about four box seats?" i ast her. "you did," she says. "you're delirious!" i says. "two box seats will be a plenty." "who's to set in them?" ast the missus. "who do you think?" i says. "i and you is to set in them." "but what about the hatches?" she says. "they'll set up where they was," says i. "hatch picked out the seats before, and if he hadn't of wanted that altitude he'd of bought somewheres else." "yes," says the missus, "but mrs. hatch won't think we're very polite to plant our guests in the alps and we set down in a box." "but they won't know where we're settin'," i says. "we'll tell them we couldn't get four seats together, so for them to set where they was the last time and we're goin' elsewheres." "it don't seem fair," says my wife. "i should worry about bein' fair with hatch," i says. "if he's ever left with more than a dime's worth o' cards you got to look under the table for his hand." "it don't seem fair," says the missus. "you should worry!" i says. so we ast them over the followin' night and it looked for a minute like we was goin' to clean up. but after that one minute my missus began collectin' pitcher cards again and every card hatch drawed seemed like it was made to his measure. well, sir, when we was through the lucky stiff was eight dollars to the good and mrs. hatch had about broke even. "do you suppose you can get them same seats?" i says. "what seats?" says hatch. "for the op'ra," i says. "you won't get me to no more op'ra," says hatch. "i don't never go to the same show twicet." "it ain't the same show, you goof!" i says. "they change the bill every day." "they ain't goin' to change this eight-dollar bill o' mine," he says. "you're a fine stiff!" i says. "call me anything you want to," says hatch, "as long as you don't go over eight bucks' worth." "jim don't enjoy op'ra," says mrs. hatch. "he don't enjoy nothin' that's more than a nickel," i says. "but as long as he's goin' to welsh on us i hope he lavishes the eight-spot where it'll do him some good." "i'll do what i want to with it," says hatch. "sure you will!" i says. "you'll bury it. but what you should ought to do is buy two suits o' clo'es." so i went out in the kitchen and split a pint one way. but don't think for a minute that i and the missus ain't goin' to hear no more op'ra just because of a cheap stiff like him welshin'. i don't have to win in no rummy game before i spend. we're goin' next tuesday night, i and the missus, and we're goin' to set somewheres near congress street. the show's _armour's do re me_, a new one that's bein' gave for the first time. it's prob'ly named after some soap. three kings and a pair accordin' to some authorities, a person, before they get married, should ought to look up your opponent's family tree and find out what all her relatives died of. but the way i got it figured out, if you're sure they did die, the rest of it don't make no difference. in exceptionable cases it may be all right to take a girl that part of her family is still livin', but not under no circumstances if the part happens to be a unmarried sister named bessie. we was expectin' her in about two weeks, but we got a card saturday mornin' which she says on it that she'd come right away if it was all the same to us, because it was the dull season in wabash society and she could tear loose better at the present time than later on. well, i guess they ain't no time in the year when society in wabash would collapse for she not bein' there, but if she had to come at all, the sooner it was over the better. and besides, it wouldn't of did us no good to say aye, yes or no, because the postcard only beat her here by a few hours. not havin' no idear she was comin' so soon i didn't meet the train, but it seems like she brought her escort right along with her. it was a guy named bishop and she'd met him on the trip up. the news butcher introduced them, i guess. he seen her safe to the house and she was there when i got home. her and my missus was full of him. "just think!" the missus says. "he writes motion-pitcher plays." "and gets ten thousand a year," says bess. "did you find out from the firm?" i ast her. "he told me himself," says bessie. "that's the right kind o' fella," says i, "open and above the board." "oh, you'll like mr. bishop," says bess. "he says such funny things." "yes," i says, "that's a pretty good one about the ten thousand a year. but i suppose it's funnier when he tells it himself. i wisht i could meet him." "they won't be no trouble about that," says the missus. "he's comin' to dinner to-morrow and he's comin' to play cards some evenin' next week." "what evenin'?" i says. "any evenin' that's convenient for you," says bessie. "well," i says, "i'm sorry, but i got engagements every night except monday, wednesday, thursday, friday and saturday." "what about tuesday?" ast bessie. "we're goin' to the op'ra," i says. "oh, won't that be grand!" says bessie. "i wonder what i can wear." "a kimono'll be all right," i says. "if the door-bell rings, you don't have to answer it." "what do you mean?" says the missus. "i guess if we go, bess'll go with us." "you'd starve to death if you guessed for a livin'," i says. "never mind that kind o' talk," says the missus. "when we got a visitor we're not goin' out places nights and leave her here alone." "what's the matter with bishop?" i says. "they's lots o' two-handed card games." "i ain't goin' to force myself on to you," says bessie. "you don't have to take me nowheres if you don't want to." "i wisht you'd put that in writin' in case of a lawsuit," i says. "listen here," says the frau. "get this straight: either bess goes or i don't go." "you can both stay home," says i. "i don't anticipate no trouble findin' a partner." "all right, that's settled," says the missus. "we'll have a party of our own." and it must of been goin' to be a dandy, because just speakin' about it made her cry. so i says: "you win! but i'll prob'ly have to change the tickets." "what kind o' tickets have you got?" ast the missus. "cheap ones," i says. "down-stairs, five per." "how grand!" says bessie. "yes," i says, "but i'm afraid i got the last two they had. i'll prob'ly have to give them back and take three balcony seats." "that's all right, just so's bess goes," says the wife. "mr. bishop's wild about music," says bessie. "well," i says, "he prob'ly gets passes to the pitcher houses." "he don't hear no real music there," says bessie. "well," says i, "suppose when he comes to-morrow, i mention somethin' about i and the missus havin' tickets to the op'ra tuesday night. then, if he's so wild about music, he'll maybe try to horn into the party and split the expenses fifty-fifty." "that'd be a fine thing!" says the frau. "he'd think we was a bunch o' cheap skates. come right out and ask him to go at your expense, or else don't ask him at all." "i won't ask him at all," i says. "it was a mistake for me to ever suggest it." "yes," says bessie, "but after makin' the suggestion it would be a mean trick to not go through with it." "why?" i ast her. "he won't never know the difference." "but i will," says bessie. "course you would, dear," says the missus. "after thinkin' you was goin' to have a man of your own, the party wouldn't seem like no party if you just went along with us." "all right, all right," i says. "let's not argue no more. every time i open my head it costs three dollars." "no such a thing," says the missus. "the whole business won't only be two dollars more than you figured on. the tickets you had for the two of us would come to ten dollars, and with bess and mr. bishop goin' it's only twelve, if you get balcony seats." "i wonder," says bessie, "if mr. bishop wouldn't object to settin' in the balcony." "maybe he would," says the missus. "well," i says, "if he gets dizzy and falls over the railin' they's plenty of ushers to point out where he come from." "they ain't no danger of him gettin' dizzy," says bessie. "the only thing is that he's prob'ly used to settin' in the high-priced seats and would be embarrassed amongst the riff and raff." "he can wear a false mustache for a disguise." "he's got a real one," says bessie. "he can shave it off, then," says i. "i wouldn't have him do that for the world," says bessie. "it's too nice a one." "you can't judge a mustache by seein' it oncet," i says. "it may be a crook at heart." "this ain't gettin' us nowheres," says the missus. "they's still a question before the house." "it's up to bess to give the answer," i says. "bishop and his lip shield are invited if they'll set in a three-dollar seat." "it's off, then," says bessie, and beats it in the guest room and slams the door. "what's the matter with you?" says the missus. "nothin' at all," i says, "except that i ain't no millionaire scenario writer. twenty dollars is twenty dollars." "yes," the missus says, "but how many times have you lost more than that playin' cards and not thought nothin' of it?" "that's different," i says. "when i spend money in a card game it's more like a investment. i got a chance to make somethin' by it." "and this would be a investment, too," says the wife, "and a whole lot better chance o' winnin' than in one o' them crooked card games." "what are you gettin' at?" i ast her. "this is what i'm gettin' at," she says, "though you'd ought to see it without me tellin' you. this here bishop's made a big hit with bess." "it's been done before," says i. "listen to me," says the frau. "it's high time she was gettin' married, and i don't want her marryin' none o' them hoosier hicks." "they'll see to that," i says. "they ain't such hicks." "she could do a lot worse than take this here bishop," the missus says. "ten thousand a year ain't no small change. and she'd be here in chi; maybe they could find a flat right in this buildin'." "that's all right," i says. "we could move." "don't be so smart," says the missus. "it would be mighty nice for me to have her so near and it would be nice for you and i both to have a rich brother-in-law." "i don't know about that," says i. "somebody might do us a mischief in a fit o' jealous rage." "he'd show us enough good times to make up for whatever they done," says the wife. "we're foolish if we don't make no play for him and it'd be startin' off right to take him along to this here op'ra and set him in the best seats. he likes good music and you can see he's used to doin' things in style. and besides, sis looks her best when she's dressed up." well, i finally give in and the missus called bessie out o' the despondents' ward and they was all smiles and pep, but they acted like i wasn't in the house; so, to make it realistical, i blowed down to andy's and looked after some o' my other investments. * * * * * we always have dinner sundays at one o'clock, but o' course bishop didn't know that and showed up prompt at ten bells, before i was half-way through the comical section. i had to go to the door because the missus don't never put on her shoes till she's positive the family on the first floor is all awake, and bessie was baskin' in the kind o' water that don't come in your lease at wabash. "mr. bishop, ain't it?" i says, lookin' him straight in the upper lip. "how'd you know?" he says, smilin'. "the girls told me to be expectin' a handsome man o' that name," i says. "and they told me about the mustache." "wouldn't be much to tell," says bishop. "it's young yet," i says. "come in and take a weight off your feet." so he picked out the only chair we got that ain't upholstered with flatirons and we set down and was tryin' to think o' somethin' more to say when bessie hollered to us from mid-channel. "is that mr. bishop?" she yelped. "it's me, miss gorton," says bishop. "i'll be right out," says bess. "take it easy," i says. "you mightn't catch cold, but they's no use riskin' it." so then i and bishop knocked the street-car service and president wilson and give each other the double o. he wasn't what you could call ugly lookin', but if you'd come out in print and say he was handsome, a good lawyer'd have you at his mercy. his dimensions, what they was of them, all run perpendicular. he didn't have no latitude. if his collar slipped over his shoulders he could step out of it. if they hadn't been payin' him all them millions for pitcher plays, he could of got a job in a wire wheel. they wouldn't of been no difference in his photograph if you took it with a x-ray or a camera. but he had hair and two eyes and a mouth and all the rest of it, and his clo'es was certainly class. why wouldn't they be? he could pick out cloth that was thirty bucks a yard and get a suit and overcoat for fifteen bucks. a umbrella cover would of made him a year's pyjamas. well, i seen the missus sneak from the kitchen to her room to don the shoe leather, so i got right down to business. "the girls tells me you're fond o' good music," i says. "i love it," says bishop. "do you ever take in the op'ra?" i ast him. "i eat it up," he says. "have you been this year?" i says. "pretty near every night," says bishop. "i should think you'd be sick of it," says i. "oh, no," he says, "no more'n i get tired o' food." "a man could easy get tired o' the same kind o' food," i says. "but the op'ras is all different," says bishop. "different languages, maybe," i says. "but they're all music and singin'." "yes," says bishop, "but the music and singin' in the different op'ras is no more alike than lumbago and hives. they couldn't be nothin' differenter, for instance, than _faust_ and _madame buttermilk_." "unlest it was scotch and chocolate soda," i says. "they's good op'ras and bad op'ras," says bishop. "which is the good ones?" i ast him. "oh," he says, "_carmen_ and _la bohemian girl_ and _ill toreador_." "_carmen's_ a bear cat," i says. "if they was all as good as _carmen_, i'd go every night. but lots o' them is flivvers. they say they couldn't nothin' be worse than this _armour's dee tree ree_." "it is pretty bad," says bishop. "i seen it a year ago." well, i'd just been readin' in the paper where it was bran'-new and hadn't never been gave prev'ous to this season. so i thought i'd have a little sport with mr. smartenstein. "what's it about?" i says. he stalled a w'ile. "it ain't about much of anything," he says. "it must be about somethin'," says i. "they got it all balled up the night i seen it," says bishop. "the actors forgot their lines and a man couldn't make heads or tails of it." "did they sing in english?" i ast him. "no; latin," says bishop. "can you understand latin?" i says. "sure," says he. "i'd ought to. i studied it two years." "what's the name of it mean in english?" i ast. "you pronounce the latin wrong," he says. "i can't parse it from how you say it. if i seen it wrote out i could tell." so i handed him the paper where they give the op'ra schedule. "that's her," i says, pointin' to the one that was billed for tuesday night. "oh, yes," says bishop. "yes, that's the one." "no question about that," says i. "but what does it mean?" "i knowed you said it wrong," says bishop. "the right pronouncement would be: _l. armour's day trey ray_. no wonder i was puzzled." "now the puzzle's solved," i says. "what do them last three words mean? louie armour's what?" "it ain't nothin' to do with armour," says bishop. "the first word is the latin for love. and _day_ means of god, and _trey_ means three, and _ray_ means kings." "oh," i says, "it's a poker game. the fella's just called and the other fella shows down his hand and the first fella had a straight and thought it wasn't no good. so he's su'prised to see what the other fella's got. so he says: 'well, for the love o' mike, three kings!' only he makes it stronger. is that the dope?" "i don't think it's anything about poker," says bishop. "you'd ought to know," i says. "you seen it." "but it was all jumbled up," says bishop. "i couldn't get the plot." "do you suppose you could get it if you seen it again?" i says. "i wouldn't set through it," he says. "it's no good." well, sir, i thought at the time that that little speech meant a savin' of eight dollars, because if he didn't go along, us three could set amongst the riff and raff. i dropped the subject right there and was goin' to tell the girls about it when he'd went home. but the missus crabbed it a few minutes after her and bess come in the room. "did you get your invitation?" says she to bishop. "what invitation?" he says. "my husban' was goin' to ask you to go with us tuesday night," she says. "grand op'ra." "bishop won't go," i says. "he's already saw the play and says it ain't no good and he wouldn't feel like settin' through it again." "why, mr. bishop! that's a terrible disappointment," says the missus. "we was countin' on you," says bessie, chokin' up. "it's tough luck," i says, "but you can't expect things to break right all the w'ile." "wouldn't you change your mind?" says the missus. "that's up to your husban'," says bishop. "i didn't understand that i was invited. i should certainly hate to break up a party, and if i'd knew i was goin' to be ast i would of spoke different about the op'ra. it's prob'ly a whole lot better than when i seen it. and, besides, i surely would enjoy your company." "you can enjoy ourn most any night for nothin'," i says. "but if you don't enjoy the one down to the auditorium, they's no use o' me payin' five iron men to have you bored to death." "you got me wrong," says bishop. "the piece was gave by a bunch o' supers the time i went. i'd like to see it with a real cast. they say it's a whiz when it's acted right." "there!" says the missus. "that settles it. you can change the tickets to-morrow." so i was stopped and they wasn't no more to say, and after a w'ile we had dinner and then i seen why bishop was so skinny. 'parently he hadn't tasted fodder before for a couple o' mont's. "it must keep you busy writin' them scenarios," i says. "no time to eat or nothin'." "oh, i eat oncet in a w'ile even if i don't look it," he says. "i don't often get a chance at food that's cooked like this. your wife's some dandy little cook!" "it runs in the family, i guess," says bessie. "you'd ought to taste my cookin'." "maybe he will some day," says the missus, and then her and bessie pretended like they'd made a break and was embarrassed. so when he was through i says: "leave bess take bishop out in the kitchen and show him how she can wash dishes." "nothin' doin'," says the wife. "i'm goin' to stack them and then i and you's got to hurry and keep our date." "what date?" i says. "over to hatch's," says the missus. "you hadn't forgotten, had you?" "i hadn't forgot that the hatches was in benton harbor," i says. "yes," says the frau, winkin' at me, "but i promised mrs. hatch i'd run over there and see that everything was o. k." so i wasn't even allowed to set down and smoke, but had to help unload the table and then go out in the cold. and it was rotten weather and sunday and nothin' but water, water everywhere. "what's the idear?" i ast the missus when we was out. "can't you see nothin'?" she says. "i want to give bess a chance." "chance to what?" i says. "a chance to talk to him," says the wife. "oh!" says i. "i thought you wanted him to get stuck on her." "what do you think of him?" says she. "wouldn't he fit fine in the family?" "he'd fit in a flute," i says. "he's the skinniest thing i ever seen. it seems like a shame to pay five dollars for a seat for him when him and bessie could sit in the same seat without contact." "he is slender," says the missus. "prob'ly they been starvin' him where he boards at." "i bet they wouldn't starve me on ten thousand a year," i says. "but maybe they don't know he's at the table or think he's just one o' the macaroni." "it's all right for you to make jokes about him," says she, "but if you had his brains we'd be better off." "if i had his brains," i says, "he'd go up like a balloon. if he lost an ounce, gravity wouldn't have no effect on him." "you don't have to bulge out to be a man," says the missus. "he's smart and he's rich and he's a swell dresser and i don't think we could find a better match for bess." "match just describes him," says i. "you're too cute to live," says the wife. "but no matter what you say, him and bess is goin' to hit it off. they're just suited to each other. they're a ideal pair." "you win that argument," i says. "they're a pair all right, and they'd make a great hand if you was playin' deuces wild." well, we walked round till our feet was froze and then we went home, and bishop says he would have to go, but the missus ast him to stay to supper, and when he made the remark about havin' to go, he was referrin' to one o'clock the next mornin'. and right after supper i was gave the choice o' takin' another walk or hittin' the hay. "why don't we play cards?" i says. "it's sunday," says the missus. "has the mayor stopped that, too?" i says. but she winked at me again, the old flirt, so i stuck round the kitchen till it was pretty near time to wipe the dishes, and then i went to bed. monday noon i chased over to the auditorium and they was only about eighty in line ahead o' me, and i was hopin' the house would be sold out for a week before i got up to the window. while i was markin' time i looked at the pitchers o' the different actors, hung up on the posts to advertise some kind o' hair tonic. i wisht i had bishop along to tell me what the different names meant in english. i suppose most o' them meant goatee or spinach or brush or hedge or thicket or somethin'. then they was the girls' pitchers, too; genevieve farr'r that died in the stockyards scene in _carmen_, and fanny alda that took the part o' the michaels girl from janesville, and mary gardner, and louise edviney that was goin' to warble for us, and a lot more of all ages and one size. finally i got up to the ticket agent's cage and then i didn't only have to wait till the three women behind me done their shoppin', and then i hauled out my two tickets and ast the agent what would he give me for them. "do you want to exchange them?" he says. "i did," says i, "but i heard you was sold out for to-morrow night." "oh, no," he says "we got plenty o' seats." "but nothin' down-stairs, is they?" i says. "yes," he says "anywheres you want." "well," i says, "if you're sure you can spare them i want four in the place o' these two." "here's four nice ones in the seventh row," says he. "it'll be ten dollars more." "i ain't partic'lar to have them nice," i says. "it don't make no difference," says he. "the whole down-stairs is five a wallop." "yes," i says, "but one o' the four that's goin' is a little skinny fella and another's a refuge from wabash." "i don't care if they're all escapades from milford junction," he says. "we ain't runnin' no hoosier welfare league." "you're smart, ain't you?" i says. "i got to be," says the agent. "but if you was a little smarter you'd be this side o' the cage instead o' that side," says i. "do you want these tickets or don't you?" he says. so i seen he didn't care for no more verbal collisions with me, so i give him the two tickets and a bonus o' ten bucks and he give me back four pasteboards and throwed in a envelope free for nothin'. i passed up lunch tuesday because i wanted to get home early and have plenty o' time to dress. that was the idear and it worked out every bit as successful as the peace ship. in the first place, i couldn't get in my room because that's where the missus and bess was makin' up. in the second place, i didn't need to of allowed any time for supper because there wasn't none. the wife said her and bessie'd been so busy with their clo'es that they'd forgot a little thing like supper. "but i didn't have no lunch," i says. "that ain't my fault," says the missus. "besides, we can all go somewheres and eat after the show." "on who?" i says. "you're givin' the party," says she. "the invitations didn't contain no clause about the inner man," says i. "furthermore, if i had the ten dollars back that i spent to-day for tickets, i'd have eleven dollars altogether." "well," says the missus, "maybe mr. bishop will have the hunch." "he will if his hearin' 's good," says i. bishop showed up at six-thirty, lookin' mighty cute in his waiter uniform. after he'd came, it didn't take bess long to finish her toilet. i'd like to fell over when i seen her. some doll she was, too, in a fifty-meg evenin' dress marked down to thirty-seven. i know, because i had helped pick it out for the missus. "my, you look sweet!" says bishop. "that's a beautiful gown." "it's my favoright," says bessie. "it don't take a person long to get attached to a pretty dress," i says. the missus hollered for me to come in and help her. "i don't need no help," she says, "but i didn't want you givin' no secrets away." "what are you goin' to wear?" says i. "bess had one that just fits me," she says. "she's loanin' it to me." "her middle name's generous," i says. "don't be sarcastical," says the missus. "i want sis to look her best this oncet." "and i suppose it don't make no difference how you look," says i, "as long as you only got me to please. if bishop's friends sees him with bessie they'll say: 'my! he's copped out a big-leaguer.' but if i run into any o' my pals they'll think i married the hired girl." "you should worry," says the missus. "and besides that," i says, "if you succeed in tyin' bishop up to a long-term lease he's bound to see that there dress on you some time and then what'll he think?" "bess can keep the gown," says the missus. "i'll make her give me one of her'n for it." "with your tradin' ability," i says, "you'd ought to be the cincinnati reds' manager. but if you do give the dress to her," i says, "warn her not to wear it in wabash--except when the marshal's over on the other street." well, we was ready in a few minutes, because i'm gettin' used to the soup and fish, and everything went on easy owin' to my vacuum, and i was too weak to shave; and the missus didn't have no trouble with bessie's creation, which was built like the cottage grove cars, enter at front. "i don't think i'm so bad," says the missus, lookin' in the glass. "you'd be just right," i says, "if we was goin' to the annual meetin' o' the woman's guild." i and bishop had a race gettin' on the street-car. i was first and he won. "i just got paid to-day," he says, "and i didn't have time to get change." they wasn't only one seat. bess took it first and then offered it to the missus. "i'll be mad at you if you don't take it," says bess. but the wife remained standin' and bessie by a great effort kept her temper. goin' into the theayter we passed a fella that was sellin' liberettos. "i bet this guy's got lots o' change," i says. "them things is for people that ain't never saw no op'ra," says bishop. "i'm goin' to have one," i says. "don't buy none for me," says bishop. "you just spoke in time," i says. i laid down a quarter and grabbed one o' the books. "it's thirty-five cents," says the guy. "_carmen_ wasn't only a quarter," i says. "is this show better'n _carmen_?" "this is a new one," the guy says. "this fella," i says, pointin' to bishop, "seen it a year ago." "he must have a good imagination," says the guy. "no," i says, "he writes movin'-pitcher plays." i give up a extra dime, because they didn't seem to be nothin' else to do. then i handed over my tickets to the fella at the door and we was took right down amongst the high polloi. say, i thought the dress bess was wearin' was low; ought to been, seein' it was cut down from fifty bucks to thirty-seven. but the rest o' the gowns round us must of been sixty per cent. off. i says to the missus: "i bet you wisht now you hadn't swapped costumes." "oh, i don't know," she says. "it's chilly in here." well, it may of been chilly then, but not after the op'ra got goin' good. carmen was a human refrigerator compared to the leadin' lady in this show. set through two acts and you couldn't hardly believe it was december. but the curtain was supposed to go up at eight-ten, and it wasn't only about that time when we got there, so they was over half a hour to kill before the show begin. i looked in my program and seen the real translation o' the title. _the love o' three kings_, it says, and no "of god" to it. i'd of knew anyway, when i'd read the plot, that he didn't have nothin' to do with it. i listened a w'ile to bishop and bess. "and you've saw all the op'ras?" she ast him. "most o' them," he says. "how grand!" says bessie. "i wisht i could see a lot o' them." "well," he says, "you're goin' to be here for some time." "oh, mr. bishop, i don't want you throwin' all your money away on me," she says. "i don't call it throwin' money away," says bishop. "i wouldn't neither," i says. "i'd say bishop was muscle-bound." they didn't pay no attention to me. "what ones would you like to see?" he ast her. "what are your favorights?" says bess. "oh," says bishop, "i've saw them all so many times that it don't really make no difference to me. sometimes they give two the same night, two short ones, and then you ain't so liable to get bored." saturday nights is when they usually give the two, and saturday nights they cut the prices. this here bishop wasn't no boob. "one good combination," he says, "is _polly archer_ and _cavalier rusticana_. they're both awful pretty." "oh, i'd love to see them," says bessie. "what are they like?" so he says polly archer was a leadin' lady in a stock company and the leadin' man and another fella was both stuck on her and she loved one o' them--i forget which one; whichever wasn't her husbun'--and they was a place in one o' their shows where the one that was her husbun' was supposed to get jealous and stab she and her lover, just actin', but, instead o' just pretendin', this one night he played a joke on them and done the stabbin' in earnest, and they was both killed. well, that'd be a good one to see if you happened to be there the night he really kills them; otherwise, it sounds pretty tame. and bishop also told her about _cavalier rusticana_ that means rural free delivery in english, and i didn't get the plot only that the mail carrier flirts with one o' the farmers' wives and o' course the rube spears him with a pitchfork. the state's attorneys must of been on the jump all the w'ile in them days. finally the orchestra was all in their places and an old guy with a beard come out in front o' them. "that's the conductor," says bishop. "he looks like he'd been a long time with the road," i says. then up went the curtain and the thermometer. * * * * * the scene's laid in little italy, but you can't see nothin' when it starts off because it's supposed to be just before mornin'. pretty soon one o' the three kings comes in with a grouch. he's old and blind as a bat and he ain't slept good and he's sore at the conductor on account o' the train bein' a half-hour late, and the conductor's jealous of him because his beard's longer, and archibald, that's the old king's name, won't sing what the orchestra's playin', but just snarls and growls, and the orchestra can't locate what key he's snarlin' in, so they don't get along at all, and finally flamingo, that's the old king's chauffeur, steers him off'n the stage. acrost on the other side o' the stage from where they go off they's a bungalow, and out of it comes flora and another o' the kings, a young fella with a tenor voice named veto. they sing about what a fine mornin' it is in wop and she tells him he'd better fly his kite before archibald catches him. it seems like she's married to archibald's son, fred, but o' course she likes veto better or it wouldn't be no op'ra. her and veto was raised in the same ward and they was oncet engaged to be married, but archibald's gang trimmed veto's in a big roughhouse one night and flora was part o' the spoils. when archibald seen how good she could fix spaghett' he was bound she'd stick in the family, so he give her the choice o' bein' killed or marryin' his boy, so she took fred but didn't really mean it in earnest. so veto hangs round the house a lot, because old archibald's blind and fred's generally always on the road with the erie section gang. but old archibald's eyes bein' no good, his ears is so much the better, even if he don't sometimes keep with the orchestra, so he comes back on the stage just after veto's went and he hears flora tryin' to snoop back in her bungalow. "who was you talkin' to?" he says. "myself," says flora. "great stuff!" says archibald. "up and outdoors at five a.m. to talk to yourself! feed that to the goldfish!" so she ain't got him fooled for a minute, but w'ile they're arguin' fred blows in. so archibald don't say nothin' about his superstition because he ain't sure, so fred and his missus goes in the bungalow to have breakfast and archibald stays on the stage quarrelin' with the conductor. if fred was eatin' all through the intermission, he must of been as hungry as me, because it was plain forty minutes before the second act begin. him and flora comes out o' their house and fred says he's got to go right away again because they's a bad wash-out this side o' huntington. he ain't no sooner gone than veto's back on the job, but flora's kind o' sorry for her husbun', and veto don't get the reception that a star ought to expect. "why don't you smile at me?" he says. so she says: "it don't seem proper, dearie, with a husbun' on the erie." but before long she can't resist his high notes and the next five or ten minutes is a love scene between the two, and they was a couple o' times when i thought the management would ring down the asbestos curtain. finally old archibald snoops back on the stage with flamingo, and veto runs, but archie hears him and it's good night. the old boy gives flora the third degree and she owns up, and then flamingo says that fred's comin' back to get his dinner pail. so archibald insists on knowin' the fella's name that he heard him runnin' away, but flora's either forgot it or else she's stubborn, so archie looses his temper and wrings her neck. so when fred arrives he gets the su'prise of his life and finds out he's a widow. "i slayed her," says archibald. "she wasn't no good." "she was the best cook we ever had," says fred. "what was the matter with her?" "she had a gentleman friend," says his old man. well, so far, they's only one dead and nothin' original about how it was pulled. you can go over to the victoria and see any number o' throttlin's at fifty cents for the best seats. so it was up to the management to get a wallop into the last act. it took them pretty near forty minutes to think of it, but it was good when it come. the scene is colosimo's undertakin' rooms and flora's ruins is laid out on the counter. all the wops from her ward stand round singin' gospel hymns. when they've beat it veto approaches the bier bar and wastes some pretty fair singin' on the late flora. then all of a sudden he leans over and gives her a kiss. that's all for veto. you see, old fox archibald had figured that the bird that loved her would pull somethin' like this and he'd doped out a way to learn who he was and make him regret it at the same time, besides springin' some bran'-new stuff in the killin' line. so he's mixed up some rat poison and garlic and spread it on the lips of his fair daughter-in-law. w'ile veto's dyin' fred comes in and finds him. "so it was you, was it?" he says. "i'm the guy," says veto. "well," says fred, "this'll learn you a lesson, you old masher, you!" "i'll mash you in a minute," says veto, but the way he was now, he couldn't of mashed turnips. "i kissed her last, anyway," says veto. "you think you did!" says fred, and helps himself to the garlic. so veto's dead and fred's leanin' over the counter, dyin', when archibald wabbles in. he finds his way up to fred and grabs a hold of him, thinkin' it's the stranger. "lay off'n me, pa," says fred. "this ain't the other bird. he's dead and it's got me, too." "well," says the old man, "that'd ought to satisfy them. but it's pretty tough on the erie." * * * * * "how grand!" says bess when it was over. "but it leaves you with a bad taste," says bishop. "and a big appetite," i says. "did that old man kill them all?" ast the missus. "all but hisself and flamingo," says i. "what was he mad at?" says she. "he was drove crazy by hunger," i says. "his wife and his sister-in-law and her fella was starvin' him to death." "bein' blind, he prob'ly spilled things at table," says the missus. "blind men sometimes has trouble gettin' their food." "the trouble ain't confined to the blind," says i. when we got outside i left bess and bishop lead the way, hopin' they'd head to'rds a steak garage. "no hurry about gettin' home," i hollered to them. "the night's still young yet." bishop turned round. "is they any good eatin' places out by your place?" he says. i thought i had him. "not as good as down-town," says i, and i named the loop restaurants. "how's the car service after midnight?" he says. "grand!" says i. "all night long." i wondered where he would take us. him and bess crossed the avenue and stopped where the crowd was waitin' for south-bound cars. "he's got some favorite place a ways south," says the missus. a car come and i and her clumb aboard. we looked back just in time to see bessie and bishop wavin' us farewell. "they missed the car," says the missus. "yes," i says, "and they was just as anxious to catch it as if it'd been the leprosy." "never mind," says the missus. "if he wants to be alone with her it's a good sign." "i can't eat a sign," says i. "we'll stop at the ideal and have a little supper of our own," she says. "we won't," says i. "why not?" says the missus. "because," i says, "they's exactly thirty-five cents in my pocket. and offerin' my stomach seventeen and a half cents' worth o' food now would be just about like sendin' one blank cartridge to the russian army." "i think they's some crackers in the house," she says. "prob'ly," says i. "we're usually that way--overstocked. you don't seem to realize that our household goods is only insured for a thousand." * * * * * about one o'clock i went to sleep from sheer weakness. about one-thirty the missus shook me and woke me up. "we win, joe!" she says, all excited. "i think bishop and bess is engaged!" "win!" says i. "say, if you was a frenchman you'd have a big celebration every anniversary o' the battle o' waterloo." "i was goin' out in the kitchen to get a drink," she says. "bess was home, but i didn't know it. and when i was comin' back from the kitchen i happened to glance in the livin'-room. and i seen bishop kiss her! isn't it great!" "yes," i says. "but i wisht she'd of had archibald fix up her lips." gullible's travels i i promised the wife that if anybody ast me what kind of a time did i have at palm beach i'd say i had a swell time. and if they ast me who did we meet i'd tell 'em everybody that was worth meetin'. and if they ast me didn't the trip cost a lot i'd say yes; but it was worth the money. i promised her i wouldn't spill none o' the real details. but if you can't break a promise you made to your own wife what kind of a promise can you break? answer me that, edgar. i'm not one o' these kind o' people that'd keep a joke to themself just because the joke was on them. but they's plenty of our friends that i wouldn't have 'em hear about it for the world. i wouldn't tell you, only i know you're not the village gossip and won't crack it to anybody. not even to your own missus, see? i don't trust no women. it was along last january when i and the wife was both hit by the society bacillus. i think it was at the opera. you remember me tellin' you about us and the hatches goin' to _carmen_ and then me takin' my missus and her sister, bess, and four of one suit named bishop to see _the three kings_? well, i'll own up that i enjoyed wearin' the soup and fish and minglin' amongst the high polloi and pretendin' we really was somebody. and i know my wife enjoyed it, too, though they was nothin' said between us at the time. the next stage was where our friends wasn't good enough for us no more. we used to be tickled to death to spend an evenin' playin' rummy with the hatches. but all of a sudden they didn't seem to be no fun in it and when hatch'd call up we'd stall out of it. from the number o' times i told him that i or the missus was tired out and goin' right to bed, he must of thought we'd got jobs as telephone linemen. we quit attendin' pitcher shows because the rest o' the audience wasn't the kind o' people you'd care to mix with. we didn't go over to ben's and dance because they wasn't no class to the crowd there. about once a week we'd beat it to one o' the good hotels down-town, all dressed up like a horse, and have our dinner with the rest o' the e-light. they wasn't nobody talked to us only the waiters, but we could look as much as we liked and it was sport tryin' to guess the names o' the gang at the next table. then we took to readin' the society news at breakfast. it used to be that i didn't waste time on nothin' but the market and sportin' pages, but now i pass 'em up and listen w'ile the missus rattled off what was doin' on the lake shore drive. every little w'ile we'd see where so-and-so was at palm beach or just goin' there or just comin' back'. we got to kiddin' about it. "well," i'd say, "we'd better be startin' pretty soon or we'll miss the best part o' the season." "yes," the wife'd say back, "we'd go right now if it wasn't for all them engagements next week." we kidded and kidded till finally, one night, she forgot we was just kiddin'. "you didn't take no vacation last summer," she says. "no," says i. "they wasn't no chance to get away." "but you promised me," she says, "that you'd take one this winter to make up for it." "i know i did," i says; "but it'd be a sucker play to take a vacation in weather like this." "the weather ain't like this everywheres," she says. "you must of been goin' to night school," i says. "another thing you promised me," says she, "was that when you could afford it you'd take me on a real honeymoon trip to make up for the dinky one we had." "that still goes," i says, "when i can afford it." "you can afford it now," says she. "we don't owe nothin' and we got money in the bank." "yes," i says. "pretty close to three hundred bucks." "you forgot somethin'," she says. "you forgot them war babies." did i tell you about that? last fall i done a little dabblin' in crucial steel and at this time i'm tellin' you about i still had a hold of it, but stood to pull down six hundred. not bad, eh? "it'd be a mistake to let loose now," i says. "all right," she says. "hold on, and i hope you lose every cent. you never did care nothin' for me." then we done a little spoonin' and then i ast her what was the big idear. "we ain't swelled on ourself," she says; "but i know and you know that the friends we been associatin' with ain't in our class. they don't know how to dress and they can't talk about nothin' but their goldfish and their meat bills. they don't try to get nowheres, but all they do is play rummy and take in the majestic. i and you like nice people and good music and things that's worth w'ile. it's a crime for us to be wastin' our time with riff and raff that'd run round barefooted if it wasn't for the police." "i wouldn't say we'd wasted much time on 'em lately," i says. "no," says she, "and i've had a better time these last three weeks than i ever had in my life." "and you can keep right on havin' it," i says. "i could have a whole lot better time, and you could, too," she says, "if we could get acquainted with some congenial people to go round with; people that's tastes is the same as ourn." "if any o' them people calls up on the phone," i says, "i'll be as pleasant to 'em as i can." "you're always too smart," says the wife. "you don't never pay attention to no schemes o' mine." "what's the scheme now?" "you'll find fault with it because i thought it up," she says. "if it was your scheme you'd think it was grand." "if it really was good you wouldn't be scared to spring it," i says. "will you promise to go through with it?" says she. "if it ain't too ridic'lous," i told her. "see! i knowed that'd be the way," she says. "don't talk crazy," i says. "where'd we be if we'd went through with every plan you ever sprang?" "will you promise to listen to my side of it without actin' cute?" she says. so i didn't see no harm in goin' that far. "i want you to take me to palm beach," says she. "i want you to take a vacation, and that's where we'll spend it." "and that ain't all we'd spend," i says. "remember your promise," says she. so i shut up and listened. the dope she give me was along these lines: we could get special round-trip rates on any o' the railroads and that part of it wouldn't cost nowheres near as much as a man'd naturally think. the hotel rates was pretty steep, but the meals was throwed in, and just imagine what them meals would be! and we'd be stayin' under the same roof with the vanderbilts and goulds, and eatin' at the same table, and probably, before we was there a week, callin' 'em steve and gus. they was dancin' every night and all the guests danced with each other, and how would it feel fox-trottin' with the president o' the b. & o., or the delmonico girls from new york! and all chicago society was down there, and when we met 'em we'd know 'em for life and have some real friends amongst 'em when we got back home. that's how she had it figured and she must of been practisin' her speech, because it certainly did sound good to me. to make it short, i fell, and dated her up to meet me down-town the next day and call on the railroad bandits. the first one we seen admitted that his was the best route and that he wouldn't only soak us one hundred and forty-seven dollars and seventy cents to and from palm beach and back, includin' an apartment from here to jacksonville and as many stop-overs as we wanted to make. he told us we wouldn't have to write for no hotel accommodations because the hotels had an agent right over on madison street that'd be glad to do everything to us. so we says we'd be back later and then we beat it over to the florida east coast's local studio. "how much for a double room by the week?" i ast the man. "they ain't no weekly rates," he says. "by the day it'd be twelve dollars and up for two at the breakers, and fourteen dollars and up at the poinciana." "i like the breakers better," says i. "you can't get in there," he says. "they're full for the season." "that's a long spree," i says. "can we get in the other hotel?" ast the wife. "i can find out," says the man. "we want a room with bath," says she. "that'd be more," says he. "that'd be fifteen dollars or sixteen dollars and up." "what do we want of a bath," i says, "with the whole atlantic ocean in the front yard?" "i'm afraid you'd have trouble gettin' a bath," says the man. "the hotels is both o' them pretty well filled up on account o' the war in europe." "what's that got to do with it?" i ast him. "a whole lot," he says. "the people that usually goes abroad is all down to palm beach this winter." "i don't see why," i says. "if one o' them u-boats hit 'em they'd at least be gettin' their bath for nothin'." we left him with the understandin' that he was to wire down there and find out what was the best they could give us. we called him up in a couple o' days and he told us we could have a double room, without no bath, at the poinciana, beginnin' the fifteenth o' february. he didn't know just what the price would be. well, i fixed it up to take my vacation startin' the tenth, and sold out my crucial steel, and divided the spoils with the railroad company. we decided we'd stop off in st. augustine two days, because the missus found out somewheres that they might be two or three o' the four hundred lingerin' there, and we didn't want to miss nobody. "now," i says, "all we got to do is set round and wait for the tenth o' the month." "is that so!" says the wife. "i suppose you're perfectly satisfied with your clo'es." "i've got to be," i says, "unless the salvation army has somethin' that'll fit me." "what's the matter with our charge account?" she says. "i don't like to charge nothin'," i says, "when i know they ain't no chance of ever payin' for it." "all right," she says, "then we're not goin' to palm beach. i'd rather stay home than go down there lookin' like general housework." "do you need clo'es yourself?" i ast her. "i certainly do," she says. "about two hundred dollars' worth. but i got one hundred and fifty dollars o' my own." "all right," i says. "i'll stand for the other fifty and then we're all set." "no, we're not," she says. "that just fixes me. but i want you to look as good as i do." "nature'll see to that," i says. but they was no arguin' with her. our trip, she says, was an investment; it was goin' to get us in right with people worth w'ile. and we wouldn't have a chance in the world unless we looked the part. so before the tenth come round, we was long two new evenin' gowns, two female sport suits, four or five pairs o' shoes, all colors, one tuxedo dinner coat, three dress shirts, half a dozen other kinds o' shirts, two pairs o' transparent white trousers, one new business suit and lord knows how much underwear and how many hats and stockin's. and i had till the fifteenth o' march to pay off the mortgage on the old homestead. just as we was gettin' ready to leave for the train the phone rung. it was mrs. hatch and she wanted us to come over for a little rummy. i was shavin' and the missus done the talkin'. "what did you tell her?" i ast. "i told her we was goin' away," says the wife. "i bet you forgot to mention where we was goin'," i says. "pay me," says she. ii i thought we was in venice when we woke up next mornin', but the porter says it was just cairo, illinois. the river'd went crazy and i bet they wasn't a room without a bath in that old burg. as we set down in the diner for breakfast the train was goin' acrost the longest bridge i ever seen, and it looked like we was so near the water that you could reach right out and grab a handful. the wife was a little wabbly. "i wonder if it's really safe," she says. "if the bridge stays up we're all right," says i. "but the question is, will it stay up?" she says. "i wouldn't bet a nickel either way on a bridge," i says. "they're treacherous little devils. they'd cross you as quick as they'd cross this river." "the trainmen must be nervous," she says. "just see how we're draggin' along." "they're givin' the fish a chance to get off en the track," i says. "it's against the law to spear fish with a cowcatcher this time o' year." well, the wife was so nervous she couldn't eat nothin' but toast and coffee, so i figured i was justified in goin' to the prunes and steak and eggs. after breakfast we went out in what they call the sun parlor. it was a glassed-in room on the tail-end o' the rear coach and it must of been a pleasant place to set and watch the scenery. but they was a gang o' missionaries or somethin' had all the seats and they never budged out o' them all day. every time they'd come to a crossroads they'd toss a stack o' bible studies out o' the back window for the southern heathen to pick up and read. i suppose they thought they was doin' a lot o' good for their fellow men, but their fellow passengers meanw'ile was gettin' the worst of it. speakin' o' the scenery, it certainly was somethin' grand. first we'd pass a few pine trees with fuzz on 'em and then a couple o' acres o' yellow mud. then they'd be more pine trees and more fuzz and then more yellow mud. and after a w'ile we'd come to some pine trees with fuzz on 'em and then, if we watched close, we'd see some yellow mud. every few minutes the train'd stop and then start up again on low. that meant the engineer suspected he was comin' to a station and was scared that if he run too fast he wouldn't see it, and if he run past it without stoppin' the inhabitants wouldn't never forgive him. you see, they's a regular schedule o' duties that's followed out by the more prominent citizens down those parts. after their wife's attended to the chores and got the breakfast they roll out o' bed and put on their overalls and eat. then they get on their horse or mule or cow or dog and ride down to the station and wait for the next train. when it comes they have a contest to see which can count the passengers first. the losers has to promise to work one day the followin' month. if one fella loses three times in the same month he generally always kills himself. all the towns has got five or six private residences and seven or eight two-apartment buildin's and a grocery and a post-office. they told me that somebody in one o' them burgs, i forget which one, got a letter the day before we come through. it was misdirected, i guess. the two-apartment buildin's is constructed on the ground floor, with a porch to divide one flat from the other. one's the housekeepin' side and the other's just a place for the husband and father to lay round in so's they won't be disturbed by watchin' the women work. it was a blessin' to them boys when their states went dry. just think what a strain it must of been to keep liftin' glasses and huntin' in their overalls for a dime! in the afternoon the missus went into our apartment and took a nap and i moseyed into the readin'-room and looked over some o' the comical magazines. they was a fat guy come in and set next to me. i'd heard him, in at lunch, tellin' the dinin'-car conductor what wilson should of done, so i wasn't su'prised when he opened up on me. "tiresome trip," he says. i didn't think it was worth w'ile arguin' with him. "must of been a lot o' rain through here," he says. "either that," says i, "or else the sprinklin' wagon run shy o' streets." he laughed as much as it was worth. "where do you come from?" he ast me. "dear old chicago," i says. "i'm from st. louis," he says. "you're frank," says i. "i'm really as much at home one place as another," he says. "the wife likes to travel and why shouldn't i humor her?" "i don't know," i says. "i haven't the pleasure." "seems like we're goin' all the w'ile," says he. "it's hot springs or new orleans or florida or atlantic city or california or somewheres." "do you get passes?" i ast him. "i guess i could if i wanted to," he says. "some o' my best friends is way up in the railroad business." "i got one like that," i says. "he generally stands on the fourth or fifth car behind the engine." "do you travel much?" he ast me. "i don't live in st. louis," says i. "is this your first trip south?" he ast. "oh, no," i says. "i live on sixty-fifth street." "i meant, have you ever been down this way before?" "oh, yes," says i. "i come down every winter." "where do you go?" he ast. that's what i was layin' for. "palm beach," says i. "i used to go there," he says. "but i've cut it out. it ain't like it used to be. they leave everybody in now." "yes," i says; "but a man don't have to mix up with 'em." "you can't just ignore people that comes up and talks to you," he says. "are you bothered that way much?" i ast. "it's what drove me away from palm beach," he says. "how long since you been there?" i ast him. "how long you been goin' there?" he says. "me?" says i. "five years." "we just missed each other," says he. "i quit six years ago this winter." "then it couldn't of been there i seen you," says i. "but i know i seen you somewheres before." "it might of been most anywheres," he says. "they's few places i haven't been at." "maybe it was acrost the pond," says i. "very likely," he says. "but not since the war started. i been steerin' clear of europe for two years." "so have i, for longer'n that," i says. "it's certainly an awful thing, this war," says he. "i believe you're right," says i; "but i haven't heard nobody express it just that way before." "i only hope," he says, "that we succeed in keepin' out of it." "if we got in, would you go?" i ast him. "yes, sir," he says. "you wouldn't beat me," says i. "i bet i'd reach brazil as quick as you." "oh, i don't think they'd be any action in south america," he says. "we'd fight defensive at first and most of it would be along the atlantic coast." "then maybe we could get accommodations in yellowstone park," says i. "they's no sense in this country gettin' involved," he says. "wilson hasn't handled it right. he either ought to of went stronger or not so strong. he's wrote too many notes." "you certainly get right to the root of a thing," says i. "you must of thought a good deal about it." "i know the conditions pretty well," he says. "i know how far you can go with them people over there. i been amongst 'em a good part o' the time." "i suppose," says i, "that a fella just naturally don't like to butt in. but if i was you i'd consider it my duty to romp down to washington and give 'em all the information i had." "wilson picked his own advisers," says he. "let him learn his lesson." "that ain't hardly fair," i says. "maybe you was out o' town, or your phone was busy or somethin'." "i don't know wilson nor he don't know me," he says. "that oughtn't to stop you from helpin' him out," says i. "if you seen a man drownin' would you wait for some friend o' the both o' you to come along and make the introduction?" "they ain't no comparison in them two cases," he says. "wilson ain't never called on me for help." "you don't know if he has or not," i says. "you don't stick in one place long enough for a man to reach you." "my office in st. louis always knows where i'm at," says he. "my stenographer can reach me any time within ten to twelve hours." "i don't think it's right to have this country's whole future dependin' on a st. louis stenographer," i says. "that's nonsense!" says he. "i ain't makin' no claim that i could save or not save this country. but if i and wilson was acquainted i might tell him some facts that'd help him out in his foreign policy." "well, then," i says, "it's up to you to get acquainted. i'd introduce you myself only i don't know your name." "my name's gould," says he; "but you're not acquainted with wilson." "i could be, easy," says i. "i could get on a train he was goin' somewheres on and then go and set beside him and begin to talk. lots o' people make friends that way." it was gettin' along to'rd supper-time, so i excused myself and went back to the apartment. the missus had woke up and wasn't feelin' good. "what's the matter?" i ast her. "this old train," she says. "i'll die if it don't stop goin' round them curves." "as long as the track curves, the best thing the train can do is curve with it," i says. "you may die if it keeps curvin', but you'd die a whole lot sooner if it left the rails and went straight ahead." "what you been doin'?" she ast me. "just talkin' to one o' the goulds," i says. "gould!" she says. "what gould?" "well," i says, "i didn't ask him his first name, but he's from st. louis, so i suppose it's ludwig or heinie." "oh," she says, disgusted. "i thought you meant one o' the real ones." "he's a real one, all right," says i. "he's so classy that he's passed up palm beach. he says it's gettin' too common." "i don't believe it," says the wife. "and besides, we don't have to mix up with everybody." "he says they butt right in on you," i told her. "they'll get a cold reception from me," she says. but between the curves and the fear o' palm beach not bein' so exclusive as it used to be, she couldn't eat no supper, and i had another big meal. the next mornin' we landed in jacksonville three hours behind time and narrowly missed connections for st. augustine by over an hour and a half. they wasn't another train till one-thirty in the afternoon, so we had some time to kill. i went shoppin' and bought a shave and five or six rickeys. the wife helped herself to a chair in the writin'-room of one o' the hotels and told pretty near everybody in chicago that she wished they was along with us, accompanied by a pitcher o' the elks' home or the germania club, or trout fishin' at atlantic beach. w'ile i was gettin' my dime's worth in the tonsorial parlors, i happened to look up at a calendar on the wall, and noticed it was the twelfth o' february. "how does it come that everything's open here to-day?" i says to the barber. "don't you-all know it's lincoln's birthday?" "is that so?" he says. "how old is he?" iii we'd wired ahead for rooms at the alcazar, and when we landed in st. augustine they was a motor-bus from the hotel to meet us at the station. "southern hospitality," i says to the wife, and we was both pleased till they relieved us o' four bits apiece for the ride. well, they hadn't neither one of us slept good the night before, w'ile we was joltin' through georgia; so when i suggested a nap they wasn't no argument. "but our clo'es ought to be pressed," says the missus. "call up the valet and have it done w'ile we sleep." so i called up the valet, and sure enough, he come. "hello, george!" i says. "you see, we're goin' to lay down and take a nap, and we was wonderin' if you could crease up these two suits and have 'em back here by the time we want 'em." "certainly, sir," says he. "and how much will it cost?" i ast him. "one dollar a suit," he says. "are you on parole or haven't you never been caught?" says i. "yes, sir," he says, and smiled like it was a joke. "let's talk business, george," i says. "the tailor we go to on sixty-third walks two blocks to get our clo'es, and two blocks to take 'em to his joint, and two blocks to bring 'em back, and he only soaks us thirty-five cents a suit." "he gets poor pay and he does poor work," says the burglar. "when i press clo'es i press 'em right." "well," i says, "the tailor on sixty-third satisfies us. suppose you don't do your best this time, but just give us seventy cents' worth." but they wasn't no chance for a bargain. he'd been in the business so long he'd become hardened and lost all regard for his fellow men. the missus slept, but i didn't. instead, i done a few problems in arithmetic. outside o' what she'd gave up for postcards and stamps in jacksonville, i'd spent two bucks for our lunch, about two more for my shave and my refreshments, one for a rough ride in a bus, one more for gettin' our trunk and grips carried round, two for havin' the clo'es pressed, and about half a buck in tips to people that i wouldn't never see again. somewheres near nine dollars a day, not countin' no hotel bill, and over two weeks of it yet to come! oh, you rummy game at home, at half a cent a point! when our clo'es come back i woke her up and give her the figures. "but to-day's an exception," she says. "after this our meals will be included in the hotel bill and we won't need to get our suits pressed only once a week and you'll be shavin' yourself and they won't be no bus fare when we're stayin' in one place. besides, we can practise economy all spring and all summer." "i guess we need the practise," i says. "and if you're goin' to crab all the time about expenses," says she, "i'll wish we had of stayed home." "that'll make it unanimous," says i. then she begin sobbin' about how i'd spoiled the trip and i had to promise i wouldn't think no more o' what we were spendin'. i might just as well of promised to not worry when the white sox lost or when i'd forgot to come home to supper. we went in the dinin'-room about six-thirty and was showed to a table where they was another couple settin'. they was husband and wife, i guess, but i don't know which was which. she was wieldin' the pencil and writin' down their order. "i guess i'll have clams," he says. "they disagreed with you last night," says she. "all right," he says. "i won't try 'em. give me cream-o'-tomato soup." "you don't like tomatoes," she says. "well, i won't have no soup," says he. "a little o' the blue-fish." "the blue-fish wasn't no good at noon," she says. "you better try the bass." "all right, make it bass," he says. "and them sweet-breads and a little roast beef and sweet potatoes and peas and vanilla ice-cream and coffee." "you wouldn't touch sweet-breads at home," says she, "and you can't tell what they'll be in a hotel." "all right, cut out the sweet-breads," he says. "i should think you'd have the stewed chicken," she says, "and leave out the roast beef." "stewed chicken it is," says he. "stewed chicken and mashed potatoes and string beans and buttered toast and coffee. will that suit you?" "sure!" he says, and she give the slip to the waiter. george looked at it long enough to of read it three times if he could of read it once and then went out in the kitchen and got a trayful o' whatever was handy. but the poor guy didn't get more'n a taste of anything. she was watchin' him like a hawk, and no sooner would he delve into one victual than she'd yank the dish away from him and tell him to remember that health was more important than temporary happiness. i felt so sorry for him that i couldn't enjoy my own repast and i told the wife that we'd have our breakfast apart from that stricken soul if i had to carry the case to old al cazar himself. in the evenin' we strolled acrost the street to the ponce--that's supposed to be even sweller yet than where we were stoppin' at. we walked all over the place without recognizin' nobody from our set. i finally warned the missus that if we didn't duck back to our room i'd probably have a heart attack from excitement; but she'd read in her florida guide that the decorations and pitchers was worth goin' miles to see, so we had to stand in front o' them for a couple hours and try to keep awake. four or five o' them was thrillers, at that. their names was adventure, discovery, contest, and so on, but what they all should of been called was lady who had mislaid her clo'es. the hotel's named after the fella that built it. he come from spain and they say he was huntin' for some water that if he'd drunk it he'd feel young. i don't see myself how you could expect to feel young on water. but, anyway, he'd heard that this here kind o' water could be found in st. augustine, and when he couldn't find it he went into the hotel business and got even with the united states by chargin' five dollars a day and up for a room. sunday mornin' we went in to breakfast early and i ast the head waiter if we could set at another table where they wasn't no convalescent and his mate. at the same time i give the said head waiter somethin' that spoke louder than words. we was showed to a place way acrost the room from where we'd been the night before. it was a table for six, but the other four didn't come into our life till that night at supper. meanw'ile we went sight-seein'. we visited fort marion, that'd be a great protection against the germans, provided they fought with paper wads. we seen the city gate and the cathedral and the slave market, and then we took the boat over to anastasia island, that the ocean's on the other side of it. this trip made me homesick, because the people that was along with us on the boat looked just like the ones we'd often went with to michigan city on the fourth o' july. the boat landed on the bay side o' the island and from there we was drug over to the ocean side on a horse car, the horse walkin' to one side o' the car instead of in front, so's he wouldn't get ran over. we stuck on the beach till dinner-time and then took the chariot back to the pavilion on the bay side, where a whole family served the meal and their pigs put on a cabaret. it was the best meal i had in dear old dixie--fresh oysters and chicken and mashed potatoes and gravy and fish and pie. and they charged two bits a plate. "goodness gracious!" says the missus, when i told her the price. "this is certainly reasonable. i wonder how it happens." "well," i says, "the family was probably washed up here by the tide and don't know they're in florida." when we got back to the hotel they was only just time to clean up and go down to supper. we hadn't no sooner got seated when our table companions breezed in. it was a man about forty-five, that looked like he'd made his money in express and general haulin', and he had his wife along and both their mother-in-laws. the shirt he had on was the one he'd started from home with, if he lived in yokohama. his womenfolks wore mournin' with a touch o' gravy here and there. "you order for us, jake," says one o' the ladies. so jake grabbed the bill o' fare and his wife took the slip and pencil and waited for the dictation. "let's see," he says. "how about oyster cocktail?" "yes," says the three mrs. black. "four oyster cocktails, then," says jake, "and four orders o' blue-points." "the oysters is nice, too," says i. they all give me a cordial smile and the ice was broke. "everything's good here," says jake. "i bet you know," i says. he seemed pleased at the compliment and went on dictatin'. "four chicken soups with rice," he says, "and four o' the blue-fish and four veal chops breaded and four roast chicken and four boiled potatoes--" but it seemed his wife would rather have sweet potatoes. "all right," says jake; "four boiled potatoes and four sweets. and chicken salad and some o' that tapioca puddin' and ice-cream and tea. is that satisfactory?" "fine!" says one o' the mother-in-laws. "are you goin' to stay long?" says mrs. jake to my missus. the party addressed didn't look very clubby, but she was too polite to pull the cut direct. "we leave to-morrow night," she says. nobody ast her where we was goin'. "we leave for palm beach," she says. "that's a nice place, i guess," says one o' the old ones. "more people goes there than comes here. it ain't so expensive there, i guess." "you're some guesser," says the missus and freezes up. i ast jake if he'd been to florida before. "no," he says; "this is our first trip, but we're makin' up for lost time. we're seein' all they is to see and havin' everything the best." "you're havin' everything, all right," i says, "but i don't know if it's the best or not. how long have you been here?" "a week to-morrow," says he. "and we stay another week and then go to ormond." "are you standin' the trip o. k.?" i ast him. "well," he says, "i don't feel quite as good as when we first come." "kind o' logy?" i says. "yes; kind o' heavy," says jake. "i know what you ought to do," says i. "you ought to go to a european plan hotel." "not w'ile this war's on," he says, "and besides, my mother's a poor sailor." "yes," says his mother; "i'm a very poor sailor." "jake's mother can't stand the water," says mrs. jake. so i begun to believe that jake's wife's mother-in-law was a total failure as a jolly tar. social intercourse was put an end to when the waiter staggered in with their order and our'n. the missus seemed to of lost her appetite and just set there lookin' grouchy and tappin' her fingers on the table-cloth and actin' like she was in a hurry to get away. i didn't eat much, neither. it was more fun watchin'. "well," i says, when we was out in the lobby, "we finally got acquainted with some real people." "real people!" says the missus, curlin' her lip. "what did you talk to 'em for?" "i couldn't resist," i says. "anybody that'd order four oyster cocktails and four rounds o' blue-points is worth knowin'." "well," she says, "if they're there when we go in to-morrow mornin' we'll get our table changed again or you can eat with 'em alone." but they was absent from the breakfast board. "they're probably stayin' in bed to-day to get their clo'es washed," says the missus. "or maybe they're sick," i says. "a change of oysters affects some people." i was for goin' over to the island again and gettin' another o' them quarter banquets, but the program was for us to walk round town all mornin' and take a ride in the afternoon. first, we went to st. george street and visited the oldest house in the united states. then we went to hospital street and seen the oldest house in the united states. then we turned the corner and went down st. francis street and inspected the oldest house in the united states. then we dropped into a soda fountain and i had an egg phosphate, made from the oldest egg in the western hemisphere. we passed up lunch and got into a carriage drawn by the oldest horse in florida, and we rode through the country all afternoon and the driver told us some o' the oldest jokes in the book. he felt it was only fair to give his customers a good time when he was chargin' a dollar an hour, and he had his gags rehearsed so's he could tell the same one a thousand times and never change a word. and the horse knowed where the point come in every one and stopped to laugh. we done our packin' before supper, and by the time we got to our table jake and the mourners was through and gone. we didn't have to ask the waiter if they'd been there. he was perspirin' like an evangelist. after supper we said good-by to the night clerk and twenty-two bucks. then we bought ourself another ride in the motor-bus and landed at the station ten minutes before train-time; so we only had an hour to wait for the train. say, i don't know how many stations they is between new york and san francisco, but they's twice as many between st. augustine and palm beach. and our train stopped twice and started twice at every one. i give up tryin' to sleep and looked out the window, amusin' myself by readin' the names o' the different stops. the only one that expressed my sentiments was eau gallie. we was an hour and a half late pullin' out o' that joint and i figured we'd be two hours to the bad gettin' into our destination. but the guy that made out the time-table must of had the engineer down pat, because when we went acrost the bridge over lake worth and landed at the poinciana depot, we was ten minutes ahead o' time. they was about two dozen uniformed ephs on the job to meet us. and when i seen 'em all grab for our baggage with one hand and hold the other out, face up, i knowed why they called it palm beach. iv the poinciana station's a couple hundred yards from one end o' the hotel, and that means it's close to five miles from the clerk's desk. by the time we'd registered and been gave our key and marathoned another five miles or so to where our room was located at, i was about ready for the inquest. but the missus was full o' pep and wild to get down to breakfast and look over our stable mates. she says we would eat without changin' our clo'es; people'd forgive us for not dressin' up on account o' just gettin' there. w'ile she was lookin' out the window at the royal palms and buzzards, i moseyed round the room inspectin' where the different doors led to. pretty near the first one i opened went into a private bath. "here," i says; "they've give us the wrong room." then my wife seen it and begin to squeal. "goody!" she says. "we've got a bath! we've got a bath!" "but," says i, "they promised we wouldn't have none. it must be a mistake." "never you mind about a mistake," she says. "this is our room and they can't chase us out of it." "we'll chase ourself out," says i. "rooms with a bath is fifteen and sixteen dollars and up. rooms without no bath is bad enough." "we'll keep this room or i won't stay here," she says. "all right, you win," i says; but i didn't mean it. i made her set in the lobby down-stairs w'ile i went to the clerk pretendin' that i had to see about our trunk. "say," i says to him, "you've made a bad mistake. you told your man in chicago that we couldn't have no room with a bath, and now you've give us one." "you're lucky," he says. "a party who had a bath ordered for these two weeks canceled their reservation and now you've got it." "lucky, am i?" i says. "and how much is the luck goin' to cost me?" "it'll be seventeen dollars per day for that room," he says, and turned away to hide a blush. i went back to the wife. "do you know what we're payin' for that room?" i says. "we're payin' seventeen dollars." "well," she says, "our meals is throwed in." "yes," says i, "and the hotel furnishes a key." "you promised in st. augustine," she says, "that you wouldn't worry no more about expenses." well, rather than make a scene in front o' the bellhops and the few millionaires that was able to be about at that hour o' the mornin', i just says "all right!" and led her into the dinin'-room. the head waiter met us at the door and turned us over to his assistant. then some more assistants took hold of us one at a time and we was relayed to a beautiful spot next door to the kitchen and bounded on all sides by posts and pillars. it was all right for me, but a whole lot too private for the missus; so i had to call the fella that had been our pacemaker on the last lap. "we don't like this table," i says. "it's the only one i can give you," he says. i slipped him half a buck. "come to think of it," he says, "i believe they's one i forgot all about." and he moved us way up near the middle o' the place. say, you ought to seen that dinin'-room! from one end of it to the other is a toll call, and if a man that was settin' at the table farthest from the kitchen ordered roast lamb he'd get mutton. at that, they was crowded for fair and it kept the head waiters hustlin' to find trough space for one and all. it was round nine o'clock when we put in our modest order for orange juice, oatmeal, liver and bacon, and cakes and coffee, and a quarter to ten or so when our waiter returned from the nearest orange grove with exhibit a. we amused ourself meanw'ile by givin' our neighbors the once over and wonderin' which o' them was goin' to pal with us. as far as i could tell from the glances we received, they wasn't no immediate danger of us bein' annoyed by attentions. they was only a few womenfolks on deck and they was dressed pretty quiet; so quiet that the missus was scared she'd shock 'em with the sport skirt she'd bought in chi. later on in the day, when the girls come out for their dress parade, the missus' costume made about as much noise as eatin' marshmallows in a foundry. after breakfast we went to the room for a change o' raiment. i put on my white trousers and wished to heaven that the sun'd go under a cloud till i got used to tellin' people without words just where my linen began and i left off. the rest o' my outfit was white shoes that hurt, and white sox, and a two-dollar silk shirt that showed up a zebra, and a red tie and a soft collar and a blue coat. the missus wore a sport suit that i won't try and describe--you'll probably see it on her sometime in the next five years. we went down-stairs again and out on the porch, where some o' the old birds was takin' a sun bath. "where now?" i says. "the beach, o' course," says the missus. "where is it at?" i ast her. "i suppose," she says, "that we'll find it somewheres near the ocean." "i don't believe you can stand this climate," says i. "the ocean," she says, "must be down at the end o' that avenue, where most everybody seems to be headed." "havin' went to our room and back twice, i don't feel like another five-mile hike," i says. "it ain't no five miles," she says; "but let's ride, anyway." "come on," says i, pointin' to a street-car that was standin' in the middle o' the avenue. "oh, no," she says. "i've watched and found out that the real people takes them funny-lookin' wheel chairs." i was wonderin' what she meant when one o' them pretty near run over us. it was part bicycle, part go-cart and part african. in the one we dodged they was room for one passenger, but some o' them carried two. "i wonder what they'd soak us for the trip," i says. "not more'n a dime, i don't believe," says the missus. but when we'd hired one and been w'isked down under the palms and past the golf field to the bath-house, we was obliged to part with fifty cents legal and tender. "i feel much refreshed," i says. "i believe when it comes time to go back i'll be able to walk." the bath-house is acrost the street from the other hotel, the breakers, that the man had told us was full for the season. both buildin's fronts on the ocean; and, boy, it's some ocean! i bet they's fish in there that never seen each other! "oh, let's go bathin' right away!" says the missus. "our suits is up to the other beanery," says i, and i was glad of it. they wasn't nothin' temptin' to me about them man-eatin' waves. but the wife's a persistent cuss. "we won't go to-day," she says, "but we'll go in the bath-house and get some rooms for to-morrow." the bath-house porch was a ringer for the _follies_. here and down on the beach was where you seen the costumes at this time o' day. i was so busy rubberin' that i passed the entrance door three times without noticin' it. from the top o' their heads to the bottom o' their feet the girls was a mess o' colors. they wasn't no two dressed alike and if any one o' them had of walked down state street we'd of had an epidemic o' stiff neck to contend with in chi. finally the missus grabbed me and hauled me into the office. "two private rooms," she says to the clerk. "one lady and one gent." "five dollars a week apiece," he says. "but we're all filled up." "you ought to be all locked up!" i says. "will you have anything open to-morrow?" ast the missus. "i think i can fix you then," he says. "what do we get for the five?" i ast him. "private room and we take care o' your bathin' suit," says he. "how much if you don't take care o' the suit?" i ast him. "my suit's been gettin' along fine with very little care." "five dollars a week apiece," he says, "and if you want the rooms you better take 'em, because they're in big demand." by the time we'd closed this grand bargain, everybody'd moved offen the porch and down to the water, where a couple dozen o' them went in for a swim and the rest set and watched. they was a long row o' chairs on the beach for spectators and we was just goin' to flop into two o' them when another bandit come up and told us it'd cost a dime apiece per hour. "we're goin' to be here two weeks," i says. "will you sell us two chairs?" he wasn't in no comical mood, so we sunk down on the sand and seen the show from there. we had plenty o' company that preferred these kind o' seats free to the chairs at ten cents a whack. besides the people that was in the water gettin' knocked down by the waves and pretendin' like they enjoyed it, about half o' the gang on the sand was wearin' bathin' suits just to be clubby. you could tell by lookin' at the suits that they hadn't never been wet and wasn't intended for no such ridic'lous purpose. i wisht i could describe 'em to you, but it'd take a female to do it right. one little girl, either fourteen or twenty-four, had white silk slippers and sox that come pretty near up to her ankles, and from there to her knees it was just plain nature. northbound from her knees was a pair o' bicycle trousers that disappeared when they come to the bottom of her mother hubbard. this here garment was a thing without no neck or sleeves that begin bulgin' at the top and spread out gradual all the way down, like a croquette. to top her off, she had a jockey cap; and--believe me--i'd of played her mount acrost the board. they was plenty o' class in the field with her, but nothin' that approached her speed. later on i seen her several times round the hotel, wearin' somethin' near the same outfit, without the jockey cap and with longer croquettes. we set there in the sand till people begun to get up and leave. then we trailed along back o' them to the breakers' porch, where they was music to dance and stuff to inhale. "we'll grab a table," i says to the missus. "i'm dyin' o' thirst." but i was allowed to keep on dyin'. "i can serve you somethin' soft," says the waiter. "i'll bet you can't!" i says. "you ain't got no locker here?" he says. "what do you mean--locker?" i ast him. "it's the locker liquor law," he says. "we can serve you a drink if you own your own bottles." "i'd just as soon own a bottle," i says. "i'll become the proprietor of a bottle o' beer." "it'll take three or four hours to get it for you," he says, "and you'd have to order it through the order desk. if you're stoppin' at one o' the hotels and want a drink once in a w'ile, you better get busy and put in an order." so i had to watch the missus put away a glass of orange juice that cost forty cents and was just the same size as they give us for breakfast free for nothin'. and, not havin' had nothin' to make me forget that my feet hurt, i was obliged to pay another four bits for an afromobile to cart us back to our own boardin' house. "well," says the missus when we got there, "it's time to wash up and go to lunch." "wash up and go to lunch, then," i says; "but i'm goin' to investigate this here locker liquor or liquor locker law." so she got her key and beat it, and i limped to the bar. "i want a highball," i says to the boy. "what's your number?" says he. "it varies," i says. "sometimes i can hold twenty and sometimes four or five makes me sing." "i mean, have you got a locker here?" he says. "no; but i want to get one," says i. "the gent over there to the desk will fix you," says he. so over to the desk i went and ast for a locker. "what do you drink?" ast the gent. "i'm from chicago," i says. "i drink bourbon." "what's your name and room number?" he says, and i told him. then he ast me how often did i shave and what did i think o' the kaiser and what my name was before i got married, and if i had any intentions of ever running an elevator. finally he says i was all right. "i'll order you some bourbon," he says. "anything else?" i was goin' to say no, but i happened to remember that the wife generally always wants a bronix before dinner. so i had to also put in a bid for a bottle o' gin and bottles o' the vermouth brothers, tony and pierre. it wasn't till later that i appreciated what a grand law this here law was. when i got my drinks i paid ten cents apiece for 'em for service, besides payin' for the bottles o' stuff to drink. and, besides that, about every third highball or bronix i ordered, the waiter'd bring back word that i was just out of ingredients and then they'd be another delay w'ile they sent to the garage for more. if they had that law all over the country they'd soon be an end o' drinkin', because everybody'd get so mad they'd kill each other. my cross-examination had took quite a long time, but when i got to my room the wife wasn't back from lunch yet and i had to cover the marathon route all over again and look her up. we only had the one key to the room, and o' course couldn't expect no more'n that at the price. the missus had bought one o' the daily programs they get out and she knowed just what we had to do the rest o' the day. "for the next couple hours," she says, "we can suit ourself." "all right," says i. "it suits me to take off my shoes and lay down." "i'll rest, too," she says; "but at half past four we have to be in the cocoanut grove for tea and dancin'. and then we come back to the room and dress for dinner. then we eat and then we set around till the evenin' dance starts. then we dance till we're ready for bed." "who do we dance all these dances with?" i ast her. "with whoever we get acquainted with," she says. "all right," says i; "but let's be careful." well, we took our nap and then we followed schedule and had our tea in the cocoanut grove. you know how i love tea! my feet was still achin' and the missus couldn't talk me into no dance. when we'd set there an hour and was saturated with tea, the wife says it was time to go up and change into our tuxedos. i was all in when we reached the room and willin' to even pass up supper and nestle in the hay, but i was informed that the biggest part o' the day's doin's was yet to come. so from six o'clock till after seven i wrestled with studs, and hooks and eyes that didn't act like they'd ever met before and wasn't anxious to get acquainted, and then down we went again to the dinin'-room. "how about a little bronix before the feed?" i says. "it would taste good," says the missus. so i called eph and give him the order. in somethin' less than half an hour he come back empty-handed. "you ain't got no cocktail stuff," he says. "i certainly have," says i. "i ordered it early this afternoon." "where at?" he ast me. "over in the bar," i says. "oh, the regular bar!" he says. "that don't count. you got to have stuff at the service bar to get it served in here." "i ain't as thirsty as i thought i was," says i. "me, neither," says the missus. so we went ahead and ordered our meal, and w'ile we was waitin' for it a young couple come and took the other two chairs at our table. they didn't have to announce through a megaphone that they was honeymooners. it was wrote all over 'em. they was reachin' under the table for each other's hand every other minute, and when they wasn't doin' that they was smilin' at each other or gigglin' at nothin'. you couldn't feel that good and be payin' seventeen dollars a day for room and board unless you was just married or somethin'. i thought at first their company'd be fun, but after a few meals it got like the southern cookin' and begun to undermine the health. the conversation between they and us was what you could call limited. it took place the next day at lunch. the young husband thought he was about to take a bite o' the entry, which happened to be roast mutton with sirup; but he couldn't help from lookin' at her at the same time and his empty fork started for his face prongs up. "look out for your eye," i says. he dropped the fork and they both blushed till you could see it right through the sunburn. then they give me a mexican look and our acquaintance was at an end. this first night, when we was through eatin', we wandered out in the lobby and took seats where we could watch the passin' show. the men was all dressed like me, except i was up to date and had on a mushroom shirt, w'ile they was sportin' the old-fashioned concrete bosom. the women's dresses begun at the top with a belt, and some o' them stopped at the mezzanine floor, w'ile others went clear down to the basement and helped keep the rugs clean. they was one that must of thought it was the fourth o' july. from the top of her head to where the top of her bathin' suit had left off, she was a red, red rose. from there to the top of her gown was white, and her gown, what they was of it--was blue. "my!" says the missus. "what stunnin' gowns!" "yes," i says; "and you could have one just like 'em if you'd take the shade offen the piano lamp at home and cut it down to the right size." round ten o'clock we wandered in the palm garden, where the dancin' had been renewed. the wife wanted to plunge right in the mazes o' the foxy trot. "i'll take some courage first," says i. and then was when i found out that it cost you ten cents extra besides the tip to pay for a drink that you already owned in fee simple. well, i guess we must of danced about six dances together and had that many quarrels before she was ready to go to bed. and oh, how grand that old hay-pile felt when i finally bounced into it! the next day we went to the ocean at the legal hour--half past eleven. i never had so much fun in my life. the surf was runnin' high, i heard 'em say; and i don't know which i'd rather do, go bathin' in the ocean at palm beach when the surf is runnin' high, or have a dentist get one o' my molars ready for a big inlay at a big outlay. once in a w'ile i managed to not get throwed on my head when a wave hit me. as for swimmin', you had just as much chance as if you was at state and madison at the noon hour. and before i'd been in a minute they was enough salt in my different features to keep the blackstone hotel runnin' all through the onion season. the missus enjoyed it just as much as me. she tried to pretend at first, and when she got floored she'd give a squeal that was supposed to mean heavenly bliss. but after she'd been bruised from head to feet and her hair looked and felt like spinach with french dressin', and she'd drank all she could hold o' the gulf stream, she didn't resist none when i drug her in to shore and staggered with her up to our private rooms at five a week per each. without consultin' her, i went to the desk at the casino and told 'em they could have them rooms back. "all right," says the clerk, and turned our keys over to the next in line. "how about a refund?" i ast him; but he was waitin' on somebody else. after that we done our bathin' in the tub. but we was down to the beach every morning at eleven-thirty to watch the rest o' them get batted round. and at half past twelve every day we'd follow the crowd to the breakers' porch and dance together, the missus and i. then it'd be back to the other hostelry, sometimes limpin' and sometimes in an afromobile, and a drink or two in the palm garden before lunch. and after lunch we'd lay down; or we'd pay some eph two or three dollars to pedal us through the windin' jungle trail, that was every bit as wild as the art institute; or we'd ferry acrost lake worth to west palm beach and take in a movie, or we'd stand in front o' the portable fifth avenue stores w'ile the missus wished she could have this dress or that hat, or somethin' else that she wouldn't of looked at if she'd been home and in her right mind. but always at half past four we had to live up to the rules and be in the cocoanut grove for tea and some more foxy trottin'. and then it was dress for dinner, eat dinner, watch the parade and wind up the glorious day with more dancin'. i bet you any amount you name that the castles in their whole life haven't danced together as much as i and the missus did at palm beach. i'd of gave five dollars if even one o' the waiters had took her offen my hands for one dance. but i knowed that if i made the offer public they'd of been a really serious quarrel between us instead o' just the minor brawls occasioned by steppin' on each other's feet. she made a discovery one night. she found out that they was a place called the beach club where most o' the real people disappeared to every evenin' after dinner. she says we would have to go there too. "but i ain't a member," i says. "then find out how you get to be one," she says. so to the beach club i went and made inquiries. "you'll have to be introduced by a guy that already belongs," says the man at the door. "who belongs?" i ast him. "hundreds o' people," he says. "who do you know?" "two waiters, two barkeepers and one elevator boy," i says. he laughed, but his laugh didn't get me no membership card and i had to dance three or four extra times the next day to square myself with the missus. she made another discovery and it cost me six bucks. she found out that, though the meals in the regular dinin'-room was included in the triflin' rates per day, the real people had at least two o' their meals in the garden grill and paid extra for 'em. we tried it for one meal and i must say i enjoyed it--all but the check. "we can't keep up that clip," i says to her. "we could," says she, "if you wasn't spendin' so much on your locker." "the locker's a matter o' life and death," i says. "they ain't no man in the world that could dance as much with their own wife as i do and live without liquid stimulus." when we'd been there four days she got to be on speakin' terms with the ladies' maid that hung round the lobby and helped put the costumes back on when they slipped off. from this here maid the missus learned who was who, and the information was relayed to me as soon as they was a chance. we'd be settin' on the porch when i'd feel an elbow in my ribs all of a sudden. i'd look up at who was passin' and then try and pretend i was excited. "who is it?" i'd whisper. "that's mrs. vandeventer," the wife'd say. "her husband's the biggest street-car conductor in philadelphia." or somebody'd set beside us at the beach or in the palm garden and my ribs would be all battered up before the missus was calm enough to tip me off. "the vincents," she'd say; "the canned prune people." it was a little bit thrillin' at first to be rubbin' elbows with all them celeb's; but it got so finally that i could walk out o' the dinin'-room right behind scotti, the opera singer, without forgettin' that my feet hurt. the washington's birthday ball brought 'em all together at once, and the missus pointed out eight and nine at a time and got me so mixed up that i didn't know pat vanderbilt from maggie rockefeller. the only one you couldn't make no mistake about was a russian count that you couldn't pronounce. he was buyin' bay mules or somethin' for the russian government, and he was in ambush. "they say he can't hardly speak a word of english," says the missus. "if i knowed the word for barber shop in russia," says i, "i'd tell him they was one in this hotel." v in our mail box the next mornin' they was a notice that our first week was up and all we owed was one hundred and forty-six dollars and fifty cents. the bill for room and meals was one hundred and nineteen dollars. the rest was for gettin' clo'es pressed and keepin' the locker damp. i didn't have no appetite for breakfast. i told the wife i'd wait up in the room and for her to come when she got through. when she blew in i had my speech prepared. "look here," i says; "this is our eighth day in palm beach society. you're on speakin' terms with a maid and i've got acquainted with half a dozen o' the male hired help. it's cost us about a hundred and sixty-five dollars, includin' them private rooms down to the casino and our afromobile trips, and this and that. you know a whole lot o' swell people by sight, but you can't talk to 'em. it'd be just as much satisfaction and hundreds o' dollars cheaper to look up their names in the telephone directory at home; then phone to 'em and, when you got 'em, tell 'em it was the wrong number. that way, you'd get 'em to speak to you at least. "as for sport," i says, "we don't play golf and we don't play tennis and we don't swim. we go through the same program o' doin' nothin' every day. we dance, but we don't never change partners. for twelve dollars i could buy a phonograph up home and i and you could trot round the livin'-room all evenin' without no danger o' havin' some o' them fancy birds cave our shins in. and we could have twice as much liquid refreshments up there at about a twentieth the cost. "that gould i met on the train comin' down," i says, "was a even bigger liar than i give him credit for. he says that when he was here people pestered him to death by comin' up and speakin' to him. we ain't had to dodge nobody or hide behind a cocoanut tree to remain exclusive. he says palm beach was too common for him. what he should of said was that it was too lonesome. if they was just one white man here that'd listen to my stuff i wouldn't have no kick. but it ain't no pleasure tellin' stories to the ephs. they laugh whether it's good or not, and then want a dime for laughin'. "as for our clo'es," i says, "they would be all right for a couple o' days' stay. but the dames round here, and the men, too, has somethin' different to put on for every mornin', afternoon and night. you've wore your two evenin' gowns so much that i just have to snap my finger at the hooks and they go and grab the right eyes. "the meals would be grand," i says, "if the cook didn't keep gettin' mixed up and puttin' puddin' sauce on the meat and gravy on the pie. "i'm glad we've been to palm beach," i says. "i wouldn't of missed it for nothin'. but the ocean won't be no different to-morrow than it was yesterday, and the same for the daily program. it don't even rain here, to give us a little variety. "now what do you say," i says, "to us just settlin' this bill, and whatever we owe since then, and beatin' it out o' here just as fast as we can go?" the missus didn't say nothin' for a w'ile. she was too busy cryin'. she knowed that what i'd said was the truth, but she wouldn't give up without a struggle. "just three more days," she says finally. "if we don't meet somebody worth meetin' in the next three days i'll go wherever you want to take me." "all right," i says; "three more days it is. what's a little matter o' sixty dollars?" well, in them next two days and a half she done some desperate flirtin', but as it was all with women i didn't get jealous. she picked out some o' the e-light o' chicago and tried every trick she could think up. she told 'em their noses was shiny and offered 'em her powder. she stepped on their white shoes just so's to get a chance to beg their pardon. she told 'em their clo'es was unhooked, and then unhooked 'em so's she could hook 'em up again. she tried to loan 'em her finger-nail tools. when she seen one fannin' herself she'd say: "excuse me, mrs. so-and-so; but we got the coolest room in the hotel, and i'd be glad to have you go up there and quit perspirin'." but not a rise did she get. not till the afternoon o' the third day o' grace. and i don't know if i ought to tell you this or not--only i'm sure you won't spill it nowheres. we'd went up in our room after lunch. i was tired out and she was discouraged. we'd set round for over an hour, not sayin' or doin' nothin'. i wanted to talk about the chance of us gettin' away the next mornin', but i didn't dast bring up the subject. the missus complained of it bein' hot and opened the door to leave the breeze go through. she was settin' in a chair near the doorway, pretendin' to read the _palm beach news_. all of a sudden she jumped up and kind o' hissed at me. "what's the matter?" i says, springin' from the lounge. "come here!" she says, and went out the door into the hall. i got there as fast as i could, thinkin' it was a rat or a fire. but the missus just pointed to a lady walkin' away from us, six or seven doors down. "it's mrs. potter," she says; "_the_ mrs. potter from chicago!" "oh!" i says, puttin' all the excitement i could into my voice. and i was just startin' back into the room when i seen mrs. potter stop and turn round and come to'rd us. she stopped again maybe twenty feet from where the missus was standin'. "are you on this floor?" she says. the missus shook like a leaf. "yes," says she, so low you couldn't hardly hear her. "please see that they's some towels put in ," says _the_ mrs. potter from chicago. vi about five o'clock the wife quieted down and i thought it was safe to talk to her. "i've been readin' in the guide about a pretty river trip," i says. "we can start from here on the boat to-morrow mornin'. they run to fort pierce to-morrow and stay there to-morrow night. the next day they go from fort pierce to rockledge, and the day after that from rockledge to daytona. the fare's only five dollars apiece. and we can catch a north-bound train at daytona." "all right, i don't care," says the missus. so i left her and went down-stairs and acrost the street to ask mr. foster. ask mr. foster happened to be a girl. she sold me the boat tickets and promised she would reserve a room with bath for us at fort pierce, where we was to spend the followin' night. i bet she knowed all the w'ile that rooms with a bath in fort pierce is scarcer than toes on a sturgeon. i went back to the room and helped with the packin' in an advisory capacity. neither one of us had the heart to dress for dinner. we ordered somethin' sent up and got soaked an extra dollar for service. but we was past carin' for a little thing like that. at nine o'clock next mornin' the good ship _constitution_ stopped at the poinciana dock w'ile we piled aboard. one bellhop was down to see us off and it cost me a quarter to get that much attention. mrs. potter must of over-slept herself. the boat was loaded to the guards and i ain't braggin' when i say that we was the best-lookin' people aboard. and as for manners, why, say, old bill sykes could of passed off for henry chesterfield in that gang! each one o' them occupied three o' the deck chairs and sprayed orange juice all over their neighbors. we could of talked to plenty o' people here, all right; they were as clubby a gang as i ever seen. but i was afraid if i said somethin' they'd have to answer; and, with their mouths as full o' citrus fruit as they was, the results might of been fatal to my light suit. we went up the lake to a canal and then through it to indian river. the boat run aground every few minutes and had to be pried loose. about twelve o'clock a cullud gemman come up on deck and told us lunch was ready. at half past one he served it at a long family table in the cabin. as far as i was concerned, he might as well of left it on the stove. even if you could of bit into the food, a glimpse of your fellow diners would of strangled your appetite. after the repast i called the missus aside. "somethin' tells me we're not goin' to live through three days o' this," i says. "what about takin' the train from fort pierce and beatin' it for jacksonville, and then home?" "but that'd get us to chicago too quick," says she. "we told people how long we was goin' to be gone and if we got back ahead o' time they'd think they was somethin' queer." "they's too much queer on this boat," i says. "but you're goin' to have your own way from now on." we landed in fort pierce about six. it was only two or three blocks to the hotel, but when they laid out that part o' town they overlooked some o' the modern conveniences, includin' sidewalks. we staggered through the sand with our grips and sure had worked up a hunger by the time we reached ye inn. "got reservations for us here?" i ast the clerk. "yes," he says, and led us to 'em in person. the room he showed us didn't have no bath, or even a chair that you could set on w'ile you pulled off your socks. "where's the bath?" i ast him. "this way," he says, and i followed him down the hall, outdoors and up an alley. finally we come to a bathroom complete in all details, except that it didn't have no door. i went back to the room, got the missus and went down to supper. well, sir, i wish you could of been present at that supper. the choice o' meats was calves' liver and onions or calves' liver and onions. and i bet if them calves had of been still livin' yet they could of gave us some personal reminiscences about garfield. the missus give the banquet one look and then laughed for the first time in several days. "the guy that named this burg got the capitals mixed," i says. "it should of been port fierce." and she laughed still heartier. takin' advantage, i says: "how about the train from here to jacksonville?" "you win!" says she. "we can't get home too soon to suit me." vii the mornin' we landed in chicago it was about eight above and a wind was comin' offen the lake a mile a minute. but it didn't feaze us. "lord!" says the missus. "ain't it grand to be home!" "you said somethin'," says i. "but wouldn't it of been grander if we hadn't never left?" "i don't know about that," she says. "i think we both of us learned a lesson." "yes," i says; "and the tuition wasn't only a matter o' close to seven hundred bucks!" "oh," says she, "we'll get that back easy!" "how?" i ast her. "do you expect some tips on the market from mrs. potter and the rest o' your new friends?" "no," she says. "we'll win it. we'll win it in the rummy game with the hatches." the water cure when it comes to makin' matches i hand it to the women. when it comes to breakin' 'em leave it to the handsomer sex. the thirteenth o' june didn't light on a friday, but old tuesday come through in the pinch with just as good results. dear little sister-in-law bess blew in on the afternoon train from wabash. she says she was makin' us a surprise visit. the surprise affected me a good deal like the one that was pulled on napoleon at waterloo, ia. "how long are you goin' to light up our home?" i ast her at the supper table. "i haven't made up my mind," says she. "that's all you've missed, then," i says. "don't mind him!" says my missus. "he's just a tease. you look grand and we're both tickled to death to have you here. you may stay with us all summer." "no question about that," i says. "not only may, but li'ble to." "if i do," says bess, "it'll be on my sister's account, not yourn." "but i'm the baby that settles your sister's account," i says; "and it was some account after you left us last winter. with your visit and our cute little trip to palm beach, i'm not what you'd call cramped for pocket space." "i guess i can pay my board," says bess. "i guess you won't!" says the wife. "the second guess is always better," says i. "as for you entertainin' me, i don't expect nothin' like that," says bess. "if you was lookin' for a quiet time," i says, "you made a big mistake by leavin' wabash." "and i'm not lookin' for no quiet time, neither," bess says right back at me. "well," says i, "about the cheapest noisy time i can recommend is to go over and set under the elevated." "maybe bess has somethin' up in her sleeve," the missus says, smilin'. "you ain't the only man in chicago." "i'm the only one she knows," says i, "outside o' that millionaire scenario writer that had us all in misery last winter. and i wouldn't say he was over-ardent after he'd knew her a week." then the wife winked at me to close up and i didn't get the dope till we was alone together. "they correspond," she told me. "absolutely," says i. "i mean they been writin' letters to each other," says the missus. "who's been buyin' bishop's stamps?" i ast her. "i guess a man can buy his own stamps when he gets ten thousand a year," says she. "anyway, the reason bess is here is to see him." "is it illegal for him to go to wabash and see her?" i says. "he's too busy to go to wabash," the wife says. "i don't see how a man could be too busy for that," says i. "she phoned him this noon," says the missus. "he couldn't come over here to-night, but to-morrow he's goin' to take her to the ball game." "where all the rest o' the busy guys hangs out," i says. "aren't the white sox havin' enough bad luck without him?" that reminded me that i'd came home before the final extras was out; so i put on my hat and went over to tim's to look at the score-board. it took me till one a. m. to memorize the batteries and everything. the wife was still awake yet when i got home and i had enough courage to resume hostilities. "if what you told me about bishop and bess is true," i says, "i guess i'll pack up and go fishin' for the rest o' the summer." "and leave me to starve, i suppose!" says she. "bishop'll take care of the both o' you," i says. "if he don't i'll send you home a couple o' carp." "if you go and leave me it's the last time!" she says. "and it shows you don't care nothin' about me." "i care about you, all right," i says; "but not enough to be drove crazy in my own house." "they's nothin' for you to go crazy about," she says. "if bess and mr. bishop wants to tie up leave 'em alone and forget about 'em." "i'd like nothin' better," i says; "but you know they'll give us no chance to forget about 'em." "why not?" she ast me. "because they'd starve to death without us," i says. "starve to death!" she says. "on ten thousand a year!" "now here!" i says. "who told you he got that trifle?" "he did," says the wife. "and how do you know he wasn't overestimatin'?" i ast her. "you mean how do i know he wasn't lyin'?" she says. "yes," says i. "because he's a gentleman," she says. "and he told you that, too?" i ast. "no," she says. "i could tell that by lookin' at him." "all right, clara voyant!" i says. "and maybe you can tell by lookin' at me how much money he borrowed off'n me and never give back." "when? how much?" she says. "one at a time, please," says i. "the amount o' the cash transaction was a twenty-dollar gold certificate. and the time he shook me down was the evenin' he took us to hear _ada_, and was supposed to be payin' for it." "i can't believe it," says the missus. "all right," i says. "when he brings bessie home from the ball game to-morrow i'll put it up to him right in front o' you." "no! you mustn't do that!" she says. "i won't have him insulted." "you would have him insulted if i knowed how to go about it," i says. "you stayed over to tim's too long," says the wife. "yes," says i, "and i made arrangements to stay over there every time bishop comes here." "suit yourself," she says, and pretended like she was asleep. well, the next mornin' i got to thinkin' over what i'd said and wonderin' if i'd went too strong. but i couldn't see where. this bird was a dude that had got acquainted with bessie on the train when she was on her way here to visit us last winter. he'd infested the house all the while she was with us. he'd gave us that ten-thousand-dollar yarn and told us he made it by writin' movin'-pitcher plays, but we never seen none o' them advertised and never run into anybody that had heard of him. the missus had picked him out for bess the minute she seen him. bessie herself had fell for him strong. to keep 'em both from droppin' cyanide in my gruel, i'd took him along with us to see _the love o' three kings_, besides buyin' his groceries and provisions for pretty near a week and standin' for the upkeep on the davenport where him and bess held hands. finally, after he'd went six days without submittin' even circumstantial evidence that he'd ever had a dime, i bullied him into sayin' he'd give us a party. then they'd been an argument over where he'd take us. he'd suggested a vaudeville show, but i jumped on that with both feet. bessie held out for a play, but i told her they wasn't none that i'd leave a young unmarried sister-in-law o' mine go to. "oh," bess had said, "they must be some that's perfectly genteel." "yes," i told her, "there is some; but they're not worth seein'." so they'd ast what was left and i'd mentioned grand opera. "they're worse than plays, the most o' them," was the wife's cut-in. "but all the risky parts is sang in latin and greek," i'd said. well, bishop put up a great fight, but i wouldn't break ground, and finally he says he would take us to opera if he could get tickets. "i'm down-town every day," i'd told him. "i'll have 'em reserved for you." but no; he wouldn't see me put to all that trouble for the world; he'd do the buyin' himself. so _ada_ was what he took us to on a sunday night, when the seats was cut to half price. and when i and him went out between acts to try the limes he catched me with my guard down and frisked the twenty. now bess had tipped off the wife that her and bishop was practically engaged, but the night after _ada_ was the last night of her visit and bishop hadn't never came round. so bessie'd cried all night and tried to get him by phone before she left next day; but neither o' them two acts done her any good. it looked like he was all through. on the way to the train bess and the missus had ruined three or four handkerchiefs and called the bird every low-down flirt they could think of. i didn't say a word; nor did i perfume my linen with brine. * * * * * here, though, was bess back in town and old man short makin' up to her again. and they'd been correspondin'. the second time was li'ble to take, unless outside brains come to the rescue. if i'd thought for a minute that they'd leave us out of it and go away somewhere by themself and live--the north side, or one o' the suburbs, or wabash--i wouldn't of cared how many times they married each other. but i had him spotted for a loafer that couldn't earn a livin', and i knowed what the maritile nuptials between bess and he meant--it meant that i and the missus would have all the pleasures o' conductin' a family hotel without the pain o' makin' out receipts. now i always wanted a boy and a girl, but i wanted 'em to be kind o' youngish when i got 'em. i never craved addin' a married couple to my family--not even if they was crazy about rummy and paid all their bills. and when it come to bishop and bess, well, they was just as welcome to my home as villa and all the little villains. it wasn't just bishop, with his quaint habit o' never havin' car fare. bess, in her way, was as much of a liability. you couldn't look at her without a slight relapse. she had two complexions--a.m. and p.m. the p.m. wasn't so bad, but she could of put the other in her vanity box for a mirror. her nose curved a little away from the batsman and wasn't no wider than a julienne potato, and yet it had to draw in to get between her eyes. her teeth was real pretty and she always kept her lips ajar. but the baseball reporters named matty's favorite delivery after her chin, and from there down the curves was taboo. where she made a hit with bishop was laughin' at everything he pulled--that is, he thought she was laughin'. the fact was that she was snatchin' the chance to show more o' them teeth. they wasn't no use showin' 'em to me; so i didn't get laughs from her on my stuff, only when he or some other stranger was round. and if my stuff wasn't funnier than bishop's i'll lay down my life for austria. as a general rule, i don't think a man is justified in interferin' with other people's hymeneal intentions, but it's different when the said intentions is goin' to make your own home a hell. it was up to me to institute proceedin's that would check the flight o' these two cooin' doves before their wings took 'em to crown point in a yellow flivver. and i seen my duty all the more clear when the pair come home from the ball game the day after bessie's arrival, and not only told me that the white sox got another trimmin' but laughed when they said it. "well, bishop," i says when we set down to supper, "how many six-reelers are you turnin' out a day?" "about one every two weeks is the limit," says bishop. "i'll bet it is," i says. "and who are you workin' for now?" "the western film corporation," he says. "but i'm goin' to quit 'em the first o' the month." "what for?" i ast him. "better offer from the criterion," he says. "better'n ten thousand a year?" says i. "sure!" he says. "twenty dollars better?" i says. he blushed and the wife sunk my shin with a patent-leather torpedo. then bishop says: "the raise i'm gettin' would make twenty dollars look sick." "if you'd give it to me," i says, "i'd try and nurse it back to health." after supper the missus called me out in the kitchen to bawl me out. "it's rough stuff to embarrass a guest," she says. "he's always embarrassed," says i. "but you admit now, don't you, that i was tellin' the truth about him touchin' me?" "yes," she says. "well," says i, "if he's so soiled with money, why don't he pay a little puny debt?" "he's probably forgot it," says she. "did he look like he'd forgot it?" i ast her. and she had no come-back. but when my missus can overlook a guy stingin' me for legal tender, it means he's in pretty strong with her. and i couldn't count on no help from her, even if bishop was a murderer, so long as bess wanted him. the next mornin', just to amuse myself, i called up the criterion people and ast them if they was goin' to hire a scenario writer name elmer bishop. "never heard of him," was what they told me. so i called up the western. "elmer bishop?" they says. "he ain't no scenario writer. he's what we call an extra. he plays small parts sometimes." "and what pay do them extras drag down?" i ast. "five dollars a day, but nothin' when they don't work," was the thrillin' response. my first idea was to slip this dope to the wife and bess both. but what'd be the use? they wouldn't believe it even if they called up and found out for themself; and if they did believe it, bessie'd say a man's pay didn't make no difference where true love was concerned, and the missus would take her part, and they'd cry a little, and wind up by sendin' for bishop and a minister to make sure o' the ceremony comin' off before bishop lost his five-dollar job and croaked himself. then i thought o' forbiddin' him the hospitality o' my abode. but that'd be just as useless. they'd meet somewheres else, and if i threatened to lock bess out, the wife'd come back with a counter-proposition to not give me no more stewed beets or banana soufflés. besides that, strong-arm methods don't never kill sweet love, but act just the opposite and make the infected parties more set on gettin' each other. this here case was somethin' delicate, and if a man didn't handle it exactly right you wouldn't never get over bein' sorry. so, instead o' me quarrelin' with the wife and bess, and raisin' a fuss at bishop spendin' eight evenin's a week with us, i kept my clam closed and tried to be pleasant, even when i'd win a hand o' rummy and see this guy carelessly lose a few of his remainin' face cards under the table. we had an awful spell o' heat in july and it wasn't no fun playin' cards or goin' to pitcher shows, or nothin'. saturday afternoons and sundays, i and the missus would go over to the lake and splash. bess only went with us a couple o' times; that was because she couldn't get bishop to come along. he'd always say he was busy, or he had a cold and was afraid o' makin' it worse. so far as i was concerned, i managed to enjoy my baths just as much with them two stayin' away. the sight o' bessie in a bathin' suit crabbed the exhilaratin' effects o' the swim. when she stood up in the water the minnows must of thought two people was still-fishin'. it was one night at supper, after bessie'd been with us about a month, when the idear come to me. bishop was there, and i'd been lookin' at he and bess, and wonderin' what they'd seen in each other. the missus ast 'em if they was goin' out some place. "no," says bessie. "it's too hot and they ain't no place to go." "they's lots o' places to go," says the wife. "for one thing, they're havin' grand opera out to ravinia park." "i wouldn't give a nickel to see a grand opera," says bess, "unless it was _ada_, that elmer took us to last winter." so they went on talkin' about somethin' else. i don't know what, because the minute she mentioned _ada_ i was all set. i guess maybe i'd better tell you a little about this here opera, so's you'll see how it helped me out. a fella named gus verdi wrote it, and the scenes is laid along the illinois central, round memphis and cairo. ada's a big wench, with a pretty voice, and she's the hired girl in the mayor's family. the mayor's daughter gets stuck on a fat little tenor that you can't pronounce and that should of had a lawn mower ran over his chin. the tenor likes the colored girl better than the mayor's daughter, and the mayor's daughter tries every way she can think of to bust it up and grab off the tenor for herself; but nothin' doin'! finally the mayor has the tenor pinched for keepin' open after one o'clock, and the law's pretty strict; so, instead o' just finin' him, they lock him up in a safety-deposit vault. well, the wench is down in the vault, too, dustin' off the papers and cleanin' the silver, and they don't know she's there; so the two o' them's locked up together and can't get out. and when they can't get away and haven't got nobody else to look at or talk to, they get so's they hate each other; and finally they can't stand it no longer and they both die. they's pretty music in it, but if old gus had of seen the men that was goin' to be in the show he'd of laid the scenes in beardstown instead o' memphis. well, do you get the idear? if the mayor's daughter had of been smart, instead o' tryin' to keep the tenor and ada from bein' with each other she'd of locked 'em up together a long while ago, and, first thing you know, they'd of been sick o' one another; and just before they died she could of let 'em out and had the tenor for herself without no argument. and the same thing would work with bishop and bess. in all the time o' their mutual courtship they hadn't been together for more'n five or six hours at a time, and never where one o' them couldn't make a quick duck when they got tired. make 'em stick round with each other for a day, or for two days, without no chance to separate, and it was a cinch that the alarm clock would break in on love's young dream. but, for some reason or other, i didn't have no safety-deposit vault and they wasn't no room in the flat that they couldn't get out of by jumpin' from the window. how was i goin' to work it? i thought and thought; and figured and figured; and it wasn't till after i'd went to bed that the solution come. a boat trip to st. joe! i and the missus and the two love birds. and i'd see to it that the chaperons kept their distance and let nature take its course. we'd go over some saturday afternoon and come back the next night. that'd give 'em eight or nine hours saturday and from twelve to sixteen hours sunday to get really acquainted with each other. and if they was still on speakin' terms at the end o' that time i'd pass up the case as incurable. you see, i had it doped that bishop was afraid o' water or else he wouldn't of turned down all our swimmin' parties. i wouldn't leave him a chance to duck out o' this because i wouldn't tell nobody where we was goin'. it'd be a surprise trip. and they was a good chance that they'd both be sick if it was the least bit rough, and that'd help a lot. i thought of milwaukee first, but picked st. joe because it's dry. a man might stand for bess a whole day and more if he was a little blear-eyed from milwaukee's favorite food. the trip would cost me some money, but it was an investment with a good chance o' big returns. i'd of been willin' to take 'em to palm beach for a month if that'd been the only way to save my home. when bishop blew in the next evenin' i pulled it on 'em. "bishop," i says, "a man that does as much brain work as you ought to get more recreation." "i guess i do work too hard," he says modestly. "i should think," i says, "that you'd give yourself saturday afternoons and sundays off." "i do, in summer," he says. "that's good," i says. "i was thinkin' about givin' a little party this comin' week-end; and, o' course, i wanted you to be in on it." the two girls got all excited. "party!" says the missus. "what kind of a party?" "well," i says, "i was thinkin' about takin' you and bishop and bess out o' town for a little trip." "where to?" ast the wife. "that's a secret," i says. "you won't know where we're goin' till we start. all i'll tell you is that we'll be gone from saturday afternoon till monday mornin'." "oh, how grand!" says bessie. "and think how romantic it'll be, not knowin' where we're headed!" "i don't know if i can get away or not," says bishop. "i pay all expenses," says i. "oh, elmer, you've just got to go!" says bess. "the trip's off if you don't," i says. "if you don't say yes i'll never speak to you again," says bessie. for a minute i hoped he wouldn't say yes; but he did. then i told 'em that the start would be from our house at a quarter to one saturday, and to pack up their sporty clothes. the rest o' the evenin' was spent in them tryin' to guess where we was goin'. it got 'em nothin', because i wouldn't say aye, yes or no to none o' their guesses. when i and the missus was alone, she says: "well, what's the idear?" "no idear at all," i says, "except that our honeymoon trip to palm beach was a flivver and i feel like as if i ought to make up to you for it. and besides that, bessie's our guest and i ought to do somethin' nice for she and her friend." "i'd think you must of been drinkin' if i didn't know better," she says. "you never do give me credit for nothin'," says i. "to tell the truth, i'm kind of ashamed o' myself for the way i been actin' to'rd bishop and bess; but i'm willin' to make amends before it's too late. if bishop's goin' to be one o' the family i and him should ought to be good friends." "that's the way i like to hear you talk," says the wife. "but remember," i says, "this trip ain't only for their benefit, but for our'n too. and from the minute we start till we get home us two'll pal round together just like we was alone. we don't want them buttin' in on us and we don't want to be buttin' in on them." "that suits me fine!" says she. "and now maybe you'll tell me where we're goin'." "you promise not to tell?" i ast her. "sure!" she says. "well," i says, "that's one promise you'll keep." and i buried my good ear in the feathers. * * * * * at twenty minutes to two, saturday afternoon, i landed my entire party at the dock, foot o' wabash avenue. "goody!" says bess. "we're goin' acrost the lake." "if the boat stays up." "i don't know if i ought to go or not," says bishop. "i'd ought to be where i can keep in touch with the criterion people." "they got a wireless aboard," i says. "yes," says bishop; "but they wouldn't know where to reach me." "you got time to phone 'em before we sail," says i. "no, he hasn't," says bessie. "he ain't goin' to take no chance o' missin' this boat. he can send 'em a wireless after we start." so that settled bishop, and he had to walk up the gangplank with the rest of us. he looked just as pleased as if they'd lost his laundry. i checked the baggage and sent the three o' them up on deck, sayin' i'd join 'em later. then i ast a boy where the bar was. "right in there," he says, pointin'. "but you can't get nothin' till we're three miles out." so i went back to the gangplank and started off the boat. a man about four years old, with an addin' machine in his hand, stopped me. "are you goin' to make the trip?" he ast me. "what do you think i'm on here for--to borrow a match?" says i. "well," he says, "you can't get off." "you're cross!" i says. "i bet your milk don't agree with you." i started past him again, but he got in front o' me. "you can get off, o' course," he says; "but you can't get back on. that's the rules." "what sense is they in that?" i ast him. "if i let people off, and on again, my count would get mixed up," he says. "who are you?" says i. "i'm the government checker," he says. "chess?" says i. "and you count all the people that gets on?" "that's me," he says. "how many's on now?" i ast him. "eight hundred-odd," he says. "i ast you for the number, not the description," i says. "how many's the limit?" i ast him. "thirteen hundred," he says. "and would the boat sink if they was more'n that?" says i. "i don't know if it would or wouldn't," he says, "but that's all the law allows." for a minute i felt like offerin' him a lump sum to let seven or eight hundred more on the boat and be sure that she went down; meantime i'd be over gettin' a drink. but then i happened to think that the missus would be among those lost; and though a man might do a whole lot better the second time, the chances was that he'd do a whole lot worse. so i passed up the idear and stayed aboard, prayin' for the time when we'd be three miles out on lake michigan. it was the shortest three miles you ever seen. we hadn't got out past the municipal pier when i seen a steady influx goin' past the engine-room and into the great beyond. i followed 'em and got what i was after. then i went up on deck, lookin' for my guests. i found 'em standin' in front o' one o' the lifeboats. "why don't you get comfortable?" i says to bishop. "why don't you get chairs and enjoy the breeze?" "that's what i been tellin' 'em," says the missus; "but mr. bishop acts like he was married to this spot." "i'm only thinkin' of your wife and bessie," says bishop. "if anything happened, i'd want 'em to be near a lifeboat." "nothin's goin' to happen," i says. "they hasn't been a wreck on this lake for over a month. and this here boat, the _city o' benton harbor_, ain't never sank in her life." "no," says bishop; "and the _chicora_ and _eastland_ never sank till they sunk." "the boats that sinks," i says, "is the boats that's overloaded. i was talkin' to the government checker-player down-stairs and he tells me that you put thirteen hundred on this boat and she's perfectly safe; and they's only eight hundred aboard now." "then why do they have the lifeboats?" ast bishop. "so's you can go back if you get tired o' the trip," i says. "i ought to be back now," says bishop, "where the firm can reach me." "we ain't more'n two miles out," i says. "if your firm's any good they'll drag the bottom farther out than this. besides," i says, "if trouble comes the lifeboats would handle us." "yes," says bishop; "but it's women and children first." "sure!" i says. "that's the proper order for drownin'. the world couldn't struggle along without us ten-thousand-dollar scenario writers." "they couldn't be no trouble on such a lovely day as this," says bess. "that's where you make a big mistake," i says. "that shows you don't know nothin' about the history o' lake michigan." "what do you mean?" ast bishop. "all the wrecks that's took place on this lake," i says, "has happened in calm weather like to-day. it's just three years ago this july," i says, "when the _city of ypsilanti_ left grand haven with about as many passengers as we got to-day. the lake was just like a billiard table and no thought o' danger. well, it seems like they's a submerged water oak about three miles from shore that you're supposed to steer round it. but this pilot hadn't never made the trip before, and, besides that, he'd been drinkin' pretty heavy; so what does he do but run right plump into the tree, and the boat turned a turtle and all the passengers was lost except a tailor named swanson." "but that was just an unreliable officer," says bessie. "he must of been crazy." "crazy!" says i. "they wouldn't nobody work on these boats unless they was crazy. it's bound to get 'em." "i hope we got a reliable pilot to-day," says bishop. "he's only just a kid," i says; "and i noticed him staggerin' when he come aboard. but, anyway, you couldn't ask for a better bottom than they is right along in here; nice clean sand and hardly any weeds." "what time do we get to st. joe?" ast bishop. "about seven if we don't run into a squall," i says. then i and the wife left 'em and went round to another part o' the deck and run into squalls of all nationalities. their mothers had made a big mistake in bringin' 'em, because you could tell from their faces and hands that they didn't have no use for water. "they all look just alike," says the missus. "i don't see how the different mothers can tell which is their baby." "it's fifty-fifty," i says. "the babies don't look no more alike than the mothers. the mothers is all named jennie, and all perfect cubes and fond of apples, and ought to go to a dentist. besides," i says, "suppose they did get mixed up and swap kids, none o' the parties concerned would have reasons to gloat. and the babies certainly couldn't look no more miserable under different auspices than they do now." we walked all round the deck, threadin' our way among the banana peelin's, and lookin' our shipmates over. "pick out somebody you think you'd like to meet," i told the wife, "and i'll see if i can arrange it." "thanks," she says; "but i'll try and not get lonesome, with my husband and my sister and my sister's beau along." "it's nice for you to say it," says i; "but you want to remember that we're leavin' bess and bishop to themself, and that leaves you and i to ourself, and they ain't no two people in the world that can spend two days alone together without gettin' bored stiff. besides, you don't want to never overlook a chance to meet high-class people." "when i get desperately anxious to meet high-class people," she says, "i'll be sure and pick out the saturday afternoon boat from chicago to st. joe." "you can't judge people by their looks," says i. "you haven't heard 'em talk." "no; and couldn't understand 'em if i did," she says. "i'll bet some o' them's just as bright as we are," i says. "i'm not lookin' for bright companionship," she says. "i want a change." "that's just like i told you," says i. "you're bound to get tired o' one person, no matter how much they sparkle, if you live with 'em long enough." we left the deck and went down-stairs. they was two or three people peerin' in the engine-room and the missus made me stop there a minute. "what for?" i ast her. "i want to see how it works," she says. "well," says i, when we'd started on again, "i can drop my insurance now." "why?" says the missus. "i don't never need to worry about you starvin'," i says. "with the knowledge you just picked up there, i bet you could easy land a job as engineer on one o' these boats." "i'd do about as good as you would at it," she says. "sure; because i didn't study it," i says. "what makes the boat run?" i ast her. "why, the wheel," she says. "and who runs the wheel?" i ast her. "the pilot," says she. "and what does the engineer do?" i says. "why, i suppose he keeps the fire burnin'," she says. "but in weather like this what do they want of a fire?" "i suppose it gets colder out in the middle o' the lake," she says. "no," says i; "but on saturdays they got to keep a fire goin' to heat the babies' bottles." we went in the room next to the bar. a boy set at the piano playin' _sweet cider time in moonshine valley_ and some hawaiian native melodies composed by a hungarian waiter that was too proud to fight. three or four couple was dancin', but none o' them was wry-necked enough to get the proper pose. the girls looked pretty good and was probably members o' the four hundred employed in the fair. the boys would of been handsomer if the laundry hadn't failed to bring back their other shirt in time. a big guy in a uniform come by and went into the next room. "is that the captain?" ast the wife. "no," i says, "that's the steward." "and what does he do?" she ast me. "he hangs round the bar," i says, "and looks after the stews." "have they really got a bar?" she says. "i'll find out for sure if you'll wait here a minute," says i, and led her to a chair where she could watch 'em wrestle. in the other room i stood next to a greek that charged ten cents on sundays and holidays. he was all lit up like the municipal pier. "enjoyin' the trip?" i ast him. "too rough; too rough!" he says, only i don't do the dialect very good. "i bet you never got that shine at your own stand," says i. "too hot to work!" says he. "i don't have to work. i got the mon'." "yes," i says; "and the bun." a little way off from us was four other political enemies o' j. frank hanly, tellin' my greek friend in tonsorial tones that if he didn't like his uncle sammy he knowed what he could do. "don't you like your uncle sammy?" i ast him. "i don't have to work," he says. "i got the mon'." "then why don't you take them boys' advice," i says, "and go back to your home o'er the sea?" "too rough; too rough!" he says; and in the twenty minutes i stood there with him, findin' out whether they was really a bar, he didn't say nothin' except that he had the mon', and he didn't have to work, and somethin' was too rough. i and the missus went back up on deck. i steered for the end o' the boat that was farthest from where we'd left bess and bishop, but they'd began to get restless, and we run into them takin' a walk. "where you been?" ast bessie. "down watchin' 'em dance," says the missus. "is they a place to dance aboard?" ast bishop. but i didn't want 'em to dance, because that'd be an excuse not to say nothin' to each other for a w'ile. so i says: "they's a place, all right; but five or six couple's already on the floor, and when you get more'n that trottin' round at once it's li'ble to rock the boat and be disastrous." i took the wife's arm and started to move on. "where you goin'?" says bishop. "just for a stroll round the decks," says i. "we'll go along," he says. i seen the treatment was beginnin' to work. "nothin' doin'!" i says. "this is one of our semi-annual honeymoons and we can't use no outside help." a few minutes before we hit st. joe we seen 'em again, settin' down below, afraid to dance and entirely out o' conversation. they was havin' just as good a time as jennie's babies. "we're pretty near in," i says, "and 'twas one o' the smoothest crossin's i ever made." "they couldn't nobody get sick in weather like this," says bess. "no," i says, "but you take a smooth saturday afternoon and it generally always means a rough sunday night." "ain't they no railroad between here and chi?" ast bishop. "not direct," i says. "you have to go to lansing and then cut across to fort wayne. if you make good connections you can do it in a day and two nights, but most o' the way is through the copper ranges and the trains keeps gettin' later and later, and when they try to make up time they generally always slip offen the track and spill their contents." "if it looks like a storm to-morrow night," says bess, "we might wait over and go home monday." that idear scared bishop more'n the thought of a wreck. "oh, no!" he says. "i got to be back on the job monday mornin'." "if it's as rough as i think it's goin' to be," says i, "you won't feel like rippin' off no scenarios monday." we landed and walked up the highest hill in michigan to the hotel. i noticed that miss bessie carried her own suit-case. "well," i says, "i suppose you two kids would rather eat your supper by yourself, and i and the missus will set at another table." "no, no!" says bess. "it'll be pleasanter to all eat together." so for about half an hour we had 'em with us; and they'd of stuck the rest o' the evenin' if i'd gave 'em a chance. "what about a little game o' cards?" says bishop, when we was through eatin'. "it's mighty nice o' you to suggest it," i says; "but i know you're only doin' it for my sake and the wife's. we'll find some way to amuse ourself, and you and bess can take a stroll down on the beach." "the wind made me sleepy," says bishop. "i believe i'll go up to my room and turn in." "the rooms is not ready," i says. "the clerk'll let us know as soon as we can have 'em." but he didn't take my word; and when he'd talked to the clerk himself, and found out that he could have his room right away, they wasn't no arguin' with him. off he went to bed at eight p. m., leavin' the missus and i to entertain the belle o' wabash. sunday mornin' i added to my investment by hirin' a flivver to take us out to the edgewater club. "now," i says, "we'll rent some bathin' suits and cool off." "i don't dast go in," says bishop. "i'd take more cold. i'll watch the rest o' you." well, i didn't care whether he went in or not, the water bein' too shallow along there to drownd him; but i did want him to watch the rest of us--one in particular. the suit they gave her was an annette. i wouldn't make no attempt to describe what she looked like in it, unless it'd be a capital y that had got turned upside down. she didn't have no displacement and she could of stayed in all day without the lake ever findin' out she was there. but i cut the film short so's i could get 'em back to the hotel and leave the pair together again. "you're goin' to have all the rest o' the day to yourself," i told 'em. "we won't eat dinner with you. i and the missus will just disappear and meet you here in the hotel at seven o'clock to-night." "where are you goin'?" ast bishop. "never you mind," i says. "maybe we'd like to go along with you," he says. "yes, you would!" says i. "remember, boy, i was in love once myself, and i know i didn't want no third parties hangin' round." "but what can we do all day in this burg?" he says. "they's plenty to do," i says. "you can go over there and set on them benches and watch the interurbans come in from south bend and niles, or you can hire a boat and go out for a sail, or you can fish for tarpons; or you can take a trolley over to benton harbor; or you can set on the beach and spoon. nobody minds here--only be sure you don't set in somebody's lunch basket, because they say a garlic stain's almost impossible to get out. and they's another thing you might do," i says: "this town's one o' these here gretna greens. you can get a marriage license in any delicatessen and the street-car conductors is authorized to perform the ceremony." they didn't blush when i pulled that; they turned pale, both o' them, and i seen that i was goin' to win, sure. "come on!" i says to the missus. "we must be on our way." we left 'em before they could stop us and walked acrost the street and along through the park. "where are we headed?" ast the wife. "i don't know," i says; "but i don't want to spoil their good time." "i don't believe they're havin' a good time," she says. "how could they help it?" says i. "when two true lovers is left alone together, what more could they ast for?" "they's somethin' wrong with 'em," says the missus. "they act like they was mad at each other. and bess told me when we was out to the edgewater club that she wished we was home." "that's a fine way for her to talk," i says, "when i'm tryin' to show her a good time!" "and i overheard elmer," says the missus, "askin' one o' the bell boys where he could get somethin' to drink; and the bell boy ast him what kind of a drink, and he says, whisky or poison--it didn't make no difference." "if i was sure he'd take the poison i'd try to get it for him," i says. on the grass and the benches in the park we seen some o' the gang that'd came over on the boat with us. they looked like they'd laid there all night and the kids was cryin' louder'n ever. besides them we seen dozens o' young couples that was still on speakin' terms, because they'd only been together an hour or two. the girls was wearin' nice, clean, white dresses and white shoes, and was all prettied up. they seemed to be havin' the time o' their life. and by four o'clock in the afternoon their fingers would be stuck together with crackerjack and their dresses decorated with chocolate sirup, and their escorts talkin' to 'em like a section boss to a gang o' hunkies. we wandered round till dinner-time, and then dropped into a little restaurant where they give you a whole meal for thirty-five cents and make a profit of thirty-five cents. when we'd staggered out under the weight o' this repast, a street-car was standin' there that said it would take us to the house o' david. "come on!" i says, and led the missus aboard. "where to?" she ast me. "i don't know," i says; "but it sounds like a road house." it was even better'n that. you couldn't get nothin' to drink, but they was plenty to see and hear--band concerts, male and female; movin' pitchers; a zoo; a bowlin' alley; and more funny-lookin' people than i ever seen in an amusement park before. it ain't a regular amusement park, but fifty-fifty between that and a kind of religious sex that calls themself the holy roller skaters or somethin'. all the men that was old enough to keep a beard had one; and for a minute i thought we'd bumped into the summer home o' the people that took part in _ada_. they wouldn't nobody of ever mistook the women for _follies_ chorus girls. they looked like they was havin' a prize contest to see which could dress the homeliest; and if i'd been one o' the judges i'd of split the first prize as many ways as they was women. "i'm goin' to talk to some o' these people," i told the wife. "what for?" she says. "well, for one thing," i says, "i been talkin' to one person so long i'm tired of it; and, for another thing, i want to find out what the idear o' the whole concern is." so we walked up to one o' the most flourishin' beards and i braced him. "who owns this joint?" i says. "all who have the faith," he says. "what do they charge a man to join?" i ast him. "many's called and few chosen," he says. "how long have you been here?" i ast him. "prove all things and hold fast to what's good," he says. "why don't you get some of our books and study 'em?" he led us over to where they had the books and i looked at some o' them. one was the _flyin' roll_, and another was the _livin' roll o' life_, and another was the _rollin' ball o' fire_. "if you had some books about coffee you could make a breakfast on 'em," i says. well, we stuck round there till pretty near six o'clock and talked to a lot o' different ones and ast 'em all kinds o' questions; and they answered 'em all with verses from scripture that had nothin' to do with what we'd ast. "we got a lot of information," says the wife on the way back to st. joe. "we don't know no more about 'em now than before we come." "we know their politics," i says. "how?" she ast me. "from the looks of 'em," i says. "they're unanimous for hughes." we found bess all alone, settin' in the lobby o' the hotel. "where's your honey man?" i ast her. she turned up her nose. "don't call him my honey man or my anything else," she says. "why, what's the matter?" ast the missus. "nothin' at all's the matter," she says. "maybe just a lovers' quarrel," says i. "no, and no lovers' quarrel, neither," says bess. "they couldn't be no lovers' quarrel, because they ain't no lovers." "you had me fooled, then," i says. "i'd of swore that you and bishop was just like that." "you made a big mistake," says bessie. "i never cared nothin' for him and he never cared nothin' for me, because he's incapable o' carin' for anything--only himself." "why, bess," says the missus, "you told me just yesterday mornin' that you was practically engaged!" "i don't care what i told you," she says; "but i'm tellin' you somethin' now: i don't never want to hear of him or see him again. and you'll do me a favor if you'll drop the subject." "but where is he?" i ast her. "i don't know and i don't care!" she says. "but i got to find him," i says. "he's my guest." "you can have him," she says. i found him up in his room. the bell boy had got him somethin', and it wasn't poison, neither. at least i haven't never died of it. "well, bishop," i says, "finish it up and come down-stairs. bess and the wife'll want some supper." "you'll have to excuse me," he says. "i don't feel like eatin' a thing." "but you can come down and set with us," i says. "bess will be sore if you don't." "listen here!" he says. "you've took too much for granted. they's nothin' between your sister-in-law and i. if you've set your heart on us bein' somethin' more'n friends, i'm sorry. but they's not a chance." "bishop," i says, "this is a blow to me. it comes like a shock." and to keep myself from faintin' i took the bottle from his dresser and completed its ruin. "you won't even come down and set with us?" i says. "no," says bishop. "and, if you don't mind, you can give me my ticket back home and i'll stroll down to the dock and meet you on the boat." "here's your ticket," says i. "and where am i goin' to sleep?" he says. "well," i says, "i'll get you a stateroom if you really want it; but it's goin' to be a bad night, and if you was in one o' them berths, and somethin' happened, you wouldn't have a chance in the world!" "you ain't goin' to have no berth, yourself?" he ast me. "i should say not!" i says. "i'm goin' to get me a chair and sleep in the water-tight compartments." boys, my prophecy come true. they was more roll on old lake michigan that night than in all them books up to the holy roller skaters' park. and if the boat was filled to capacity just thirteen hundred of us was fatally ill. i don't think it was the rollin' that got me. it was one glimpse of all the jennies and their offsprings, and the wealthy greek shoe shiners, and the millionaire truck drivers, and the heiresses from the lace department--layin' hither and thither in the cabins and on the decks, breathin' their last. and how they must of felt to think that all their outlay for crackerjack and apples was a total loss! but bishop wasn't sick. i searched the boat from the back to the stern and he wasn't aboard. i guess probably he found out some way that they was such an institution as the père marquette, which gets into chicago without touchin' them perilous copper ranges. but whether he arrived safe or not i don't know, because i've never saw him from that day to this, and i've lived happy ever afterward. and my investment, amountin' all told to just about what he owes me, turned out even better than i'd hoped for. bess went back to wabash that monday afternoon. at supper monday night, which was the first meal the missus could face, she says: "i haven't got it figured out yet. bess swears they didn't have no quarrel; but i'll take an oath they was in love with each other. what could of happened?" "i know what happened," i says. "they got acquainted!" three without, doubled i they ain't no immediate chance o' you gettin' ast out to our house to dinner--not w'ile round steak and general motors is sellin' at the same price and common dog biscuit's ten cents a loaf. but you might have nothin' decent to do some evenin' and happen to drop in on the missus and i for a call; so i feel like i ought to give you a little warnin' in case that comes off. you know they's lots o' words that's called fightin' words. some o' them starts a brawl, no matter who they're spoke to. you can't call nobody a liar without expectin' to lose a couple o' milk teeth--that is, if the party addressed has got somethin' besides lemon juice in his veins and ain't had the misfortune to fall asleep on the panhandle tracks and be separated from his most prominent legs and arms. then they's terms that don't hit you so much yourself, but reflects on your ancestors and prodigies, and you're supposed to resent 'em for the sake of honor and fix the speaker's map so as when he goes home his wife'll say: "oh, kiddies! come and look at the rainbow!" then they's other words and terms that you can call 'em to somebody and not get no rise; but call 'em to somebody else and the insurance companies could hold out on your widow by claimin' it was suicide. for instance, they's young harold greiner, one o' the bookkeepers down to the office. i could tell him he was an a. p. a., with a few adjectives, and he'd just smile and say: "quit your flirtin'!" but i wouldn't never try that expression on dan cahill, the elevator starter, without bein' well out of his earshots. and i don't know what it means, at that. well, if you do come out to the house they's a term that you want to lay off of when the missus is in the room. don't say: "san susie!" it sounds harmless enough, don't it? they ain't nothin' to it even when it's transferred over from the latin, "without no cares." but just leave her hear it mentioned and watch her grab the two deadliest weapons that's within reach, one to use on you or whoever said it, and the other on me, on general principles. you think i'm stringin' you, and i admit you got cause--that is, till you've heard the details of our latest plunge in the cesspools o' society. ii it was a friday evenin' about three weeks ago when i come home and found the wife quaverin' with excitement. "who do you think called up?" she ast me. "i got no idear," i says. "guess!" says she. so i had to guess. "josephus daniels," i says. "or henry ford. or maybe it was that guy with the scar on his lip that you thought was smilin' at you the other day." "you couldn't never guess," she says. "it was mrs. messenger." "which one?" i ast her. "you can't mean mrs. a. d. t. messenger." "if you're so cute i won't tell you nothin' about it," says she. "don't make no rash threats," i says. "you're goin' to tell me some time and they's no use makin' yourself sick by tryin' to hold it in." "you know very well what mrs. messenger i mean," she says. "it was mrs. robert messenger that's husband owns this buildin' and the one at the corner, where they live at." "haven't you paid the rent?" i says. "do you think a woman like mrs. messenger would be buttin' into her husband's business?" says the missus. "i don't know what kind of a woman mrs. messenger is," i says. "but if i owned these here apartments and somebody fell behind in their rent, i wouldn't be surprised to see the owner's wife goin' right over to their flat and takin' it out o' their trousers pocket." "well," says the wife, "we don't owe them no rent and that wasn't what she called up about. it wasn't no business call." "go ahead and spill it," i says. "my heart's weak." "well," she says, "i was just gettin' through with the lunch dishes and the phone rang." "i bet you wondered who it was," says i. "i thought it was mrs. hatch or somebody," says the wife. "so i run to the phone and it was mrs. messenger. so the first thing she says was to explain who she was--just like i didn't know. and the next thing she ast was did i play bridge." "and what did you tell her?" says i. "what do you think i'd tell her?" says the missus. "i told her yes." "wasn't you triflin' a little with the truth?" i ast her. "certainly not!" she says. "haven't i played twice over to hatches'? so then she ast me if my husband played bridge, too. and i told her yes, he did." "what was the idear?" i says. "you know i didn't never play it in my life." "i don't know no such a thing," she says. "for all as i know, you may play all day down to the office." "no," i says; "we spend all our time down there playin' post-office with the scrubwomen." "well, anyway, i told her you did," says the missus. "don't you see they wasn't nothin' else i could tell her, because if i told her you didn't, that would of ended it." "ended what?" i says. "we wouldn't of been ast to the party," says the missus. "who told you they was goin' to be a party?" i says. "i don't have to be told everything," says the missus. "i got brains enough to know that mrs. messenger ain't callin' me up and astin' me do we play bridge just because she's got a headache or feels lonesome or somethin'. but it ain't only one party after all, and that's the best part of it. she ast us if we'd care to join the club." "what club?" says i. "mrs. messenger's club, the san susie club," says the missus. "you've heard me speak about it a hundred times, and it's been mentioned in the papers once or twice, too--once, anyway, when the members give away them christmas dinners last year." "we can get into the papers," i says, "without givin' away no christmas dinners." "who wants to get into the papers?" says the wife. "i don't care nothin' about that." "no," i says; "i suppose if a reporter come out here and ast for your pitcher to stick in the society columns, you'd pick up the carvin' knife and run him ragged." "i'd be polite to him, at least," she says. "yes," says i; "it wouldn't pay to treat him rude; it'd even be justifiable to lock him in w'ile you was lookin' for the pitcher." "if you'll kindly leave me talk you may find out what i got to say," she says. "i've told you about this club, but i don't suppose you ever paid any attention. it's a club that's made up from people that just lives in this block, twenty o' them altogether; and all but one couple either lives in this buildin' or in the buildin' the messengers lives in. and they're all nice people, people with real class to them; not no tramps like most o' the ones we been runnin' round with. one o' them's mr. and mrs. arthur collins that used to live on sheridan road and still goes over to parties at some o' the most exclusive homes on the north side. and they don't have nobody in the club that isn't congenial with each other, but all just a nice crowd o' real people that gets together once a week at one o' the members' houses and have a good time." "how did these pillows o' society happen to light on to us?" i ast her. "well," she says, "it seems like the baileys, who belonged to the club, went to california last week to spend the winter. and they had to have a couple to take their place. and mrs. messenger says they wouldn't take nobody that didn't live in our block, and her and her husband looked over the list and we was the ones they picked out." "probably," i says, "that's because we was the only eligibles that can go out nights on account o' not havin' no children." "the pearsons ain't ast," she says, "and they ain't got no children." "well," i says, "what's the dues?" "they ain't no dues," says the missus. "but once in a w'ile, instead o' playin' bridge, everybody puts in two dollars apiece and have a theater party. but the regular program is for an evenin' o' bridge every tuesday night, at different members' houses, somebody different actin' as hosts every week. and each couple puts up two dollars, makin' ten dollars for a gent's prize and ten dollars for a lady's. and the prizes is picked out by the lady that happens to be the hostess." "that's a swell proposition for me," i says. "in the first place they wouldn't be a chance in the world for me to win a prize, because i don't know nothin' about the game. and, in the second place, suppose i had a whole lot o' luck and did win the prize, and come to find out it was a silver mustache cup that i wouldn't have no more use for than another adam's apple! if they paid in cash they might be somethin' to it." "if you win a prize you can sell it, can't you?" says the missus. "besides, the prizes don't count. it's gettin' in with the right kind o' people that makes the difference." "another thing," i says: "when it come our turn to have the party, where would we stick 'em all? we'd have to spread a sheet over the bathtub for one table, and have one couple set on the edges and the other couple toss up for the washbasin and the clothes-hamper. and another two couple'd have to kneel round the bed, and another bunch could stand up round the bureau. that'd leave the dinin'-room table for the fourth set; and for a special treat the remainin' four could play in the parlor." "we could hire chairs and tables," says the missus. "we're goin' to have to some time, anyway, when you or i die." "you don't need to hire no tables for my funeral," i says. "if the pallbearers or the quartet insists on shootin' craps they can use the kitchen floor; or if they want beer and sandwiches you can slip 'em the money to go down to the corner." "they's no use worryin' about our end of it yet," says the wife. "we'll be new members and they won't expect us to give no party till everybody else has had their turn." "i only got one objection left," i says. "how am i goin' to get by at a bridge party when i haven't no idear how many cards to deal?" "i guess you can learn if i learnt," she says. "you're always talkin' about what a swell card player you are. and besides, you've played w'ist, and they ain't hardly any difference." "and the next party is next tuesday night?" i says. "yes," says the missus, "at mrs. garrett's, the best player in the club, and one o' the smartest women in chicago, mrs. messenger says. she lives in the same buildin' with the messengers. and they's dinner first and then we play bridge all evenin'." "and maybe," i says, "before the evenin's over, i'll find out what's trumps." "you'll know all about the game before that," she says. "right after supper we'll get out the cards and i'll show you." so right after supper she got out the cards and begun to show me. but about all as i learnt was one thing, and that was that if i died without no insurance, the missus would stand a better show o' supportin' herself by umpirin' baseball in the national league than by teachin' in a bridge-w'ist university. she knew everything except how much the different suits counted, and how many points was in a game, and what honors meant, and who done the first biddin', and how much to bid on what. after about an hour of it i says: "i can see you got this thing mastered, but you're like a whole lot of other people that knows somethin' perfect themselves but can't learn it to nobody else." "no," she says; "i got to admit that i don't know as much as i thought i did. i didn't have no trouble when i was playin' with mrs. hatch and mrs. pearson and mrs. kramer; but it seems like i forgot all they learnt me." "it's a crime," i says, "that we should have to pass up this chance to get in right just because we can't play a fool game o' cards. why don't you call up mrs. messenger and suggest that the san susies switches to pedro or five hundred or rummy, or somethin' that you don't need to take no college course in?" "you're full o' brilliant idears," says the missus. "they's only just the one game that society plays, and that's bridge. them other games is jokes." "i've noticed you always treated 'em that way," i says. "but they wasn't so funny to me when it come time to settle." "i'll tell you what we'll do," says the missus: "we'll call up mr. and mrs. hatch and tell 'em to come over here to-morrow night and give us a lesson." "that'd be sweet," i says, "askin' them to learn us a game so as we could join a club that's right here in their neighborhood, but they ain't even been ast to join it!" "why, you rummy!" she says. "we don't have to tell 'em why we want to learn. we'll just say that my two attempts over to their house has got me interested and i and you want to master the game so as we can spend many pleasant evenin's with them; because mrs. hatch has told me a hundred times that her and her husband would rather play bridge than eat." so she called up mrs. hatch and sprung it on her; but it seemed like the hatches had an engagement for saturday night, but would be tickled to death to come over monday evenin' and give us a work-out. after that was fixed we both felt kind of ashamed of ourselves, deceivin' people that was supposed to be our best friends. "but, anyway," the missus says, "the hatches wouldn't never fit in with that crowd. jim always looks like he'd dressed on the elevated and mrs. hatch can't talk about nothin' only shiropody." on the saturday i tried to slip one over by buyin' a book called _auction bridge_, and i read it all the way home from town and then left it on the car. it was a great book for a man that had learnt the rudderments and wanted to find out how to play the game right. but for me to try and get somethin' out of it was just like as though some kid'd learn the baseball guide by heart in kindeygarden and then ask hugh jennin's for the job in center-field. i did find out one thing from it though: it says that in every deal one o' the players was a dummy and just laid his cards down and left somebody else play 'em. so when i got home i says: "we won't need no help from jim hatch and his wife. we can just be dummies all the evenin' and they won't nobody know if we're ignorant or not." "that's impossible, to be dummy all the time," says the missus. "not for me," i says. "i know it'll be tough for you, but you can chew a lot o' gum and you won't mind it so much." "you don't understand," she says. "the dummy is the pardner o' the party that gets the bid. suppose one o' the people that was playin' against you got the bid; then the other one'd be dummy and you'd have to play your hand." "but i don't need to leave 'em have the bid," i says. "i can take it away from 'em." "and if you take it away from 'em," she says, "then you got the bid yourself, and your pardner's dummy, not you." well, the hatches breezed in monday night and mrs. hatch remarked how tickled she was that we was goin' to learn, and what good times we four'd have playin' together. and the missus and i pretended like we shared her raptures. "ain't you never played at all?" she ast me; and i told her no. "the first thing," she says, "is how much the different suits counts; and then they's the bids. and you got to pay attention to the conventions." "i'm through with 'em forever," i says, "since they turned down roosevelt." well, we started in and hatch and the missus played mrs. hatch and i. we kept at it till pretty near midnight, with three or four intermissions so as hatch could relieve the strain on the ice-box. my w'ist education kept me from bein' much of a flivver when it come to playin' the cards; but, i don't care how bright a guy is, you can't learn everything about biddin' in one evenin', and you can't remember half what you learnt. i don't know what the score was when we got through, but the hatches done most o' the execution and held most o' the cards, which is their regular habit. "you'll get along all right," says mrs. hatch when they was ready to go. "but, o' course, you can't expect to master a game like bridge in a few hours. you want to keep at it." "we're goin' to," says the missus. "maybe it'd be a good idear," says mrs. hatch, "to play again soon before you forget what we learnt you. why don't you come over to our house for another session to-morrow night?" "let's see; to-morrow night?" says the missus, stallin'. "why, no, we can't. we got an engagement." so mrs. hatch stood there like she was expectin' to hear what it was. "we're goin' to a party," says the wife. "oh, tell me about it!" says mrs. hatch. "well," says the missus, "it ain't really a party; it's just a kind of a party; some old friends that's visitin' in town." "maybe they'll play bridge with you," says mrs. hatch. "oh, no," says the missus, blushin'. "it'll probably be rummy or pedro; or maybe we'll just go to the pitchers." "why don't you go over to the acme?" says mrs. hatch. "they got chaplin in _the street sweeper_. we're goin', and we could meet you and all go together." "n-no," says the wife. "you see, one of our friends has just lost his wife and i know he wouldn't feel like goin' to see somethin' funny." "he's already laughed himself sick," i says. well, we wouldn't make no date with 'em and they finally blew with the understandin' that we was to go to their house and play some night soon. when they'd went the missus says: "i feel like a criminal, deceivin' 'em like that. but i just couldn't tell 'em the truth. bertha hatch is the most jealous thing in the world and it would just about kill her to know that we was in on somethin' good without she and jim." "if you hadn't ast 'em over," i says, "we'd of been just as well off and you wouldn't of had to make a perjure out o' yourself." "what do you mean, we'd of been just as well off?" she says. "they done what we expected of 'em, learnt us the game." "yes," i says; "and you could take all i remember o' the lesson and feed it to a gnat and he'd say: 'hurry up with the soup course!'" iii well, mrs. garrett had called up to say that the feed before the game would begin at seven bells; so i and the missus figured on bein' on hand at half past six, so as to get acquainted with some of our fellow club members and know what to call 'em when we wanted the gravy passed or somethin'. but i had trouble with my studs and it wasn't till pretty near twenty minutes to seven that we rung the garretts' bell. the hired girl let us in and left us standin' in the hall w'ile she went to tell mrs. garrett we was there. pretty soon the girl come back and says she would take our wraps and that mrs. garrett would be with us in a few minutes. so we was showed into the livin'-room. the apartment was on the second floor and looked about twice as big as our'n. "what do you suppose this costs 'em?" ast the missus. "about fifty-five a month," i says. "you're crazy!" says she. "they got this big livin'-room and two big bedrooms, and a maid's room and a sun parlor, besides their dinin'-room and kitchen and bath. they're lucky if they ain't stuck for seventy." "i'll bet you!" i says. "i'll bet you it's nearer fifty-five than seventy." "how much'll you bet?" she says. "anything you say," says i. "well," she says, "i've got a cinch, and i need a pair o' black silk stockin's. my others has begun to run." "all right," i says. "a pair o' black silk stockin's to fifty cents cash." "you're on," she says. "and i'll call up the agent to-morrow and find out." well, it must of been pretty near seven o'clock when mrs. garrett finally showed up. "good evenin'," she says. "i suppose this must be our new members. i'm awfully glad you could come and i'm sorry i wasn't quite ready." "that's all right," i says. "i'm glad to know they's others has trouble gettin' into their evenin' clo'es. i suppose people that does it often enough finally get to be experts." "i didn't have no trouble," says mrs. garrett; "only i didn't expect nobody till seven o'clock. you must of misunderstood me and thought i said half past six." then mr. garrett come in and shook hands with us, and then the rest o' the folks begun to arrive and we was introduced to them all. i didn't catch all their names, only mr. and mrs. messenger and mr. and mrs. collins and a mr. and mrs. sparks. mrs. garrett says dinner was ready and i was glad to hear it. they set me down between mrs. messenger and a lady that i didn't get her name. "well," i says to mrs. messenger, "now we know you personally, we can pay the rent direct without botherin' to go to the real-estate office." "i'm afraid that wouldn't do," she says. "our agent's entitled to his commissions. and besides, i wouldn't know how much to take or nothin' about it." "we pay thirty-five," i says, "and that's all as you could ast for, seein' we only got the four rooms and no sun parlor. thirty-two and a half would be about the right price." "you'll have to argue that out with the agent," she says. i was kind of expectin' a cocktail; but nothin' doin'. the hired girl brought in some half sandwiches, made o' toast, with somethin' on 'em that looked like bb shot and tasted like new year's mornin'. "don't we get no liquid refreshments?" i ast mrs. messenger. "no, indeed," she says. "the san susie's a dry club." "you should ought to call it the san sousy, then," says i. the missus was settin' next to mr. garrett and i could hear 'em talkin' about what a nice neighborhood it was and how they liked their flats. i thought i and the missus might as well settle our bet then and there, so i spoke to mr. garrett acrost the table. "mr. garrett," i says, "w'ile we was waitin' for you and your wife to get dressed, i and the missus made a little bet, a pair o' silk stockin' against half a buck. i got to pay out two dollars here for the prize and the missus claims her other stockin's has begun to run; so you might say we're both a little anxious." "is it somethin' i can settle?" he ast. "yes, sir," i says, "because we was bettin' on the rent you paid for this apartment. the missus says seventy a month and i says fifty-five." "i never decide against a lady," he says. "you better buy the stockin's before the others run so far that they can't find their way home." "if i lose, i lose," says i. "but if you're stuck sixty-five or better, the missus must of steered me wrong about the number o' rooms you got. i'll pay, though, because i don't never welsh on a bet. so this party's really costin' me two and a half instead o' two." "maybe you'll win the prize," says mr. garrett. "they ain't much chance," i says. "i ain't played this game for a long w'ile." "why, your wife was just tellin' me you played last night," he says. "i mean," says i, "that i didn't play for a long w'ile before last night; not for thirty-six years," i says. well, when everybody'd got through chokin' down the shot, they brought in some drowned toadstools, and then some little slices o' beef about the size of a checker, and seven saratoga chips apiece, and half a dozen string beans. those that was still able to set up under this load finished up on sliced tomatoes that was caught too young and a nickel's worth of ice-cream and an eyedropper full o' coffee. "before i forget it," says mrs. collins, w'ile we was staggerin' out o' the dinin'-room, "you're all comin' to my house next tuesday night." i was walkin' right behind her. "and i got a suggestion for you," i says, low enough so as they couldn't nobody else hear: "throw some o' the prize money into the dinner; and if they's any skimpin' to be done, do it on the prizes." she didn't say nothin' back, because mrs. garrett had started to hand us the little cards that showed where we was to play. "i suppose i better tell you our rules," she says to me. "each table plays four deals. then the winners moves w'ile the losers sets still, except at the first table, where the winners sets still and the losers moves. you change pardners after every four deals. you count fifty for a game and a hundred and fifty for a rubber." "the way i been playin'," i says, "it was thirty for a game." "i never heard o' that," she says; but i noticed when we got to playin' that everybody that made thirty points called it a game. "don't we see the prizes before we start?" i ast her. "i want to know whether to play my best or not." "if you win the prize and don't like it," she says, "i guess you can get it exchanged." "they tell me you're the shark amongst the womenfolks," says i; "so it's a safe bet that you didn't pick out no lady's prize that isn't o.k." i noticed some o' the other men was slippin' her their ante; so i parted with a two-spot. then i found where i was to set at. it was table number three, couple number one. my pardner was a strappin' big woman with a name somethin' like rowley or phillips. our opponents was mrs. garrett and mr. messenger. mrs. garrett looked like she'd been livin' on the kind of a meal she'd gave us, and mr. messenger could of set in the back seat of a flivver with two regular people without crowdin' nobody. so i says to my pardner: "well, pardner, we got 'em outweighed, anyway." they was two decks o' cards on the table. i grabbed one o' them and begun to deal 'em face up. "first jack," i says. "if you don't mind, we'll cut for deal," says mrs. garrett. so we cut the cards and it seemed like the low cut got the deal and that was mrs. garrett herself. "which deck'll we play with?" i ast. "both o' them," says mrs. garrett. "mr. messenger'll make them red ones for you." "make 'em!" i says. "well, messenger, i didn't know you was a card factory." messenger laughed; but the two ladies didn't get it. mrs. garrett dealt and it was her turn to bid. "one without," she says. "i'd feel better if i had one within," says i. "are you goin' to bid or not?" she ast me. "i thought it was the dealer's turn first," i says. "i've made my bid," she says. "i bid one without." "one without lookin', or what?" i says. "one no trump, if i got to explain it," she says. "oh, that's different," i says; but i found out that most all o' them said "one without" when they meant one no trump. i looked at my hand; but about all as i had was four hearts, with the king and jack high. "pardner," i says, "i don't see nothin' i can bid, unless it'd be one heart. does that hit you?" "no talkin' acrost the boards," says mrs. garrett. "and besides, one heart ain't over my bid." so i passed and mr. messenger bid two spades. then my pardner passed and mrs. garrett thought it over a w'ile and then bid two without. so i passed again and the rest o' them passed, and it was my first lead. well, i didn't have only one spade--the eight-spot--and i knew it wouldn't do my hand no good as long as i couldn't trump in with it; so i led it out. messenger was dummy, and he laid his hand down. he had about eight spades, with the ace and queen high. "i might as well take a chance," says mrs. garrett, and she throwed on messenger's ten-spot. out come my pardner with the king, and it was our trick. "what kind of a lead was that?" says mrs. garrett to me. "pretty good one, i guess," says i. "it fooled you, anyway." and she acted like she was sore as a boil. come to find out, she'd thought i was leadin' from the king and was goin' to catch it later on. well, her and messenger took all the rest o' the tricks except my king o' hearts, and they had a game on us, besides forty for their four aces. "i could of made a little slam as well as not," she says when it was over. "but i misunderstood our friend's lead. it's the first time i ever seen a man lead from a sneak in no trump." "i'll do a whole lot o' things you never seen before," i says. "i don't doubt it," says she, still actin' like i'd spilled salad dressin' on her skirt. it was my first bid next time and hearts was my only suit again. i had the ace, queen and three others. "pardner," i says, "i'm goin' to bid one heart and if you got somethin' to help me out with, don't let 'em take it away from me." "i'll double a heart," says messenger. "oh, somebody else is gettin' cute!" says i. "well, i'll double right back at you." "will you just wait till it comes your turn?" says mrs. garrett. "and besides, you can't redouble." "i guess i can," says i. "i got five o' them." "it's against our rules," she says. so my partner done nothin', as usual, and mrs. garrett bid one without again. "i guess you want to play 'em all," i says; "but you'll have to come higher'n that. i'm goin' to bid two hearts." "two no trump," says messenger, and my pardner says "pass" once more. "you'll get a sore throat sayin' that," i told her. "don't you never hold nothin'?" "it don't look like it," she says. "maybe you don't know what's worth biddin' on," i says. "maybe she'd better take a few lessons from you," says mrs. garrett. "no," i says, kiddin' her. "you don't want no more female experts in the club or you might have to buy some cut glass once in a w'ile instead o' winnin' it." well, i bid three hearts; but mrs. garrett come up to three no trump and i couldn't go no higher. this time i led out my ace o' hearts, hopin' maybe to catch their king; but i didn't get it. and mrs. garrett copped all the rest of 'em for a little slam. "if your husband ever starts drinkin' hard," i says, "you can support yourself by sellin' some o' your horseshoes to the russian government." it wasn't no lie, neither. i never seen such hands as that woman held, and messenger's was pretty near as good. in the four deals they grabbed two rubbers and a couple o' little slams, and when they left our table they had over nine hundred to our nothin'. mr. collins and another woman was the next ones to set down with us. the rules was to change pardners and collins took the one i'd been playin' with. and what does she do but get lucky and they give us another trimmin', though nothin' near as bad as the first one. my pardner, this time, was a woman about forty-eight, and she acted like it was way past her bedtime. when it was her turn to say somethin' we always had to wait about five minutes, and all the other tables was through a long w'ile before us. once she says: "you'll have to excuse me to-night. i don't somehow seem to be able to keep my mind on the game." "no," i says; "but i bet you'd perk up if the lady's prize was a mattress. when you're goin' to be up late you should ought to take a nap in the afternoon." well, sir, my next pardner wasn't nobody else but the missus. she'd started at the fourth table and lost the first time, but win the second. she come along with the husband o' the pardner i'd just had; so here we was family against family, you might say. "what kind o' luck you been havin'?" the fella ast me. "no luck at all," i says. "but if you're anywheres near as sleepy as your missus, i and my wife should ought to clean up this time." we didn't. they held all the cards except in one hand, and that was one my missus tried to play. i bid first and made it a no trump, as they was three aces in my hand. old slumber began to talk in her sleep and says: "two diamonds." the missus bid two hearts. mr. sleeper passed, and so did i, as i didn't have a single heart in my hand and figured the missus probably had 'em all. she had six, with the king high and then the nine-spot. our female opponent had only two, and that left five for her husband, includin' the ace, queen and jack. we was set three. "nice work!" i says to the missus. "you're the philadelphia athletics of auction bridge." "what was you biddin' no trump on?" she says. "i thought, o' course, you'd have one high heart and some suit." "you don't want to start thinkin' at your age," i says. "you can't learn an old dog new tricks." mrs. nap's husband cut in. "o' course," he says, "it's a man's privilege to call your wife anything you feel like callin' her. but your missus don't hardly look old to me." "no, not comparatively speakin'," i says, and he shut up. they moved on and along come garrett and mrs. messenger. i and mrs. messenger was pardners and i thought for a w'ile we was goin' to win. but garrett and the missus had a bouquet o' four-leaf clovers in the last two deals and licked us. garrett wasn't supposed to be as smart as his wife, but he was fox enough to keep biddin' over my missus, so as he'd do the playin' instead o' she. it wasn't till pretty near the close o' the evenin's entertainment that i got away from that table and moved to number two. when i set down there it was i and mrs. collins against her husband and mrs. sleeper. "well, mrs. collins," i says, "i'll try and hold some good hands for you and maybe i can have two helpin's o' the meat when we come to your house." the other lady opened her eyes long enough to ask who was winnin'. "oh, mrs. garrett's way ahead," says mrs. collins. "she's got a score o' somethin' like three thousand. and mr. messenger is high amongst the men." "who's next to the leadin' lady?" i ast her. "i guess i am," she says. "but i'm three hundred behind mrs. garrett." well, the luck i'd just bumped into stayed with me and i and mrs. collins won and moved to the head table. waitin' there for us was our darlin' hostess and messenger, the two leaders in the pennant race. it was give out that this was to be the last game. when mrs. garrett realized who was goin' to be her pardner i wisht you could of seen her face! "this is an unexpected pleasure," she says to me. "i thought you liked the third table so well you was goin' to stay there all evenin'." "i did intend to," i says; "but i seen you up here and i heard you was leadin' the league, so i thought i'd like to help you finish in front." "i don't need no help," she says. "all i ast is for you to not overbid your hands, and i'll do the rest." "how many are you, mrs. garrett?" ast mrs. collins. "thirty-two hundred and sixty," she says. "oh, my!" says mrs. collins, "i'm hopeless. i'm only twenty-nine hundred and forty-eight. and how about you, mr. messenger?" "round thirty-one hundred," he says. "yes," says mrs. garrett, "and i don't believe any o' the rest o' the men is within five hundred o' that." "well, messenger," i says, "if the men's prize happens to be a case o' beer or a steak smothered in onions, don't forget that i'm payin' you thirty-five a month for a thirty-dollar flat." now, i'd of gave my right eye to see mrs. collins beat mrs. garrett out. but i was goin' to do my best for mrs. garrett just the same, because i don't think it's square for a man to not try and play your hardest all the time in any kind of a game, no matter where your sympathies lays. so when it come my turn to bid on the first hand, and i seen the ace and king and four other hearts in my hand, i raised mrs. collins' bid o' two diamonds, and mrs. garrett made it two no trump and got away with it. on the next two deals messenger and mrs. collins made a game, and mrs. garrett got set a trick once on a bid o' five clubs. the way the score was when it come to the last deal, i figured that if mrs. collins and messenger made another game and rubber, the two women'd be mighty close to even. mrs. garrett dealt 'em, and says: "one without." "two spades," says mrs. collins. well, sir, they wasn't a spade in my hand, and i seen that if mrs. collins got it we was ruined on account o' me not havin' a trump. and w'ile i wanted mrs. collins to win i was goin' to do my best to not let her. so i says: "two without." "you know what you're doin', do you?" says mrs. garrett. "what do you mean, know what i'm doin'?" i says. "no talkin' acrost the boards," says messenger. "all right," i says; "but you can depend on me, pardner, not to throw you down." well, messenger passed and so did mrs. garrett; but mrs. collins wasn't through. "three spades," she says. "three without," says i. "i hope it's all right," says mrs. garrett. "i'll tell you one thing," i says; "it's a whole lot all-righter than if she played it in spades." messenger passed again and ditto for my pardner. "i'll double," says mrs. collins, and we let it go at that. man, oh, man! you ought to seen our genial hostess when i laid down my cards! and heard her, too! her face turned all three colors o' old glory. she slammed her hand down on the table, face up. "i won't play it!" she hollers. "i won't be made a fool of! this poor idiot deliberately told me he had spades stopped, and look at his hand!" "you're mistaken, mrs. garrett," i says. "i didn't say nothin' about spades." "shut your mouth!" she says. "that's what you ought to done all evenin'." "i might as well of," i says, "for all the good it done me to keep it open at dinner." everybody in the room quit playin' and rubbered. finally garrett got up from where he was settin' and come over. "what seems to be the trouble?" he says. "this ain't no barroom." "nobody'd ever suspect it o' bein'," i says. "look what he done!" says mrs. garrett. "he raised my no-trump bid over three spades without a spade in his hand." "well," says mr. garrett, "they's no use gettin' all fussed up over a game o' cards. the thing to do is pick up your hand and play it out and take your medicine." "i can set her three," said mrs. collins. "i got seven spades, with the ace, king and queen, and i'll catch her jack on the third lead." "and i got the ace o' hearts," says messenger. "even if it didn't take a trick it'd make aces easy; so our three hundred above the line gives mrs. collins a score of about ten more'n mrs. garrett." "all right, then," says garrett. "mrs. collins is entitled to the lady's prize." "i don't want to take it," says mrs. collins. "you got to take it," says garrett. and he give his wife a look that meant business. anyway, she got up and went out o' the room, and when she come back she was smilin'. she had two packages in her hand, and she give one to messenger and one to mrs. collins. "there's the prizes," she says; "and i hope you'll like 'em." messenger unwrapped his'n and it was one o' them round leather cases that you use to carry extra collars in when you're travelin'. messenger had told me earlier in the evenin' that he hadn't been outside o' chicago in six years. mrs. collins' prize was a chafin'-dish. "i don't blame mrs. garrett for bein' so crazy to win it," i says to her when they couldn't nobody hear. "her and garrett both must get hungry along about nine or ten p.m." "i hate to take it," says mrs. collins. "i wouldn't feel that way," i says. "i guess mrs. garrett will chafe enough without it." when we was ready to go i shook hands with the host and hostess and says i was sorry if i'd pulled a boner. "it was to be expected," says mrs. garrett. "yes," i says; "a man's liable to do most anything when he's starvin' to death." the messengers and collinses was a little ways ahead of us on the stairs and i wanted we should hurry and catch up with 'em. "you let 'em go!" says the missus. "you've spoiled everything now without doin' nothin' more. every time you talk you insult somebody." "i ain't goin' to insult them," i says. "i'm just goin' to ask 'em to go down to the corner and have a drink." "you are not!" she says. but she's just as good a prophet as she is a bridge player. they wouldn't go along, though, sayin' it was late and they wanted to get to bed. "well, if you won't, you won't," says i. "we'll see you all a week from to-night. and don't forget, mrs. collins, that i'm responsible for you winnin' that chafin'-dish, and i'm fond o' welsh rabbits." i was glad that we didn't have to go far to our buildin'. the missus was pleasant company, just like a bloodhound with the rabies. i left her in the vestibule and went down to help mike close up. he likes to be amongst friends at a sad hour like that. at breakfast the next mornin' the wife was more calm. "dearie," she says, "they don't neither one of us class as bridge experts. i'll admit i got a lot to learn about the game. what we want to do is play with the hatches every evenin' this week, and maybe by next tuesday night we'll know somethin'." "i'm willin'," i says. "i'll call mrs. hatch up this forenoon," she says, "and see if they want us to come over there this evenin'. but if we do go remember not to mention our club or tell 'em anything about the party." well, she had news for me when i got home. "the san susies is busted up," she says. "not forever, but for a few months anyway. mrs. messenger called up to tell me." "what's the idear?" i says. "i don't know exactly," says the missus. "mrs. messenger says that the collinses had boxes for the opera every tuesday night and the rest didn't feel like goin' on without the collinses, and they couldn't all o' them agree on another night." "i don't see why they should bust it up on account o' one couple," i says. "why didn't you tell 'em about the hatches? they're right here in the neighborhood and can play bridge as good as anybody." "i wouldn't think o' doin' it," says she. "they may play all right, but think o' how they talk and how they dress!" "well," i says, "between you and i, i ain't goin' to take cyanide over a piece o' news like this. somehow it don't appeal to me to vote myself dry every tuesday night all winter--to say nothin' o' two dollars a week annual dues to help buy a prize that i got no chance o' winnin' and wouldn't know what to do with it if i had it." "it'd of been nice, though," she says, "to make friends with them people." "well," i says, "i'll feel a little more confident o' doin' that if i see 'em once a year--or not at all." iv i can tell you the rest of it in about a minute. the missus had became resigned and everything was goin' along smooth till last tuesday evenin'. they was a new chaplin show over to the acme and we was on our way to see it. at the entrance to the buildin' where the messengers lives we seen mr. and mrs. hatch. "hello, there!" says the wife. "better come along with us to the acme." "not to-night," says mrs. hatch. "we're tied up every tuesday evenin'." "some club?" ast the missus. "yes," says mrs. hatch. "it's a bridge club--the san susie. the messengers and collinses and garretts and us and some other people's in it. two weeks ago we was to collinses', and last week to beardsleys'; and to-night the messengers is the hosts." the missus tried to say somethin', and couldn't. "i been awful lucky," says mrs. hatch. "i win the prize at collinses'. it was a silver pitcher--the prettiest you ever seen!" the missus found her voice. "do you have dinner, too?" she ast. "i should say we do!" says mrs. hatch. "and simply grand stuff to eat! it was nice last week at beardsleys'; but you ought to been at collinses'! first, they was an old-fashioned beefsteak supper; and then, when we was through playin', mrs. collins made us welsh rabbits in her chafin'-dish." "that don't tempt me," i says. "i'd just as soon try and eat a raw mushrat as a welsh rabbit." "well, we got to be goin' in," says hatch. "good night," says mrs. hatch; "and i wisht you was comin' with us." the pitcher we seen was called _the fly cop_. don't never waste a dime on it. they ain't a laugh in the whole show! the end _the sin of monsieur pettipon_ and _other humorous tales_ _richard connell_ _the sin of monsieur pettipon_ and _other humorous tales_ by _richard connell_ [illustration] _new york_ _copyright, , by george h. doran company_ [illustration] _copyright, , by p. f. collier & son co._ _copyright, , by the century co._ _copyright, , by street and smith corporation_ _copyright, , by the mccall company_ _copyright, , , , by the curtis publishing company_ printed in the united states of america to louise fox connell _my wife who helped me with these stories_ contents page i _the sin of monsieur pettipon_ ii _mr. pottle and the south-sea cannibals_ iii _mr. pottle and culture_ iv _mr. pottle and the one man dog_ v _mr. pottle and pageantry_ vi _the cage man_ vii _where is the tropic of capricorn?_ viii _mr. braddy's bottle_ ix _gretna greenhorns_ x _terrible epps_ xi _honor among sportsmen_ xii _the $ , jaw_ i: _the sin of monsieur pettipon_ moistening the tip of his immaculate handkerchief, m. alphonse marie louis camille pettipon deftly and daintily rubbed an almost imperceptible speck of dust from the mirror in stateroom c of the liner _voltaire_ of the paris-new york steamship company, and a little sigh of happiness fluttered his double chins. he set about his task of making up the berths in the stateroom with the air of a high priest performing a sacerdotal ritual. his big pink hands gently smoothed the crinkles from the linen pillow cases; the woolen blankets he arranged in neat, folded triangles and stood off to survey the effect as an artist might. and, indeed, monsieur pettipon considered himself an artist. to him the art of being a steward was just as estimable as the art of being a poet; he was a shelley of the dustpan; a keats of the sheets. to him the making up of a berth in one of the cabins he tended was a sonnet; an orange pip or burnt match on the floor was as intolerable as a false quantity. few poets took as much pains with their pens as he did with his whisk. he loved his work with a zeal almost fanatical. lowering himself to his plump knees, monsieur pettipon swept the floor with a busy brush, humming the while a little provence song: _"my mama's at paris, my papa's at versailles, but me, i am here, sleeping in the straw._ chorus: _"oo la la, oo la la, oo la, oo la, oo la la."_ as he sang the series of "oo la las" he kept time with strokes of his brush, one stroke to each "la," until a microscope could not have detected the smallest crumb of foreign matter on the red carpet. then he hoisted himself wheezily to his feet and with critical eye examined the cabin. it was perfection. once more he sighed the happy little sigh of work well done; then he gathered up his brush, his dustpan and his collection of little cleaning rags and entered the stateroom next door, where he expertly set about making things tidy to an accompaniment of "oo la las." suddenly in the midst of a "la la," he broke off, and his wide brow puckered as an outward sign that some disquieting thought was stirring beneath it. he was not going to be able to buy his little son napoleon a violin this trip either. the look of contentment he usually wore while doing the work he loved gave way to small furrows of worry. he was saying silently to himself: "ah, alphonse, old boy, this violin situation is getting serious. your little napoleon is thirteen, and it is at that tender age that virtuosos begin to find themselves. and what is a virtuoso without a violin? you should be a steward of the first class, old turnip, where each trip you would be tipped the price of a violin; on second-class tips one cannot buy even mouth organs. alas!" each trip now, for months, monsieur pettipon had said to his wife as he left his tiny flat in the rue dauphine, "this time, thérèse, i will have a millionaire. he will see with what care i smooth his sheets and pick the banana skins from the floor, and he will say, 'this pettipon is not such a bad lot. i will give him twenty dollars.' or he will write to m. victor ronssoy about me, and monsieur ronssoy will order the captain to order the chief steward to make me a steward of the first class, and then, my dear, i will buy a violin the most wonderful for our little cabbage." to which the practical thérèse would reply, "millionaires do not travel second class." and monsieur pettipon would smile hopefully and say "who can tell?" although he knew perfectly well that she was right. and thérèse would pick a nonexistent hair from the worn collar of his coat and remark, "oh, if you were only a steward of the first class, my alphonse!" "patience, my dear thérèse, patience," he would say, secretly glowing as men do when their life ambition is touched on. "patience? patience, indeed!" she would exclaim. "have you not crossed on the _voltaire_ a hundred and twenty-seven times? has a speck of dust ever been found in one of your cabins? you should have been promoted long ago. you are being done a dirtiness, monsieur pettipon." and he would march off to his ship, wagging his big head. this trip, clearly, there was no millionaire. in c was a young painter and his bride; his tip would be two dollars, and that would be enough, for was he not a fellow artist? in c were two lingerie buyers from new york; they would exact much service, give hints of much reward and, unless monsieur pettipon looked sharp, would slip away without tipping him at all. in c were school-teachers, two to a berth; monsieur pettipon appraised them at five dollars for the party; c contained two fat ladies--very sick; and c contained two thin ladies--both sick. say a dollar each. in c was a shaggy-bearded individual--male--of unknown derivation, who spoke an explosive brand of english, which burst out in a series of grunts, and who had economical habits in the use of soap. it was doubtful, reasoned monsieur pettipon, if the principle of tipping had ever penetrated the wild regions from which this being unquestionably hailed. years of experience had taught monsieur pettipon to appraise with a quite uncanny accuracy the amount of tips he would get from his clients, as he called them. still troubled in his mind over his inability to provide a new violin for the promising napoleon, monsieur pettipon went about his work, and in the course of time reached stateroom c and tapped with soft knuckles. "come," grunted the shaggy occupant. monsieur pettipon, with an apologetic flood of "pardons," entered. he stopped in some alarm. the shaggy one, in violently striped pajamas, was standing in the center of the cabin, plainly very indignant about something. he fixed upon monsieur pettipon a pair of accusing eyes. with the air of a conjurer doing a trick he thrust his hand, palm upward, beneath the surprised nose of monsieur pettipon. "behold!" cried the shaggy one in a voice of thunder. monsieur pettipon peered into the outstretched hand. in the cupped palm was a small dark object. it was alive. monsieur pettipon, speechless with horror, regarded the thing with round unbelieving eyes. he felt as if he had been struck a heavy, stunning blow. at last with a great effort he asked weakly, "you found him here, monsieur?" "i found him here," declared the shaggy one, nodding his bushy head toward his berth. the world of monsieur pettipon seemed to come crashing down around his ears. "impossible!" panted monsieur pettipon. "it could not be." "it could be," said the shaggy one sternly, "because it was." he continued to hold the damnatory evidence within a foot of monsieur pettipon's staring incredulous eyes. "but, monsieur," protested the steward, "i tell you the thing could not be. one hundred and twenty-seven times have i crossed on this _voltaire_, and such a thing has not been. never, never, never." "i did not make him," put in the passenger, with a show of irony. "no, no! of course monsieur did not make him. that is true. but perhaps monsieur----" the gesture of the overwhelmed pettipon was delicate but pregnant. the shaggy passenger glared ferociously at the steward. "do you mean i brought him with me?" he demanded in a terrible voice. monsieur pettipon shrugged his shoulders. "such things happen," he said soothingly. "when one travels----" the shaggy one interrupted him. "he is not mine!" he exploded bellicosely. "he never was mine. i found him here, i tell you. here! something shall be done about this." monsieur pettipon had begun to tremble; tiny moist drops bedewed his expanse of brow; to lose his job would be tragedy enough; but this--this would be worse than tragedy; it would be disgrace. his artistic reputation was at stake. his career was tottering on a hideous brink. all paris, all france would know, and would laugh at him. "give me the little devil," he said humbly. "i, myself, personally, will see to it that he troubles you no more. he shall perish at once, monsieur; he shall die the death. you will have fresh bedding, fresh carpet, fresh everything. there will be fumigations. i beg that monsieur will think no more of it." savagely he took the thing between plump thumb and forefinger and bore it from the stateroom, holding it at arm's length. in the corridor, with the door shut on the shaggy one, monsieur pettipon, feverishly agitated, muttered again and again, "he did bring it with him. he did bring it with him." all that night monsieur pettipon lay in his berth, stark awake, and brooded. the material side of the affair was bad enough. the shaggy one would report the matter to the head steward of the second class; monsieur pettipon would be ignominiously discharged; the sin, he had to admit, merited the extremest penalty. jobs are hard to get, particularly when one is fat and past forty. he saw the pettipons ejected from their flat; he saw his little napoleon a café waiter instead of a virtuoso. all this was misery enough. but it was the spiritual side that tortured him most poignantly, that made him toss and moan as the waves swished against the liner's sides and an ocean dawn stole foggily through the porthole. he was a failure at the work he loved. consider the emotions of an artist who suddenly realizes that his masterpiece is a tawdry smear; consider the shock to a gentleman, proud of his name, who finds a blot black as midnight on the escutcheon he had for many prideful years thought stainless. to the mind of the crushed pettipon came the thought that even though his job was irretrievably lost he still might be able to save his honor. as early as it was possible he went to the head steward of the second class, his immediate superior. there were tears in monsieur pettipon's eyes and voice as he said, "monsieur deveau, a great misfortune, as you have doubtless been informed, has overtaken me." the head steward of the second class looked up sharply. he was in a bearish mood, for he had lost eleven francs at cards the night before. "well, monsieur pettipon?" he asked brusquely. "oh, he has heard about it, he has heard about it," thought monsieur pettipon; and his voice trembled as he said aloud, "i have done faithful work on the _voltaire_ for twenty-two years, monsieur deveau, and such a thing has never before happened." "what thing? of what do you speak? out with it, man." "this!" cried monsieur pettipon tragically. he thrust out his great paw of a hand; in it nestled a small dark object, now lifeless. the head steward gave it a swift examination. "ah!" he exclaimed petulantly. "must you trouble me with your pets at this time when i am busy?" "pets, monsieur?" the aghast pettipon raised protesting hands toward heaven. "oh, never in this life, monsieur the head steward." "then why do you bring him to me with such great care?" demanded the head steward. "do you think perhaps, monsieur pettipon, that i wish to discuss entomology at six in the morning? i assure you that such a thing is not a curiosity to me. i have lived, monsieur pettipon." "but--but he was in one of my cabins," groaned monsieur pettipon. "indeed?" the head steward was growing impatient. "i did not suppose you had caught him with a hook and line. take him away. drown him. bury him. burn him. do i care?" "he is furious," thought monsieur pettipon, "at my sin. but he is pretending not to be. he will save up his wrath until the _voltaire_ returns to france, and then he will denounce me before the whole ship's company. i know these long-nosed normans. even so, i must save my honor if i can." he leaned toward the head steward and said with great earnestness of tone, "i assure you, monsieur the head steward, that i took every precaution. the passenger who occupies the cabin is, between ourselves, a fellow of great dirtiness. i am convinced he brought this aboard with him. i have my reasons, monsieur. did i not say to georges prunier--he is steward in the corridor next to mine--'georges, old oyster, that hairy fellow in c has a look of itchiness which i do not fancy. i must be on my guard.' you can ask georges prunier--an honest fellow, monsieur the head steward--if i did not say this. and georges said, 'alphonse, my friend, i incline to agree with you.' and i said to georges, 'georges, my brave, it would not surprise me if----'" the head steward of the second class broke in tartly: "you should write a book of memoirs, monsieur pettipon. when i have nothing to do i will read it. but now have i not a thousand and two things to do? take away your pet. have him stuffed. present him to a museum. do i care?" he started to turn from monsieur pettipon, whose cheeks were quivering like spilled jelly. "i entreat you, monsieur deveau," begged pettipon, "to consider how for twenty-two years, three months and a day, such a thing had not happened in my cabins. this little rascal--and you can see how tiny he is--is the only one that has ever been found, and i give you my word, the word of a pettipon, that he was not there when we sailed. the passenger brought him with him. i have my reasons----" "enough!" broke in the head steward of the second class with mounting irritation. "i can stand no more. go back to your work, monsieur pettipon." he presented his back to monsieur pettipon. sick at heart the adipose steward went back to his domain. as he made the cabins neat he did not sing the little song with the chorus of "oo la las." "there was deep displeasure in that norman's eye," said monsieur pettipon to himself. "he does not believe that the passenger is to blame. your goose is cooked, my poor alphonse. you must appeal to the chief steward." to the chief steward, in his elaborate office in the first class, went monsieur pettipon, nervously opening and shutting his fat fists. the chief steward, a tun of a man, bigger even than monsieur pettipon, peeped at his visitor from beneath waggish, furry eyebrows. "i am monsieur pettipon," said the visitor timidly. "for twenty-two years, three months and a day, i have been second-class steward on the _voltaire_, and never monsieur the chief steward, has there been a complaint, one little complaint against me. one hundred and twenty-seven trips have i made, and never has a single passenger said----" "i'm sorry," interrupted the chief steward, "but i can't make you a first-class steward. no vacancies. next year, perhaps; or the year after----" "oh, it isn't that," said monsieur pettipon miserably. "it is this." he held out his hand so that the chief steward could see its contents. "ah?" exclaimed the chief steward, arching his furry brows. "is this perhaps a bribe, monsieur?" "monsieur the chief steward is good enough to jest," said pettipon, standing first on one foot and then on the other in his embarrassment, "but i assure you that it has been a most serious blow to me." "blow?" repeated the chief steward. "blow? is it that in the second class one comes to blows with them?" "he knows about it all," thought monsieur pettipon. "he is making game of me." his moon face stricken and appealing, monsieur pettipon addressed the chief steward. "he brought it with him, monsieur the chief steward. i have my reasons----" "who brought what with whom?" queried the chief steward with a trace of asperity. "the passenger brought this aboard with him," explained monsieur pettipon. "i have good reasons, monsieur, for making so grave a charge. did i not say to georges prunier--he is in charge of the corridor next to mine--'georges, old oyster, that hairy fellow in c has a look of itchiness which i do not fancy. i must be on my guard.' you can ask georges prunier--a thoroughly reliable fellow, monsieur, a wearer of the military medal, and the son of the leading veterinarian in amiens--if i did not say this. and georges said----" the chief steward held up a silencing hand. "stop, i pray you, before my head bursts," he commanded. "your repartee with georges is most affecting, but i do not see how it concerns a busy man like me." "but the passenger said he found this in his berth!" wailed monsieur pettipon, wringing his great hands. "my compliments to monsieur the passenger," said the chief steward, "and tell him that there is no reward." "now i am sure he is angry with me," said monsieur pettipon to himself. "these sly, smiling, fat fellows! i must convince him of my innocence." monsieur pettipon laid an imploring hand on the chief steward's sleeve. "i can only say," said monsieur pettipon in the accents of a man on the gallows, "that i did all within the power of one poor human to prevent this dreadful occurrence. i hope monsieur the chief steward will believe that. i cannot deny that the thing exists"--as he spoke he sadly contemplated the palm of his hand--"and that the evidence is against me. but in my heart i know i am innocent. i can only hope that monsieur will take into account my long and blameless service, my one hundred and twenty-seven trips, my twenty-two years, three months and----" "my dear pettipon," said the chief steward with a ponderous jocosity, "try to bear your cross. the only way the _voltaire_ can atone for this monstrous sin of yours is to be sunk, here, now and at once. but i'm afraid the captain and monsieur ronssoy might object. get along now, while i think up a suitable penance for you." as he went with slow, despairing steps to his quarters monsieur pettipon said to himself, "it is clear he thinks me guilty. helas! poor alphonse." for long minutes he sat, his huge head in his hands, pondering. "i must, i shall appeal to him again," he said half aloud. "there are certain points he should know. what georges prunier said, for instance." so back he went to the chief steward. "holy blue!" cried that official. "you? again? found another one?" "no, no, monsieur the chief steward," replied monsieur pettipon in agonies; "there is only one. in twenty-two years there has been only one. he brought it with him. ask georges prunier if i did not say----" "name of a name!" burst out the chief steward. "am i to hear all that again? did i not say to forget the matter?" "forget, monsieur? could napoleon forget waterloo? i beg that you permit me to explain." "oh, bother you and your explanations!" cried the chief steward with the sudden impatience common to fat men. "take them to some less busy man. the captain, for example." monsieur pettipon bowed himself from the office, covered with confusion and despair. had not the chief steward refused to hear him? did not the chief steward's words imply that the crime was too heinous for any one less than the captain himself to pass judgment on it? to the captain monsieur pettipon would have to go, although he dreaded to do it, for the captain was notoriously the busiest and least approachable man on the ship. desperation gave him courage. breathless at his own temerity, pink as a peony with shame, monsieur pettipon found himself bowing before a blur of gold and multi-hued decorations that instinct rather than his reason told him was the captain of the _voltaire_. the captain was worried about the fog, and about the presence aboard of m. victor ronssoy, the president of the line, and his manner was brisk and chilly. "did i ring for you?" he asked. "no," jerked out monsieur pettipon, "but if the captain will pardon the great liberty, i have a matter of the utmost importance on which i wish to address him." "speak, man, speak!" shot out the captain, alarmed by monsieur pettipon's serious aspect. "leak? fire? somebody overboard? what?" "no, no!" cried monsieur pettipon, trickles of moist emotion sliding down the creases of his round face. "nobody overboard; no leak; no fire. but--monsieur the captain--behold this!" he extended his hand and the captain bent his head over it with quick interest. for a second the captain stared at the thing in monsieur pettipon's hand; then he stared at monsieur pettipon. "ten thousand million little blue devils, what does this mean?" roared the captain. "have you been drinking?" monsieur pettipon quaked to the end of his toes. "no, no!" he stammered. "i am only too sober, monsieur the captain, and i do not blame you for being enraged. the _voltaire_ is your ship, and you love her, as i do. i feel this disgrace even more than you can, monsieur the captain, believe me. but i beg of you do not be hasty; my honor is involved. i admit that this thing was found in one of my cabins. consider my horror when he was found. it was no less than yours, monsieur the captain. but i give you my word, the word of a pettipon, that----" the captain stopped the rush of words with, "compose yourself. come to the point." "point, monsieur the captain?" gasped pettipon. "is it not enough point that this thing was found in one of my cabins? such a thing--in the cabin of monsieur alphonse marie louis camille pettipon! is that nothing? for twenty-two years have i been steward in the second class, and not one of these, not so much as a baby one, has ever been found. i am beside myself with chagrin. my only defense is that a passenger--a fellow of dirtiness, monsieur the captain--brought it with him. he denies it. i denounce him as a liar the most barefaced. for did i not say to georges prunier--a fellow steward and a man of integrity--'georges, old oyster, that hairy fellow in c has a look of itchiness which i do not fancy. i must be on my guard.' and georges said----" the captain, with something like a smile playing about among his whiskers, interrupted with, "so this is the first one in twenty-two years, eh? we'll have to look into this, monsieur pettipon. good day." "look into this," groaned pettipon as he stumbled down a gangway. "i know what that means. ah, poor thérèse! poor napoleon!" he looked down at the great, green, hungry waves with a calculating eye; he wondered if they would be cold. he placed a tentative hand on the rail. then an inspiration came to him. m. victor ronssoy was aboard; he was the last court of appeal. monsieur pettipon would dare, for the sake of his honor, to go to the president of the line himself. for tortured minutes alphonse pettipon paced up and down, and something closely resembling sobs shook his huge frame as he looked about his little kingdom and thought of his impending banishment. at last by a supreme effort of will he nerved himself to go to the suite of monsieur ronssoy. it was a splendid suite of five rooms, and monsieur pettipon had more than once peeked into it when it was empty and had noted with fascinated eyes the perfection of its appointments. but now he twice turned from the door, his courage oozing from him. on the third attempt, with the recklessness of a condemned man, he rapped on the door. the president of the line was a white-haired giant with a chin like an anvil and bright humorous eyes, like a kingfisher. "monsieur ronssoy," began the flustered, damp-browed pettipon in a faltering voice, "i have only apologies to make for this intrusion. only a matter of the utmost consequence could cause me to take the liberty." the president's brow knitted anxiously. "out with it," he ordered. "are we sinking? have we hit an iceberg?" "no, no, monsieur the president! but surely you have heard what i, alphonse pettipon, steward in the second class, found in one of my cabins?" "oh, so you're pettipon!" exclaimed the president, and his frown vanished. "ah, yes; ah, yes." "he knows of my disgrace," thought monsieur pettipon, mopping his streaming brow. "now all is lost indeed." hanging his head he addressed the president: "alas, yes, i am none other than that unhappy pettipon," he said mournfully. "but yesterday, monsieur, i was a proud man. this was my one hundred and twenty-eighth trip on the _voltaire_. i had not a mark against me. but the world has been black for me, monsieur the president, since i found this." he held out his hand so that the president could view the remains lying in it. "ah," exclaimed the president, adjusting his pince-nez, "a perfect specimen!" "but note, monsieur the president," begged monsieur pettipon, "that he is a mere infant. but a few days old, i am sure. he could not have been aboard long. one can see that. i am convinced that it was the passenger who brought him with him. i have my reasons for making this serious charge, monsieur ronssoy. good reasons too. did i not say to georges prunier--a steward of the strictest honesty, monsieur--'georges, old oyster, that hairy fellow in c has a look of itchiness which i do not fancy.' and georges said, 'alphonse, my friend----'" "most interesting," murmured the president. "pray proceed." with a wealth of detail and with no little passion monsieur pettipon told his story. the eyes of the president encouraged him, and he told of little napoleon and the violin, and of his twenty-two years on the _voltaire_ and how proud he was of his work as a steward, and how severe a blow the affair had been to him. when he had finished, monsieur ronssoy said, "and you thought it necessary to report your discovery to the head steward of the second class?" "yes, monsieur." "and to the chief steward?" "yes, monsieur." "and to the captain?" "yes, monsieur." "and finally to me, the president of the line?" "even so, monsieur," said the perspiring pettipon. m. victor ronssoy regarded him thoughtfully. "monsieur pettipon," he said, "the sort of man i like is the man who takes his job seriously. you would not have raised such a devil of a fuss about so small a thing as this if you were not that sort of man. i am going to have you made steward of my suite immediately, monsieur pettipon. now you may toss that thing out of the porthole." "oh, no, monsieur!" cried alphonse pettipon, great, grateful tears rushing to his eyes. "never in this life! him i shall keep always in my watch charm." ii: _mr. pottle and the south-sea cannibals_ § mr. pottle was a barber, but also a man of imagination, and as his hands went through their accustomed motions, his mind was far away, recalling what he had read the night before. "bright marquesas sunlight glinted from the cutlass of the intrepid explorer as with a sweep of his arm he brought the blade down on the tattooed throat of the man-eating savage." mr. pottle's errant mind was jerked back sharply from the south seas to granville, ohio, by a protesting voice. "hey, pottle, what's bitin' you? you took a slice out o' my adam's apple that time." mr. pottle, with apologetic murmurs, rubbed the wound with an alum stick; then he dusted his victim with talcum powder, and gave the patented chair a little kick, so that its occupant was shot bolt upright. "bay rum?" asked mr. pottle, professionally. "nope." "dandruff-death?" "nope." "sweet lilac tonic?" "nope." "plain water?" "yep." "naked savages danced and howled round the great pot in which the trussed explorer had been placed. the cannibal chief, fire-brand in hand, made ready to ignite the fagots under the pot. it began to look bad for the explorer." again a shrill voice of protest punctured mr. pottle's day-dream. "hey, pottle, come to life! you've went and put sweet lilac tonic on me 'stead of plain water. i ain't going to no coon ball. you've gone and smelled me up like a screamin' geranium." "why, so i have, so i have," said mr. pottle, in accents of surprise and contrition. "sorry, luke. it'll wear off in a day or two. guess i must be gettin' absent-minded." "that's what you said last saddy when you clipped a piece out o' virgil overholt's ear," observed luke, with some indignation. "what's bitin' you, anyhow, pottle? you used to be the best barber in the county before you took to readin' them books." "what books?" "all about cannibals and explorers and the south-sea islands," answered luke. "they're good books," said mr. pottle warmly. his eyes brightened. "i just got a new one," he said. "it's called 'green isles, brown man-eaters, and a white man.' i sat up till two readin' it. it's about the marquesas islands, and it's a darn' excitin' book, luke." "it excited you so much you sliced my adam's apple," grumbled luke, clamping on his rubber collar. "you had better cut out this fool readin'." "don't you ever read, luke?" "sure i do. 'the mornin' news-press' for week-days, 'the p'lice gazette' when i come here to get shaved saddy nights, and the bible for sundays. that's readin' enough for any man." "did you ever read 'robinson crusoe'?" "nope, but i heard him." "heard him? heard who?" "crusoe," said luke, snapping his ready-tied tie into place. "heard him? you couldn't have heard him." "i couldn't, hey? well, i did." "where?" demanded mr. pottle. "singin' on a phonograph," said luke. mr. pottle said nothing; luke was a regular customer, and in successful modern business the customer is always right. however, mr. pottle seized a strop and by his vigorous stroppings silently expressed his disgust at a man who hadn't heard of "robinson crusoe," for robinson was one of mr. pottle's deities. when luke reached the door, he turned. "say, pottle," he said, "if you're so nutty about these here south sea islands, why don't you go there?" mr. pottle ceased his stropping. "i am going," he said. luke gave a dubious hoot and vanished. he did not realize that he had heard mr. pottle make the big decision of his life. § that night mr. pottle finished the book, and dreamed, as he had dreamed on many a night since the lure of the south seas first cast a spell on him, that in a distant, sun-loved isle, bright with greens and purples, he reclined beneath the _mana-mana-hine_ (or umbrella fern) on his own _paepae_ (or platform), a scarlet _pareu_ (or breech-clout) about his middle, a yellow _hibiscus_ flower in his hair, while the _kukus_ (or small green turtle-doves) cooed in the branches of the _pevatvii_ (or banana-tree), and _bunnidori_ (that is, she, with the lips of love), a tawny maid of wondrous beauty, played softly to him on the ukulele. the tantalizing fragrance of a bowl of _popoi_ (or pudding) mingled in his nostrils with the more delicate perfume of the golden blossoms of the _puu-epu_ (or mulberry-tree). a sound in the jungle, a deep _boom! boom! boom!_ roused him from this reverie. "what is it, o bunnidori?" he asked. "'tis a feast, o my pottle, lord of the menikes (that is, white men)," lisped his companion. "upon what do the men in the jungle feast, o plump and pleasing daughter of delight?" inquired mr. pottle, who was up on polynesian etiquette. she lowered her already low voice still lower. "upon the long pig that speaks," she whispered. a delicious shudder ran down the spine of the sleeping mr. pottle, for from his reading he knew that "the long pig that speaks" means--man! for mr. pottle had one big ambition, one great suppressed desire. it was the dearest wish of his thirty-six years of life to meet a cannibal, a real cannibal, face to face, eye to eye. next day he sold his barber's shop. two months and seventeen days later he was unpacking his trunk in the tiny settlement of vait-hua, in the marquesas islands, in the heart of the south seas. the air was balmy, the sea deep purple, the nodding palms and giant ferns of the greenest green were exactly as advertised; but when the first week or two of enchantment had worn off, mr. pottle owned to a certain feeling of disappointment. he tasted _popoi_ and found it rather nasty; the hotel in which he stayed--the only one--was deficient in plumbing, but not in fauna. the natives--he had expected great things of the natives--were remarkably like underdone pullman porters wrapped in bandana handkerchiefs. they were not exciting, they exhibited no inclination to eat mr. pottle or one another, they coveted his pink shirt, and begged for a drink from his bottle of sweet lilac tonic. he mentioned his disappointment at these evidences of civilization to tiki tiu, the astute native who kept the general store. mr. pottle's mode of conversation was his own invention. from the books he had read he improvised a language. it was simple. he gave english words a barbaric sound, usually by suffixing "um" or "ee," shouted them at the top of his voice into the ear of the person with whom he was conversing, and repeated them in various permutations. he addressed tiki tiu with brisk and confident familiarity. "helloee, tiki tiu. me wantum see can-balls. can-balls me wantum see. me see can-balls wantum." the venerable native, who spoke seventeen island dialects and tongues, and dabbled in english, spanish, and french, appeared to apprehend his meaning; indeed, one might almost have thought he had heard this question before, for he answered promptly: "no more can-balls here. all baptists." "where are can-balls? can-balls where are? where can-balls are?" demanded mr. pottle. tiki tiu closed his eyes and let blue smoke filter through his nostrils. finally he said: "isle of o-pip-ee." "isle of o-pip-ee?" mr. pottle grew excited. "where is? is where?" "two hundred miles south," answered tiki tiu. mr. pottle's eyes sparkled. he was on the trail. "how go there? go there how? there go how?" he asked. tiki tiu considered. then he said: "i take. nice li'l' schooner." "how much?" asked mr. pottle. "much how?" tiki tiu considered again. "ninety-three dol's," he said. "goodum!" cried mr. pottle, and counted the proceeds of hair-cuts into the hand of tiki tiu. "you take me to-mollow? to-mollow you take me? me you take to-mollow? to-mollow? to-mollow? to-mollow?" asked mr. pottle. "yes," promised tiki tiu; "to-mollow." mr. pottle stayed up all night packing; from time to time he referred to much-thumbed copies of "robinson crusoe" and "green isles, brown man-eaters, and a white man." tiki tiu's nice li'l' schooner deposited mr. pottle and his impedimenta on the small, remote isle of o-pip-ee; tiki tiu agreed to return for him in a month. "this is something like it," exclaimed mr. pottle as he unpacked his camera, his ukulele, his razors, his canned soup, his heating outfit, and his bathing-suit. only the wild parrakeets heard him; save for their calls, an ominous silence hung over the thick foliage of o-pip-ee. there was not the ghost of a sign of human habitation. mr. pottle, vaguely apprehensive of sharks, pitched his pup-tent far up on the beach; to-morrow would be time enough to look for cannibals. he lay smoking and thinking. he was happy. the realization of a life's ambition lay, so to speak, just around the corner. to-morrow he could turn that corner--if he wished. he squirmed as something small nibbled at his hip-bone, and he wondered why writers of books on the south seas make such scant mention of the insects. surely they must have noticed the little creatures, which had, he discovered, a way of making their presence felt. he wondered, too, now that he came to think of it, if he hadn't been a little rash in coming alone to a cannibal-infested isle with no weapons of defense but a shot-gun, picked up at a bargain at the last minute, and his case of razors. true, in all the books by explorers he had read, the explorer never once had actually been eaten; he always lived to write the book. but what about the explorers who had not written books? what had happened to them? he flipped a centipede off his ankle, and wondered if he hadn't been just a little too impulsive to sell his profitable barber-shop, to come many thousand miles over strange waters, to maroon himself on the lonely isle of o-pip-ee. at vait-hua he had heard that cannibals do not fancy white men for culinary purposes. he gave a little start as he looked down at his own bare legs and saw that the tropic sun had already tinted them a coffee hue. mr. pottle did not sleep well that night; strange sounds made his eyes fly open. once it was a curious scuttling along the beach. peeping out from his pup-tent, he saw half a dozen _tupa_ (or giant tree-climbing crabs) on a nocturnal raid on a cocoanut-grove. later he heard the big nuts come crashing down. the day shift of insects had quit, and the night shift, fresh and hungry, came to work; inquisitive vampire bats butted their soft heads against his tent. at dawn he set about finding a permanent abode. he followed a small fresh-water stream two hundred yards inland, and came to a coral cave by a pool, a ready-made home, cool and, more important, well concealed. he spent the day settling down, chasing out the bats, putting up mosquito-netting, tidying up. he dined well off cocoanut milk and canned sardines, and was so tired that he fell asleep before he could change his bathing-suit for pajamas. he slept fairly well, albeit he dreamed that two cannibal kings were disputing over his prostrate form whether he would be better as a ragout or stuffed with chestnuts. waking, he decided to lie low and wait for the savages to show themselves, for he knew from tiki tiu that the isle of o-pip-ee was not more than seven miles long and three or four miles wide; sooner or later they must pass near him. he figured that there was logic in this plan, for no cannibal had seen him land; therefore he knew that the cannibals were on the isle, but they did not know that he was. the advantage was his. § for days he remained secluded, subsisting on canned foods, cocoanuts, _mei_ (or breadfruit), and an occasional boiled baby _feke_ (or young devil-fish), a nest of which mr. pottle found on one furtive moonlight sally to the beach. emboldened by this sally and by the silence of the woods, mr. pottle made other expeditions away from his cave; on one he penetrated fully five hundred yards into the jungle. he was prowling, like a cooper indian, among the _faufee_ (or lacebark-trees) when he heard a sound that sent him scurrying and quaking back to his lair. it was a faint sound that the breezes bore to him, so faint that he could not be sure; but it sounded like some far-off barbaric instrument mingling its dim notes with those of a human voice raised in a weird, primeval chant. but the savages did not show themselves, and finding no cannibals by night, mr. pottle grew still bolder; he ventured on short explorations by day. he examined minutely his own cove, and then one morning crept over a low ledge and into the next cove. he made his way cautiously along the smooth, white beach. the morning was still, calm, beautiful. its peace all but drove thoughts of cannibals from his mind. he came to a strip of land running into the sea; another cove lay beyond. mr. pottle was an impulsive man; he pushed through the _keoho_ (or thorn-bushes); his foot slipped; he rolled down a declivity and into the next cove. he did not stay there; he did not even tarry. what he saw sent him dashing through the thorn-bushes and along the white sand like a hundred-yard sprinter. in the sand of the cove were many imprints of naked human feet. a less stout-hearted man than mr. pottle would never have come out of his cave again; but he had come eight thousand miles to see a cannibal. an over-mastering desire had spurred him on; he would not give up now. of such stuff are ohio barbers made. § a few days later, at twilight, he issued forth from his cave again. around his loins was a scarlet _pareu_; he had discarded his bathing-suit as too civilized. in his long, black hair was a yellow _hibiscus_ flower. like a burglar, he crept along the beach to the bushy promontory that hid the cove where the foot-prints were, he wiggled through the bush, he slid down to the third beach, and crouched behind a large rock. the beach seemed deserted; the muttering of the ocean was the only sound mr. pottle heard. another rock, a dozen feet away, seemed to offer better concealment, and he stepped out toward it, and then stopped short. mr. pottle stood face to face with a naked, brown savage. mr. pottle's feet refused to take him away; a paralysis such as one has in nightmares rooted him to the spot. his returning faculties took in these facts: first, the savage was unarmed; second, mr. pottle had forgotten to bring his shot-gun. it was a case of man to man-eater. the savage was large, well-fed, almost fat; his long black hair fringed his head; he did not wear a particularly bloodthirsty expression; indeed, he appeared startled and considerably alarmed. reason told mr. pottle that friendliness was the best policy. instinctively, he recalled the literature of his youth, and how buffalo bill had acted in a like circumstance. he raised his right hand solemnly in the air and ejaculated, "how!" the savage raised his right hand solemnly in the air, and in the same tone also ejaculated, "how!" mr. pottle had begun famously. he said loudly: "who you? you who? who you?" the savage, to mr. pottle's surprise, answered after a brief moment: "me--lee." here was luck. the man-eater could talk the pottle lingo. "oh," said mr. pottle, to show that he understood, "you--mealy." the savage shook his head. "no," he said; "me--lee. me--lee." he thumped his barrel-like chest with each word. "oh, i see," cried mr. pottle; "you mealy-mealy." the savage made a face that among civilized people would have meant that he did not think much of mr. pottle's intellect. "who you?" inquired mealy-mealy. mr. pottle thumped his narrow chest. "me, pottle. pottle!" "oh, you pottle-pottle," said the savage, evidently pleased with his own powers of comprehension. mr. pottle let it go at that. why argue with a cannibal? he addressed the savage again. "mealy-mealy, you eatum long pig? eatum long pig you? long pig you eatum?" this question agitated mealy-mealy. he trembled. then he nodded his head in the affirmative, a score of rapid nods. mr. pottle's voice faltered a little as he asked the next question. "where you gottum tribe? you gottum tribe where? tribe you gottum where?" mealy-mealy considered, scowled, and said: "gottum velly big tribe not far. velly fierce. eatum long pig. eatum pottle-pottle." mr. pottle thought it would be a good time to go, but he could think of no polite excuse for leaving. an idea occurred to mealy-mealy. "where your tribe, pottle-pottle?" his tribe? mr. pottle's eyes fell on his own scarlet _pareu_ and the brownish legs beneath it. mealy-mealy thought he was a cannibal, too. with all his terror, he had a second or two of unalloyed enjoyment of the thought. like all barbers, he had played poker. he bluffed. "my tribe velly, velly, velly, velly, velly, velly big," he cried. "where is?" asked mealy-mealy, visibly moved by this news. "velly near," cried mr. pottle; "hungry for long pig; for long pig hungry----" there was suddenly a brown blur on the landscape. with the agility of an ape, the huge savage had turned, darted down the beach, plunged into the bush, and disappeared. "he's gone to get his tribe," thought mr. pottle, and fled in the opposite direction. when he reached his cave, panting, he tried to fit a cartridge into his shot-gun; he'd die game, anyhow. but rust had ruined the neglected weapon, and he flung it aside and took out his best razor. but no cannibals came. he was scared, but happy. he had seen his cannibal; more, he had talked with him; more still, he had escaped gracing the festal board by a snake's knuckle. he prudently decided to stay in his cave until the sails of tiki tiu's schooner hove in sight. § but an instinct stronger than fear drove him out into the open: his stock of canned food ran low, and large red ants got into his flour. he needed cocoanuts and breadfruit and baby _fekes_ (or young octopi). he knew that numerous succulent infant _fekes_ lurked in holes in his own cove, and thither he went by night to pull them from their homes. hitherto he had encountered only small _fekes_, with tender tentacles only a few feet long; but that night mr. pottle had the misfortune to plunge his naked arm into the watery nest when the father of the family was at home. he realized his error too late. a clammy tentacle, as long as a fire hose, as strong as the arm of a gorilla, coiled round his arm, and his scream was cut short as the giant devil-fish dragged him below the water. the water was shallow. mr. pottle got a foothold, forced his head above water, and began to yell for help and struggle for his life. the chances against a nude ohio barber of pounds in a wrestling match with an adult octopus are exactly a thousand to one. the giant _feke_ so despised his opponent that he used only two of his eight muscular arms. in their slimy, relentless clutch mr. pottle felt his strength going fast. as his favorite authors would have put it, "it began to look bad for mr. pottle." the thought that mr. pottle thought would be his last on this earth was, "i wouldn't mind being eaten by cannibals, but to be drowned by a trick fish----" mr. pottle threshed about in one final, frantic flounder; his strength gave out; he shut his eyes. he heard a shrill cry, a splashing in the water, felt himself clutched about the neck from behind, and dragged away from the _feke_. he opened his eyes and struggled weakly. one tentacle released its grip. mr. pottle saw by the tropic moon's light that some large creature was doing battle with the _feke_. it was a man, a large brown man who with a busy ax hacked the gristly limbs from the _feke_ as fast as they wrapped around him. mr. pottle staggered to the dry beach; a tentacle was still wound tight round his shoulder, but there was no octopus at the other end of it. the angry noise of the devil-fish--for, when wounded, they snarl like kicked curs--stopped. the victorious brown man strode out of the water to where mr. pottle swayed on the moonlit sand. it was mealy-mealy. "bad fishum!" said mealy-mealy, with a grin. "good manum!" cried mr. pottle, heartily. here was romance, here was adventure, to be snatched from the jaws, so to speak, of death by a cannibal! it was unheard of. but a disquieting thought occurred to mr. pottle, and he voiced it. "mealy-mealy, why you save me? why save you me? why you me save?" mealy-mealy's grin seemed to fade, and in its place came another look that made mr. pottle wish he were back in the anaconda grip of the _feke_. "my tribe hungry for long pig," growled mealy-mealy. he seemed to be trembling with some powerful emotion. hunger? mr. pottle knew where his only chance for escape lay. "my tribe velly, velly, velly hungry, too," he cried. "velly, velly, velly near." he thrust his fingers into his mouth and gave a piercing school-boy whistle. as if in answer to it there came a crashing and floundering in the bushes. his bluff had worked only too well; it must be the fellow man-eaters of mealy-mealy. mr. pottle turned and ran for his life. fifty yards he sped, and then realized that he did not hear the padding of bare feet on the sand behind him or feel hot breath on the back of his neck. he dared to cast a look over his shoulder. far down the beach the moonlight showed him a flying brown figure against the silver-white sand. it was mealy-mealy, and he was going in the opposite direction as fast as ever his legs would take him. surprise drove fear temporarily from mr. pottle's mind as he watched the big cannibal become a blur, then a speck, then nothing. as he watched mealy-mealy recede, he saw another dark figure emerge from the bush where the noise had been, and move slowly out on the moon-strewn beach. it was a baby wild pig. it sniffed at the ocean, squealed, and trotted back into the bush. as he gnawed his morning cocoanut, mr. pottle was still puzzled. he was afraid of mealy-mealy; that he admitted. but at the same time it was quite clear that mealy-mealy was afraid of him. he was excited and more than a little gratified. what a book he could write! should he call it "cannibal-bound on o-pip-ee," or, "cannibals who have almost eaten me"? tiki tiu's schooner would be coming for him very soon now,--he'd lost track of the exact time,--and he would be almost reluctant to leave the isle. almost. mr. pottle had another glimpse of a cannibal next day. toward evening he stole out to pick some supper from a breadfruit-tree not far from his cave, a tree which produced particularly palatable _mei_ (or breadfruit). he drew his _pareu_ tight around him and slipped through the bushes; as he neared the tree he saw another figure approaching it with equal stealth from the opposite direction; the setting sun was reflected from the burnished brown of the savage's shoulders. at the same time mr. pottle spied the man, the man spied him. the savage stopped short, wheeled about, and tore back in the direction from which he had come. mr. pottle did not get a good look at his face, but he ran uncommonly like mealy-mealy. § mr. pottle thought it best not to climb the _mei_-tree that evening; he returned hastily to his cave, and finished up the breakfast cocoanut. over a pipe he thought. he was pleased, thrilled by his sight of a cannibal; but he was not wholly satisfied. he had thought it would be enough for him to get one fleeting glimpse of an undoubted man-eater in his native state, but it wasn't. before he left the isle of o-pip-ee he wanted to see the whole tribe in a wild dance about a bubbling pot. tiki tiu's schooner might come on the morrow. he must act. he crept out of the cave and stood in the moonlight, breathing the perfume of the jungle, feeling the cool night air, hearing the mellow notes of the polynesian nightingale. adventure beckoned to him. he started in the direction mealy-mealy had run. at first he progressed on tiptoes, then he sank to all fours, and crawled along slowly, pig-wise. on, on he went; he must have crept more than a mile when a sound stopped him--a sound he had heard before. it was faint, yet it seemed near: it was the sound of some primitive musical instrument blending with the low notes of a tribal chant. it seemed to come from a sheltered hollow not two dozen yards ahead. he crouched down among the ferns and listened. the chant was crooned softly in a deep voice, and to the straining ears of mr. pottle it seemed vaguely familiar, like a song heard in dreams. the words came through the thick tangle of jungle weeds: "eeet slon ay a teep a ari." mr. pottle, fascinated, wiggled forward to get a look at the tribe. like a snake, he made his tortuous approach. the singing continued; he saw a faint glow through the foliage--the campfire. he eased himself to the crest of a little hummock, pushed aside a great fern leaf and looked. sitting comfortably in a steamer-chair was mealy-mealy. in his big brown hands was a shiny banjo at which he plucked gently. near his elbow food with a familiar smell bubbled in an aluminum dish over a trim canned-heat outfit; an empty baked-bean can with a gaudy label lay beside it. from time to time mealy-mealy glanced idly at a pink periodical popular in american barber-shops. the song he sang to himself burst intelligibly on mr. pottle's ears-- "it's a long way to tipperary." mealy-mealy stopped; his eye had fallen on the staring eyes of mr. pottle. he caught up his ax and was about to swing it when mr. pottle stood up, stepped into the circle of light, pointed an accusing finger at mealy-mealy and said: "are you a cannibal?" mealy-mealy's ax and jaw dropped. "what the devil are you?" he sputtered in perfect american. "i'm a barber from ohio," said mr. pottle. mealy-mealy emitted a sudden whooping roar of laughter. "so am i," he said. mr. pottle collapsed limply into the steamer-chair. "what's your name?" he asked in a weak voice. "bert lee, head barber at the schmidt house, bucyrus, ohio," said the big man. he slapped his fat, bare chest. "me--lee," he said, and laughed till the jungle echoed. "did you read 'green isles, brown man-eaters, and a white man'?" asked mr. pottle, feebly. "yes." "i'd like to meet the man who wrote it," said mr. pottle. iii: _mr. pottle and culture_ out of the bathtub, rubicund and rotund, stepped mr. ambrose pottle. he anointed his hair with sweet spirits of lilac and dusted his anatomy with crushed rosebud talcum. he donned a virgin union suit; a pair of socks, silk where it showed; ultra low shoes; white-flannel trousers, warm from the tailor's goose; a creamy silk shirt; an impeccable blue coat; a gala tie, perfect after five tyings; and then went forth into the spring-scented eventide to pay a call on mrs. blossom gallup. he approached her new-art bungalow as one might a shrine, with diffident steps and hesitant heart, but with delicious tinglings radiating from his spinal cord. only the ballast of a three-pound box of choc-o-late nutties under his arm kept him on earth. he was in love. to be in love for the first time at twenty is passably thrilling; but to be in love for the first time at thirty-six is exquisitely excruciating. mr. pottle found mrs. gallup in her living room, a basket of undarned stockings on her lap. with a pretty show of confusion and many embarrassed murmurings she thrust them behind the piano, he protesting that this intimate domesticity delighted him. she sank back with a little sigh into a gay-chintzed wicker chair, and the rosy light from a tall piano lamp fell gently on her high-piled golden hair, her surprised blue eyes, and the ripe, generous outlines of her figure. to mr. pottle she was a dream of loveliness, a poem, an idyl. he would have given worlds, solar systems to have been able to tell her so. but he couldn't. he couldn't find the words, for, like many another sterling character in the barbers' supply business, he was not eloquent; he did not speak with the fluent ease, the masterful flow that comes, one sees it often said, from twenty-one minutes a day of communion with the great minds of all time. his communings had been largely with boss barbers; with them he was cheery and chatty. but mrs. gallup and her intellectual interests were a world removed from things tonsorial; in her presence he was tongue-tied as an oyster. mr. pottle's worshiping eye roved from the lady to her library, and his good-hearted face showed tiny furrows of despair; an array of fat crisp books in shiny new bindings stared at him: twenty-one minutes' daily communion with the master minds; capsule chats on poets, philosophers, painters, novelists, interior decorators; culture for the busy man, six volumes, half calf; how to build up a background; talk tips; you, too, can be interesting; sixty square feet of self-culture--and a score more. "culture"--always that wretched word! "are you fond of reading, mr. pottle?" asked mrs. gallup, popping a choc-o-late nuttie into her demure mouth with a daintiness almost ethereal. "love it," he answered promptly. "who is your favorite poet?" "s-shakspere," he ventured desperately. "he's mine, too." mr. pottle breathed easier. "but," she added, "i think longfellow is sweet, don't you?" "very sweet," agreed mr. pottle. she smiled at him with a sad, shy confidence. "he did not understand," she said. she nodded her blonde head toward an enlarged picture of the late mr. gallup, in the full regalia of past grand master of the beneficent order of beavers. "didn't he care for--er--literature?" asked mr. pottle. "he despised it," she replied. "he was wrapped up in the hay-and-feed business. he began to talk about oats and chicken gravel on our honeymoon." mr. pottle made a sympathetic noise. "in our six years of married life," she went on, "he talked of nothing but duck fodder, carload lots, trade discounts, selling points, bran, turnover----" how futile, how inadequate seem mere words in some situations. mr. pottle said nothing; timidly he took her hand in his; she did not draw it away. "and he only shaved on saturday nights," she said. mr. pottle's free hand went to his own face, smooth as steel and art could make it. "blossom," he began huskily, "have you ever thought of marrying again?" "i have," she answered, blushing--his hand on hers tightened--"and i haven't," she finished. "oh, blossom----" he began once more. "if i do marry again," she interrupted, "it will be a literary man." "a literary man?" his tone was aghast. "a writing fella?" "oh, not necessarily a writer," she said. "they usually live in garrets, and i shouldn't like that. i mean a man who has read all sorts of books, and who can talk about all sorts of things." "blossom"--mr. pottle's voice was humble--"i'm not what you might call----" there was a sound of clumping feet on the porch outside. mrs. gallup started up. "oh, that must be him now!" she cried. "him? who?" "why, mr. deeley." "who's he?" queried mr. pottle. "oh, i forgot to tell you! he said he might call to-night. such a nice man! i met him over in xenia last week. such a brilliant conversationalist. i know you'll like each other." she hastened to answer the doorbell; mr. pottle sat moodily in his chair, not at all sure he'd like mr. deeley. the brilliant conversationalist burst into the room breezily, confidently. he was slightly smaller than a load of hay in his belted suit of ecru pongee; he wore a satisfied air and a pleased mustache. "meet mr. pottle," said mrs. gallup. "what name?" asked mr. deeley. his voice was high, sweet and loud; his handshake was a knuckle pulverizer. "pottle," said the owner of that name. "i beg pardon?" said mr. deeley. "pottle," said mr. pottle more loudly. "sorry," said mr. deeley affably, "but it sounds just like 'pottle' to me." "that's what it is," said mr. pottle with dignity. mr. deeley laughed a loud tittering laugh. "oh, well," he remarked genially, "you can't help that. we're born with our names, but"--he bestowed a dazzling smile on mrs. gallup--"we pick our own teeth." "oh, mr. deeley," she cried, "you do say the most ridiculously witty things!" mr. pottle felt a concrete lump forming in his bosom. mr. deeley addressed him tolerantly. "what line are you in, mr. bottle?" he asked. "barbers' supplies," admitted mr. pottle. "ah, yes. barbers' supplies. how interesting," said mr. deeley. "climbing the lather of success, eh?" mr. pottle did not join in the merriment. "what line are you in?" he asked. he prayed that mr. deeley would say "shoes," for by a happy inspiration he was prepared to counter with, "ah, starting at the bottom," and thus split honors with the xenian. but mr. deeley did not say "shoes." he said "literature." mrs. gallup beamed. "oh, are you, mr. deeley? how perfectly thrilling!" she said rapturously. "i didn't know that." "oh, yes indeed," said mr. deeley. he changed the subject by turning to mr. pottle. "by the way, mr. poodle, are you interested in abyssinia?" he inquired. "why, no--that is, not particularly," confessed mr. pottle. he looked toward her who had quickened his pulse, but her eyes were fastened on mr. deeley. "i'm surprised to hear you say that," said mr. deeley. "a most interesting place, abyssinia--rather a specialty of mine." he threw one plump leg over the other and leaned back comfortably. "abyssinia," he went on in his high voice, "is an inland country situated by the red sea between ° and ° north latitude, and ° and ° east longitude. its area is , square miles. its population is , , . it includes shoa, kaffa, gallaland and central somaliland. its towns include adis-ababa, adowa, adigrat, aliu-amber, debra-derhan and bonger. it produces coffee, salt and gold. the inhabitants are morally very lax. indeed, polygamy is a common practice, and----" "polly gammy?" cried mrs. gallup in imitation of mr. deeley's pronunciation. "oh, what is that?" mr. deeley smiled blandly. "i think," he said, "that it is hardly the sort of thing i care to discuss in--er--mixed company." he helped himself to three of the choc-o-late nutties. "that reminds me," he said, "of abbreviations." "abbreviations?" mrs. gallup looked her interest. "the world," observed mr. deeley, "is full of them. for example, mr. puttle, do you know what r. w. d. g. m. stands for?" "no," answered mr. pottle glumly. "it stands for right worshipful deputy grand master," informed mr. deeley. "do you know what n. u. t. stands for?" "i know what it spells," said mr. pottle pointedly. "you ought to," said mr. deeley, letting off his laugh. "but we were discussing abbreviations. since you don't seem very well informed on this point"--he shot a smile at mrs. gallup--"i'll tell you that n. u. t. stands for national union of teachers, just as m. f. h. stands for master of fox hounds, and m. i. c. e. stands for member of institute of civil engineers, and a. o. h. stands for----" "oh, mr. deeley, how perfectly thrilling!" mrs. gallup spoke; mr. pottle writhed; mr. deeley smiled complacently, and went on. "i could go on indefinitely; abbreviations are rather a specialty of mine." it developed that mr. deeley had many specialties. "are you aware," he asked, focusing his gaze on mr. pottle, "that there is acid in this cherry?" he held aloft a candied cherry which he had deftly exhumed from a choc-o-late nuttie. "my goodness!" cried mrs. gallup. "will it poison us? i've eaten six." "my dear lady"--there was a world of tender reassurance in mr. deeley's tone--"only the uninformed regard all acids as poisonous. there are acids and acids. i've taken a rather special interest in them. let's see--there are many kinds--acetic, benzoic, citric, gallic, lactic, malic, oxalic, palmitic, picric--but why go on?" "yes," said mr. pottle; "why?" "do not interrupt, mr. pottle, if you please," said mrs. gallup severely. "i'm sure what mr. deeley says interests me immensely. go on, mr. deeley." "thank you, mrs. gallup; thank you," said the brilliant conversationalist. "but don't you think alligators are more interesting than acids?" "you know about so many interesting things," she smiled. mr. pottle's very soul began to curdle. "alligators are rather a specialty of mine," remarked mr. deeley. "fascinating little brutes, i think. you know alligators, mrs. gallup?" "stuffed," said the lady. "ah, to be sure," he said. "perhaps, then, you do not realize that the alligator is of the family _crocodilidoe_ and the order _eusuchia_." "no? you don't tell me?" mrs. gallup's tone was almost reverent. "yes," continued mr. deeley, in the voice of a lecturer, "there are two kinds of alligators--the _lucius_, found in the mississippi; and the _sinensis_, in the yang-tse-kiang. it differs from the _caiman_ by having a bony septum between its nostrils, and its ventral scutes are thinly, if at all, ossified. it is carnivorous and piscivorous----" "how fascinating!" mrs. gallup had edged her chair nearer the speaker. "what does that mean?" "it means," said mr. deeley, "that they eat corn and pigs." "the strong tail of the alligator," he flowed on easily, "by a lashing movement assists it in swimming, during which exercise it emits a loud bellowing." "do alligators bellow?" asked mr. pottle with open skepticism. "i wish i had a dollar for every time i've heard them bellow," answered mr. deeley pugnaciously. "apparently, mr. puddle, you are not familiar with the works of ahn." mr. pottle maintained a blank black silence. "oh, who was he?" put in mrs. gallup. "johann franz ahn, born , died , was an educationalist," said mr. deeley in the voice of authority. "his chief work, of which i am very fond, is a volume entitled, 'praktischer lehrgang zur schnellen und leichten erlergung der französischen sprache.' you've read it, perhaps, mr. pobble?" "no," said mr. pottle miserably. "i can't say i ever have." he felt that his case grew worse with every minute. he rose. "i guess i'd better be going," he said. mrs. gallup made no attempt to detain him. as he left her presence with slow steps and a heart of lead he heard the high voice of mr. deeley saying, "now, take alcohol: that's rather a specialty of mine. alcohol is a term applied to a group of organic substances, including methyl, ethyl, propyl, butyl, amyl----" back in his bachelor home the heartsick mr. pottle flung his new tie into a corner, slammed his ultra shoes on the floor, and tossed his trousers, heedless of rumpling, at a chair, sat down, head in hand, and thought of a watery grave. for that he could not hope to compete conversationally or otherwise with the literary deeley of xenia was all too apparent. mrs. gallup--he had called her blossom but a few brief hours ago--said she wanted a literary man, and here was one literary to his manicured finger tips. he would not give up. pottles are made of stern stuff. reason told him his cause was hopeless, but his heart told him to fight to the last. he obeyed his heart. arraying himself in his finest, three nights later he went to call on mrs. gallup, a five-pound box of choc-o-late nutties hugged nervously to his silk-shirted bosom. a maid admitted him. he heard in the living room a familiar high masculine voice that made his fists double up. it was saying, "aristotle, the greek philosopher, was born at stagira in b. c. and----" mr. deeley paused to greet mr. pottle casually; mrs. gallup took the candy with only conventional words of appreciation, and turned at once to listen, disciple-like, to the discourses of the sage from xenia, who for the rest of the evening held the center of the stage, absorbed every beam of the calcium, and dispensed fact and fancy about a wide variety of things. he was a man with many and curious specialties. mrs. gallup was a willing, mr. pottle a most unwilling listener. at eleven mr. pottle went home, having uttered but two words all evening, and those monosyllables. he left mr. deeley holding forth in detail on the science of astronomy, with side glances at astrology and ancestor-worship. mr. pottle's heart was too full for sleep. indeed, as he walked in the moonlight through eastman park, it was with the partially formed intent of flinging himself in among the swans that slept on the artificial lake. his mind went back to the conversation of mr. deeley in mrs. gallup's salon. she had been blossom to him once, but now--this loudly learned stranger! mr. pottle stopped suddenly and sat down sharply on a park bench. the topics on which mr. deeley had conversed so fluently passed in an orderly array before his mind: apes, acoustics, angels, apollo, adders, albumen, auks, alexander the great, anarchy, adenoids----he had it! a light, bright as the sun at noon, dawned on mr. pottle. next morning when the public library opened, mr. pottle was waiting at the door. a feverish week rushed by in mr. pottle's life. "we'll be having to charge that little man with the bashful grin, rent or storage or something," said miss merk, the seventh assistant librarian, to miss heaslip, the ninth assistant librarian. sunday night firm determined steps took mr. pottle to the bungalow of mrs. gallup. he heard mr. deeley's sweet resonant voice in the living room. he smiled grimly. "i was just telling blossom about a curious little animal i take rather a special interest in," began the man from xenia, with a condescending nod to mr. pottle. mr. pottle checked the frown that had started to gather at "blossom," and asked politely, "and what is the beast's name?" "the aard-vark," replied mr. deeley. "he is----" "the cape ant bear," finished mr. pottle, "or earth pig. he lives on ants, burrows rapidly, and can be easily killed by a smart blow on his sensitive snout." mr. deeley stared; mrs. gallup stared; mr. pottle sailed on serenely. "a very interesting beast, the aard-vark. but to my mind not so interesting as the long-nosed bandicoot. you know the long-nosed bandicoot, i presume, mr. deeley?" "well, not under that name," retorted the xenia sage. "you don't mean antelope?" "by no means," said mr. pottle with a superior smile. "i said bandicoot--b-a-n-d-i-coot. he is a _peramelidoe_ of the marsupial family, meaning he carries his young in a pouch like a kangaroo." "how cute!" murmured mrs. gallup. "there are bandicoots and bandicoots," pursued mr. pottle; "the _peragale_, or rabbit bandicoot; the _nasuta_, or long-nosed bandicoot; the _mysouros_, or saddle-backed bandicoot; the _choeropus_, or pig-footed bandicoot; and----" "speaking of antelopes----" mr. deeley interrupted loudly. "by all means!" said mr. pottle still more loudly. "i've always taken a special interest in antelopes. let's see now--the antelope family includes the gnus, elands, hartebeests, addax, klipspringers, chamois, gazelles, chirus, pallas, saigas, nilgais, koodoos--pretty name that, isn't it, blossom--the blessboks, duikerboks, boneboks, gemsboks, steinboks----" he saw that the bright blue eyes of the lady of his dreams were fastened on him. he turned toward mr. deeley. "you're familiar with bambara, aren't you?" he asked. "i beg pardon?" the brilliant conversationalist seemed a little confused. "did you say arabia? i should say i do know arabia. population , , ; area----" "one million, two hundred and twenty-two thousand square miles," finished mr. pottle. "no, i did not say arabia; i said bambara. b-a-m-b-a-r-a." "oh, bambara," said mr. deeley feebly; his assurance seemed to crumple. "yes," said mrs. gallup. "do tell us about bambara; such an intriguing name." "it is a country in western africa," mr. pottle tossed off grandly, "with a population of , , , made up of negroes, mandingoes and foulahs. its principal products are rice, maize, cotton, millet, yams, pistachio nuts, french beans, watermelons, onions, tobacco, indigo, tamarinds, lotuses, sheep, horses, alligators, pelicans, turtles, egrets, teals and barbary ducks." "oh, how interesting! do go on, mr. pottle." it was the voice of mrs. gallup; to mr. pottle it seemed that there was a tender note in it. "bambara reminds me of baboons," he went on loudly and rapidly, checking an incipient remark from mr. deeley. "baboons, you know, are _cynocephali_ or dog-headed monkeys; the species includes drills, mandrills, sphinx, chacma and hamadryas. most baboons have ischial callosities----" "oh, what do they do with them?" cried wide-eyed mrs. gallup. "they--er--sit on them," answered mr. pottle. "i don't believe it," mr. deeley challenged. mr. pottle froze him with a look. "evidently," he said, "you, mr. deeley, are not familiar with the works of dr. oskar baumann, author of 'afrikanische skizzen.' are you?" "i've glanced through it," said mr. deeley. "then you don't remember what he says on page ?" "can't say that i do," mumbled mr. deeley. "and you appear unfamiliar with the works of hosea ballou." "who?" "hosea ballou." "i doubt if there is such a person," said mr. deeley stiffly. he did not appear to be enjoying himself. "oh, you do, do you?" retorted mr. pottle. "suppose you look him up in your encyclopedia--if," he added with crushing emphasis--"if you have one. you'll find that hosea ballou was born in , founded the trumpet magazine, the universalist expositor, the universalist quarterly review, and wrote notes on the parables." "what has that to do with baboons?" demanded mr. deeley. "a lot more than you think," was mr. pottle's cryptic answer. he turned from the xenian with a shrug of dismissal, and smiled upon mrs. gallup. "don't you think, blossom," he said, "that babylonia is a fascinating country?" "oh, very," she smiled back at him. "i dote on babylonia." "perhaps," suggested mr. pottle, "mr. deeley will be good enough to tell us all about it." mr. deeley looked extremely uncomfortable. "babylonia--let's see now--well, it just happens that babylonia is not one of my specialties." "well, tell us about baluchistan, then," suggested mr. pottle. "yes, do!" echoed mrs. gallup. "i've forgotten about it," answered the brilliant conversationalist sullenly. "well, tell us about beethoven, then," pursued mr. pottle relentlessly. "i never was there," growled mr. deeley. "say, when does the next trolley leave for xenia?" "in seven minutes," answered mrs. gallup coldly. "you've just got time to catch it." the bungalow's front door snapped at the heels of the departing sage from xenia. mr. pottle hitched his chair close to the sofa where mrs. gallup sat. "oh, mr. pottle," she said softly, "do talk some more! i just love to hear you. you surprised me. i didn't realize you were such a well-read man." mr. pottle looked into her wide blue eyes. "i'm not," he said. "i was bluffing." "bluffing?" "yes," he said; "and so was your friend from xenia. he's no more in the literary line than i am. his job is selling a book called 'hog culture.'" "but he talks so well----" began mrs. gallup. "only about things that begin with 'a,'" said mr. pottle. "he memorized everything in the encyclopedia under 'a.' i simply went him one better. i memorized all of 'a,' and all of 'b' too." "oh, the deceitful wretch!" "i'm sorry, blossom. can you forgive me?" he pleaded. "i did it because----" she interrupted him gently. "i know," she said, smiling. "you did it for me. i wasn't calling you a wretch, ambrose." he found himself on the sofa beside her, his arm about her. "what i really want," she confessed with a happy sigh, "is a good strong man to take care of me." "we'll go through the rest of the encyclopedia together, dearest," said mr. pottle. iv: _mr. pottle and the one man dog_ "ambrose! ambrose dear!" the new mrs. pottle put down the book she was reading--volume dec to erd of the encyclopedia. "yes, blossom dear." mr. pottle's tone was fraught with the tender solicitude of the recently wed. he looked up from his book--volume ode to pay of the encyclopedia. "ambrose, we must get a dog!" "a dog, darling?" his tone was still tender but a thought lacking in warmth. his smile, he hoped, conveyed the impression that while he utterly approved of blossom, herself, personally, her current idea struck no responsive chord in his bosom. "yes, a dog." she sighed as she gazed at a large framed steel-engraving of landseer's st. bernards that occupied a space on the wall until recently tenanted by a crayon enlargement of her first husband in his lodge regalia. "such noble creatures," she sighed. "so intelligent. and so loyal." "in the books they are," murmured mr. pottle. "oh, ambrose," she protested with a pout. "how can you say such a thing? just look at their big eyes, so full of soul. what magnificent animals! so full of understanding and fidelity and--and----" "fleas?" suggested mr. pottle. her glance was glacial. "ambrose, you are positively cruel," she said, tiny, injured tears gathering in her wide blue eyes. he was instantly penitent. "forgive me, dear," he begged. "i forgot. in the books they don't have 'em, do they? you see, precious, i don't take as much stock in books as i used to. i've been fooled so often." "they're lovely books," said mrs. pottle, somewhat mollified. "you said yourself that you adore dog stories." "sure i do, honey," said mr. pottle, "but a man can like stories about elephants without wanting to own one, can't he?" "a dog is not an elephant, ambrose." he could not deny it. "don't you remember," she pursued, rapturously, "that lovely book, 'hero, the collie beautiful,' where a kiddie finds a puppy in an ash barrel, and takes care of it, and later the collie grows up and rescues the kiddie from a fire; or was that the book where the collie flew at the throat of the man who came to murder the kiddie's father, and the father broke down and put his arms around the collie's neck because he had kicked the collie once and the collie used to follow him around with big, hurt eyes and yet when he was in danger hero saved him because collies are so sensitive and so loyal?" "uh huh," assented mr. pottle. "and that story we read, 'almost human'," she rippled on fluidly, "about the kiddie who was lost in a snow-storm in the mountains and the brave st. bernard that came along with bottles of spirits around its neck--st. bernards always carry them--and----" "do the bottles come with the dogs?" asked mr. pottle, hopefully. she elevated disapproving eyebrows. "ambrose," she said, sternly, "don't always be making jests about alcohol. it's so common. you know when i married you, you promised never even to think of it again." "yes, blossom," said mr. pottle, meekly. she beamed. "well, dear, what kind of a dog shall we get?" she asked briskly. he felt that all was lost. "there are dogs and dogs," he said moodily. "and i don't know anything about any of them." "i'll read what it says here," she said. mrs. pottle was pursuing culture through the encyclopedia, and felt that she would overtake it on almost any page now. "dog," she read, "is the english generic term for the quadruped of the domesticated variety of _canis_." "well, i'll be darned!" exclaimed her husband. "is that a fact?" "be serious, ambrose, please. the choice of a dog is no jesting matter," she rebuked him, and then read on, "in the old and new testaments the dog is spoken of almost with abhorrence; indeed, it ranks among the unclean beasts----" "there, blossom," cried mr. pottle, clutching at a straw, "what did i tell you? would you fly in the face of the good book?" she did not deign to reply verbally; she looked refrigerators at him. "the egyptians, on the other hand," she read, a note of triumph in her voice, "venerated the dog, and when a dog died they shaved their heads as a badge of mourning----" "the egyptians did, hey?" remarked mr. pottle, open disgust on his apple of face. "shaved their own heads, did they? no wonder they all turned to mummies. you can't tell me it's safe for a man to shave his own head; there ought to be a law against it." mr. pottle was in the barber business. unheedful of this digression, mrs. pottle read on. "there are many sorts of dogs. i'll read the list so we can pick out ours. you needn't look cranky, ambrose; we're going to have one. let me see. ah, yes. 'there are great danes, mastiffs, collies, dalmatians, chows, new foundlands, poodles, setters, pointers, retrievers--labrador and flat-coated--spaniels, beagles, dachshunds--i'll admit they are rather nasty; they're the only sort of dog i can't bear--whippets, otterhounds, terriers, including scotch, irish, welsh, skye and fox, and st. bernards.' st. bernards, it says, are the largest; 'their ears are small and their foreheads white and dome-shaped, giving them the well known expression of benignity and intelligence.' oh, ambrose"--her eyes were full of dreams--"oh, ambrose, wouldn't it be just too wonderful for words to have a great, big, beautiful dog like that?" "there isn't any too much room in this bungalow as it is," demurred mr. pottle. "better get a chow." "you don't seem to realize, ambrose pottle," the lady replied with some severity, "that what i want a dog for is protection." "protection, my angel? can't i protect you?" "not when you're away on the road selling your shaving cream. then's when i need some big, loyal creature to protect me." "from what?" "well, burglars." "why should they come here?" "how about all our wedding silver? and then kidnapers might come." "kidnapers? what could they kidnap?" "me," said mrs. pottle. "how would you like to come home from zanesville or bucyrus some day and find me gone, ambrose?" her lip quivered at the thought. to mr. pottle, privately, this contingency seemed remote. his bride was not the sort of woman one might kidnap easily. she was a plentiful lady of a well developed maturity, whose clothes did not conceal her heroic mold, albeit they fitted her as tightly as if her modiste were a taxidermist. however, not for worlds would he have voiced this sacrilegious thought; he was in love; he preferred that she should think of herself as infinitely clinging and helpless; he fancied the rôle of sturdy oak. "all right, blossom," he gave in, patting her cheek. "if my angel wants a dog, she shall have one. that reminds me, charley meacham, the boss barber of the ohio house, has a nice litter. he offered me one or two or three if i wanted them. the mother is as fine a looking spotted coach dog as ever you laid an eye on and the pups----" "what was the father?" demanded mrs. pottle. "how should i know? there's a black pup, and a spotted pup, and a yellow pup, and a white pup and a----" mrs. pottle sniffed. "no mungles for me," she stated, flatly, "i hate mungles. i want a thoroughbred, or nothing. one with a pedigree, like that adorably handsome creature there." she nodded toward the engraving of the giant st. bernards. "but, darling," objected mr. pottle, "pedigreed pups cost money. a dog can bark and bite whether he has a family tree or not, can't he? we can't afford one of these fancy, blue-blooded ones. i've got notes at the bank right now i don't know how the dooce i'm going to pay. my shaving stick needs capital. i can't be blowing in hard-earned dough on pups." "oh, ambrose, i actually believe you--don't--care--whether--i'm--kidnaped--or--not!" his wife began, a catch in her voice. a heart of wrought iron would have been melted by the pathos of her tone and face. "there, there, honey," said mr. pottle, hastily, with an appropriate amatory gesture, "you shall have your pup. but remember this, blossom pottle. he's yours. you are to have all the responsibility and care of him." "oh, ambrose, you're so good to me," she breathed. the next evening when mr. pottle came home he observed something brown and fuzzy nestling in his sunday velour hat. with a smothered exclamation of the kind that has no place in a romance, he dumped the thing out and saw it waddle away on unsteady legs, leaving him sadly contemplating the strawberry silk lining of his best hat. "isn't he a love? isn't he just too sweet," cried mrs. pottle, emerging from the living room and catching the object up in her arms. "come to mama, sweetie-pie. did the nassy man frighten my precious pershing?" "your precious what?" "pershing. i named him for a brave man and a fighter. i just know he'll be worthy of it, when he grows up, and starts to protect me." "in how many years?" inquired mr. pottle, cynically. "the man said he'd be big enough to be a watch dog in a very few months; they grow so fast." "what man said this?" "the kennel man. i bought pershing at the laddiebrook-sunshine kennels to-day." she paused to kiss the pink muzzle of the little animal; mr. pottle winced at this but she noted it not, and rushed on. "such an interesting place, ambrose. nothing but dogs and dogs and dogs. all kinds, too. they even had one mean, sneaky-looking dachshund there; i just couldn't trust a dog like that. ugh! well, i looked at all the dogs. the minute i saw pershing i knew he was my dog. his little eyes looked up at me as much as to say, 'i'll be yours, mistress, faithful to the death,' and he put out the dearest little pink tongue and licked my hand. the kennel man said, 'now ain't that wonderful, lady, the way he's taken to you? usually he growls at strangers. he's a one man dog, all right, all right'." "a one man dog?" said mr. pottle, blankly. "yes. one that loves his owner, and nobody else. that's just the kind i want." "where do i come in?" inquired mr. pottle. "oh, he'll learn to tolerate you, i guess," she reassured him. then she rippled on, "i just had to have him then. he was one of five, but he already had a little personality all his own, although he's only three weeks old. i saw his mother--a magnificent creature, ambrose, big as a shetland pony and twice as shaggy, and with the most wonderful appealing eyes, that looked at me as if it stabbed her to the heart to have her little ones taken from her. and such a pedigree! it covers pages. her name is gloria audacious indomitable; the audacious indomitables are a very celebrated family of st. bernards, the kennel man said." "what about his father?" queried mr. pottle, poking the ball of pup with his finger. "i didn't see him," admitted mrs. pottle. "i believe they are not living together now." she snuggled the pup to her capacious bosom. "so," she said, "its whole name is pershing audacious indomitable, isn't it, tweetums?" "it's a swell name," admitted mr. pottle. "er--blossom dear, how much did he cost?" she brought out the reply quickly, almost timidly. "fifty dollars." "fif----" his voice stuck in his larynx. "great cæsar's ghost!" "but think of his pedigree," cried his wife. all he could say was: "great cæsar's ghost! fifty dollars! great cæsar's ghost!" "why, we can exhibit him at bench shows," she argued, "and win hundreds of dollars in prizes. and his pups will be worth fifty dollars per pup easily, with that pedigree." "great cæsar's ghost," said mr. pottle, despondently. "fifty dollars! and the shaving stick business all geflooey." "he'll be worth a thousand to me as a protector," she declared, defiantly. "you wait and see, ambrose pottle. wait till he grows up to be a great, big, handsome, intelligent dog, winning prizes and protecting your wife. he'll be the best investment we ever made, you mark my words." had pershing encountered mr. pottle's eye at that moment the marrow of his small canine bones would have congealed. "all right, blossom," said her spouse, gloomily. "he's yours. you take care of him. i wonder, i just wonder, that's all." "what do you wonder, ambrose?" "if they'll let him visit us when we're in the poor house." to this his wife remarked, "fiddlesticks," and began to feed pershing from a nursing bottle. "grade a milk, i suppose," groaned mr. pottle. "cream," she corrected, calmly. "pershing is no mungle. remember that, ambrose pottle." * * * * * it was a nippy, frosty night, and mr. pottle, after much chattering of teeth, had succeeded in getting a place warm in the family bed, and was floating peacefully into a dream in which he got a contract for ten carload lots of pottle's edible shaving cream. "just lather, shave and lick. that's all," when his wife's soft knuckles prodded him in the ribs. "ambrose, ambrose, do wake up. do you hear that?" he sleepily opened a protesting eye. he heard faint, plaintive, peeping sounds somewhere in the house. "it's that wretched hound," he said crossly. "pershing is not a hound, ambrose pottle." "oh, all right, blossom, all right. it's that noble creature, g'night." but the knuckles tattooed on his drowsy ribs again. "ambrose, he's lonesome." no response. "ambrose, little pershing is lonesome." "well, suppose you go and sing him to sleep." "ambrose! and us married only a month!" mr. pottle sat up in bed. "is he your pup," he demanded, oratorically, "or is he not your pup, mrs. pottle? and anyhow, why pamper him? he's all right. didn't i walk six blocks in the cold to a grocery store to get a box for his bed? didn't you line it with some of my best towels? isn't it under a nice, warm stove? what more can a hound----" "ambrose!" "----noble creature, expect?" he dived into his pillow as if it were oblivion. "ambrose," said his wife, loudly and firmly, "pershing is lonesome. thoroughbreds have such sensitive natures. if he thought we were lying here neglecting him, it wouldn't surprise me a bit if he died of a broken heart before morning. a pedigreed dog like pershing has the feelings of a delicate child." muffled words came from the pottle pillow. "well, whose one man dog is he?" mrs. pottle began to sniffle audibly. "i d-don't believe you'd c-care if i got up and c-caught my d-death of c-cold," she said. "you know how easily i c-chill, too. but i c-can't leave that poor motherless little fellow cry his heart out in that big, dark, lonely kitchen. i'll just have to get up and----" she stirred around as if she really intended to. the chivalrous mr. pottle heaved up from his pillow like an irate grampus from the depths of a tank. "i'll go," he grumbled, fumbling around with goose-fleshed limbs for his chilly slippers. "shall i tell him about little red riding hood or goody two shoes?" "ambrose, if you speak roughly to pershing, i shall never forgive you. and he won't either. no. bring him in here." "here?" his tone was aghast; barbers are aseptic souls. "yes, of course." "in bed?" "certainly." "oh, blossom!" "we can't leave him in the cold, can we?" "but, blossom, suppose he's--suppose he has----" the hiatus was expressive. "he hasn't." her voice was one of indignant denial. "pedigreed dogs don't. why, the kennels were immaculate." "humph," said mr. pottle dubiously. he strode into the kitchen and returned with pershing in his arms; he plumped the small, bushy, whining animal in bed beside his wife. "i suppose, mrs. pottle," he said, "that you are prepared to take the consequences." she stroked the squirming thing, which emitted small, protesting bleats. "don't you mind the nassy man, sweetie-pie," she cooed. "casting 'spersions on poor li'l lonesome doggie." then, to her husband, "ambrose, how can you suggest such a thing? don't stand there in the cold." "nevertheless," said mr. pottle, oracularly, as he prepared to seek slumber at a point as remote as possible in the bed from pershing, "i'll bet a dollar to a doughnut that i'm right." mr. pottle won his doughnut. at three o'clock in the morning, with the mercury flirting with the freezing mark, he suddenly surged up from his pillow, made twitching motions with limbs and shoulders, and stalked out into the living room, where he finished the night on a hard-boiled army cot, used for guests. * * * * * as the days hurried by, he had to admit that the kennel man's predictions about the rapid growth of the animal seemed likely of fulfillment. in a very few weeks the offspring of gloria audacious indomitable had attained prodigious proportions. "but, blossom," said mr. pottle, eyeing the animal as it gnawed industriously at the golden oak legs of the player piano, "isn't he growing in a sort of funny way?" "funny way, ambrose?" "yes, dear; funny way. look at his legs." she contemplated those members. "well?" "they're kinda brief, aren't they, blossom?" "naturally. he's no giraffe, ambrose. young thoroughbreds have small legs. just like babies." "but he seems so sorta long in proportion to his legs," said mr. pottle, critically. "he gets to look more like an overgrown caterpillar every day." "you said yourself, ambrose, that you know nothing about dogs," his wife reminded him. "the legs always develop last. give pershing a chance to get his growth; then you'll see." mr. pottle shrugged, unconvinced. "it's time to take pershing out for his airing," mrs. pottle observed. a fretwork of displeasure appeared on the normally bland brow of mr. pottle. "lotta good that does," he grunted. "besides, i'm getting tired of leading him around on a string. he's so darn funny looking; the boys are beginning to kid me about him." "do you want me to go out," asked mrs. pottle, "with this heavy cold?" "oh, all right," said mr. pottle blackly. "now, pershing precious, let mama put on your li'l blanket so you can go for a nice li'l walk with your papa." "i'm not his papa," growled mr. pottle, rebelliously. "i'm no relation of his." however, the neighbors along garden avenue presently spied a short, rotund man, progressing with reluctant step along the street, in his hand a leathern leash at the end of which ambled a pup whose physique was the occasion of some discussion among the dog-fanciers who beheld it. * * * * * "blossom," said mr. pottle--it was after pershing had outgrown two boxes and a large wash-basket--"you may say what you like but that dog of yours looks funny to me." "how can you say that?" she retorted. "just look at that long heavy coat. look at that big, handsome head. look at those knowing eyes, as if he understood every word we're saying." "but his legs, blossom, his legs!" "they are a wee, tiny bit short," she confessed. "but he's still in his infancy. perhaps we don't feed him often enough." "no?" said mr. pottle with a rising inflection which had the perfume of sarcasm about it, "no? i suppose seven times a day, including once in the middle of the night isn't often enough?" "honestly, ambrose, you'd think you were an early christian martyr being devoured by tigers to hear all the fuss you make about getting up just once for five or ten minutes in the night to feed poor, hungry little pershing." "it hardly seems worth it," remarked mr. pottle, "with him turning out this way." "what way?" "bandy-legged." "st. bernards," she said with dignity, "do not run to legs. mungles may be all leggy, but not full blooded st. bernards. he's a baby, remember that, ambrose pottle." "he eats more than a full grown farm hand," said mr. pottle. "and steak at fifty cents a pound!" "you can't bring up a delicate dog like pershing on liver," said mrs. pottle, crushingly. "now run along, ambrose, and take him for a good airing, while i get his evening broth ready." "they extended that note of mine at the bank, blossom," said mr. pottle. "don't let him eat out of ash cans, and don't let him associate with mungles," said mrs. pottle. mr. pottle skulked along side-streets, now dragging, now being dragged by the muscular pershing. it was mr. pottle's idea to escape the attention of his friends, of whom there were many in granville, and who, of late, had shown a disposition to make remarks about his evening promenade that irked his proud spirit. but, as he rounded the corner of cottage row, he encountered charlie meacham, tonsorialist, dog-fancier, wit. "evening, ambrose." "evening, charlie." mr. pottle tried to ignore pershing, to pretend that there was no connection between them, but pershing reared up on stumpy hind legs and sought to embrace mr. meacham. "where'd you get the pooch?" inquired mr. meacham, with some interest. "wife's," said mr. pottle, briefly. "where'd she find it?" "didn't find him. bought him at laddiebrook-sunshine kennels." "oho," whistled mr. meacham. "pedigreed," confided mr. pottle. "you don't tell me!" "yep. name's pershing." "name's what?" "pershing. in honor of the great general." mr. meacham leaned against a convenient lamp-post; he seemed of a sudden overcome by some powerful emotion. "what's the joke?" asked mr. pottle. "pershing!" mr. meacham was just able to get out. "oh, me, oh my. that's rich. that's a scream." "pershing," said mr. pottle, stoutly, "audacious indomitable. you ought to see his pedigree." "i'd like to," said mr. meacham, "i certainly would like to." he was studying the architecture of pershing with the cool appraising eye of the expert. his eye rested for a long time on the short legs and long body. "pottle," he said, thoughtfully, "haven't they got a dachshund up at those there kennels?" mr. pottle knitted perplexed brows. "i believe they have," he said. "why?" "oh, nothing," replied mr. meacham, struggling to keep a grip on his emotions which threatened to choke him, "oh, nothing." and he went off, with mr. pottle staring at his shoulder blades which titillated oddly as mr. meacham walked. mr. pottle, after a series of tugs-of-war, got his charge home. a worry wormed its way into his brain like an auger into a pine plank. the worry became a suspicion. the suspicion became a horrid certainty. gallant man that he was, and lover, he did not mention it to blossom. but after that the evening excursion with pershing became his cross and his wormwood. he pleaded to be allowed to take pershing out after dark; blossom wouldn't hear of it; the night air might injure his pedigreed lungs. in vain did he offer to hire a man--at no matter what cost--to take his place as companion to the creature which daily grew more pronounced and remarkable as to shape. blossom declared that she would entrust no stranger with her dog; a pottle, and a pottle only, could escort him. the nightly pilgrimage became almost unendurable after a total stranger, said to be a dubuque traveling man, stopped mr. pottle on the street one evening and asked, gravely: "i beg pardon, sir, but isn't that animal a peagle?" "he is not a beagle," said mr. pottle, shortly. "i didn't say 'beagle'," the stranger smiled, "i said 'peagle'--p-e-a-g-l-e." "what's that?" "a peagle," answered the stranger, "is a cross between a pony and a beagle." it took three men to stop the fight. pershing, as mr. pottle perceived all too plainly, was growing more curious and ludicrous to the eye every day. he had the enormous head, the heavy body, the shaggy coat, and the benign, intellectual face of his mother; but alas, he had the bandy, caster-like legs of his putative father. he was an anti-climax. everybody in granville, save blossom alone, seemed to realize the stark, the awful truth about pershing's ancestry. even he seemed to realize his own sad state; he wore a shamefaced look as he trotted by the side of ambrose pottle; mr. pottle's own features grew hang-dog. despite her spouse's hints, blossom never lost faith in pershing. "just you wait, ambrose," she said. "one of these fine days you'll wake up and find he has developed a full grown set of limbs." "like a tadpole, i suppose," he said grimly. "joke all you like, ambrose. but mark my words: you'll be proud of pershing. just look at him there, taking in every word we say. why, already he can do everything but speak. i just know i could count on him if i was in danger from burglars or kidnapers or anything. i'll feel so much safer with him in the house when you take your trip east next month." "the burglar that came on him in the dark would be scared to death," mumbled mr. pottle. she ignored this aside. "now, ambrose," she said, "take the comb and give him a good combing. i may enter him in a bench show next month." "you ought to," remarked mr. pottle, as he led pershing away, "he looks like a bench." it was with a distinct sense of escape that mr. pottle some weeks later took a train for washington where he hoped to have patented and trade-marked his edible shaving cream, a discovery he confidently expected to make his fortune. "good-by, ambrose," said mrs. pottle. "i'll write you every day how pershing is getting along. at the rate he's growing you won't know him when you come back. you needn't worry about me. my one man dog will guard me, won't you, sweetie-pie? there now, give your paw to papa pottle." "i'm not his papa, i tell you," cried mr. pottle with some passion as he grabbed up his suit-case and crunched down the gravel path. in all, his business in washington kept him away from his home for twenty-four days. while he missed the society of blossom, somehow he experienced a delicious feeling of freedom from care, shame and responsibility as he took his evening stroll about the capital. his trip was a success; the patent was secured, the trade-mark duly registered. the patent lawyer, as he pocketed his fee, perhaps to salve his conscience for its size, produced from behind a law book a bottle of an ancient and once honorable fluid and pressed it on mr. pottle. "i promised the wife i'd stay on the sprinkling cart," demurred mr. pottle. "oh, take it along," urged the patent lawyer. "you may need it for a cold one of these days." it occurred to mr. pottle that if there is one place in the world a man may catch his death of cold it is on a draughty railroad train, and wouldn't it be foolish of him with a fortune in his grasp, so to speak, not to take every precaution against a possibly fatal illness? besides he knew that blossom would never permit him to bring the bottle into their home. he preserved it in the only way possible under the circumstances. when the train reached granville just after midnight, mr. pottle skipped blithely from the car, made a sweeping bow to a milk can, cocked his derby over his eye, which was uncommonly bright and playful, and started for home with the meticulous but precarious step of the tight-rope walker. it was his plan, carefully conceived, to steal softly as thistledown falling on velvet, into his bungalow without waking the sleeping blossom, to spend the night on the guest cot, to spring up, fresh as a dewy daisy in the morn, and wake his wife with a smiling and coherent account of his trip. very quietly he tip-toed along the lawn leading to his front door, his latch key out and ready. but as he was about to place a noiseless foot on his porch, something vast, low and dark barred his path, and a bass and hostile growl brought him to an abrupt halt. "well, well, well, if it isn't li'l pershin'," said mr. pottle, pleasantly, but remembering to pitch his voice in a low key. "waiting on the porch to welcome papa pottle home! nice li'l pershin'." "grrrrrrr grrrrrrrrrr grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr," replied pershing. he continued to bar the path, to growl ominously, to bare strong white teeth in the moonlight. in mr. pottle's absence he had grown enormously in head and body; but not in leg. "pershin'," said mr. pottle, plaintively, "can it be that you have forgotten papa pottle? have you forgotten nice, kind mans that took you for pretty walks? that fed you pretty steaks? that gave you pretty baths? nice li'l pershin', nice li'l----" mr. pottle reached down to pat the shaggy head and drew back his hand with something that would pass as a curse in any language; pershing had given his finger a whole-hearted nip. "you low-down, underslung brute," rasped mr. pottle. "get out of my way or i'll kick the pedigree outa you." pershing's growl grew louder and more menacing. mr. pottle hesitated; he feared blossom more than pershing. he tried cajolery. "come, come, nice li'l st. bernard. great, big, noble st. bernard. come for li'l walk with papa pottle. nice pershin', nice pershin', you dirty cur----" this last remark was due to the animal's earnest but only partially successful effort to fasten its teeth in mr. pottle's calf. pershing gave out a sharp, disappointed yelp. a white, shrouded figure appeared at the window. "burglar, go away," it said, shrilly, "or i'll sic my savage st. bernard on you." "he's already sicced, blottom," said a doleful voice. "it's me, blottom. your ambrose." "why, ambrose! how queer your voice sounds! why don't you come in." "pershing won't let me," cried mr. pottle. "call him in." "he won't come," she wailed, "and i'm afraid of him at night like this." "coax him in." "he won't coax." "bribe him with food." "you can't bribe a thoroughbred." mr. pottle put his hands on his hips, and standing in the exact center of his lawn, raised a high, sardonic voice. "oh, yes," he said, "oh, dear me, yes, i'll live to be proud of pershing. oh, yes indeed. i'll live to love the noble creature. i'll be glad i got up on cold nights to pour warm milk into his dear little stummick. oh, yes. oh, yes, he'll be worth thousands to me. here i go down to washington, and work my head to the bone to keep a roof over us, and when i get back i can't get under it. if you ask me, mrs. blottom pottle née gallup, if you ask me, that precious animal of yours, that noble creature is the muttiest mutt that ever----" "ambrose!" her edged voice clipped his oration short. "you've been drinking!" "well," said mr. pottle in a bellowing voice, "i guess a hound like that is enough to drive a person to drink. g'night, blottom. i'm going to sleep in the flower bed. frozen petunias will be my pillow. when i'm dead and gone, be kind to little pershing for my sake." "ambrose! stop. think of the neighbors. think of your health. come into the house this minute." he tried to obey her frantic command, but the low-lying, far-flung bulk of pershing blocked the way, a growling, fanged, hairy wall. mr. pottle retreated to the flower bed. "what was it the belgiums said?" he remarked. "they shall not pash." "oh, what'll i do, what'll i do?" came from the window. "send for the militia," suggested mr. pottle with savage facetiousness. "i know," cried his wife, inspired, "i'll send for a veterinarian. he'll know what to do." "a veterinarian!" he protested loudly. "five bones a visit, and us the joke of granville." but he could suggest nothing better and presently an automobile discharged a sleepy and disgusted dog-doctor at the pottle homestead. it took the combined efforts of the two men and the woman to entice pershing away from the door long enough for mr. pottle to slip into his house. during the course of mrs. pottle's subsequent remarks, mr. pottle said a number of times that he was sorry he hadn't stayed out among the petunias. in the morning pershing greeted him with an innocent expression. "i hope, mr. pottle," said his wife, as he sipped black coffee, "that you are now convinced what a splendid watch dog pershing is." "i wish i had that fifty back again," he answered. "the bank won't give me another extension on that note, blossom." she tossed a bit of bacon to pershing who muffed it and retrieved it with only slight damage to the pink roses on the rug. "i can't stand this much longer, blossom," he burst out. "what?" "you used to love me." "i still do, ambrose, despite all." "you conceal it well. that mutt takes all your time." "mutt, ambrose?" "mutt," said mr. pottle. "see! he's heard you," she cried. "look at that hurt expression in his face." "bah," said mr. pottle. "when do we begin to get fifty dollars per pup. i could use the money. isn't it about time this great hulking creature did something to earn his keep? he's got the appetite of a lion." "don't mind the nassy mans, pershing. we're not a mutt, are we, pershing? ambrose, please don't say such things in his presence. it hurts him dreadfully. mutt, indeed. just look at those big, gentle, knowing eyes." "look at those legs, woman," said mr. pottle. he despondently sipped his black coffee. "blossom," he said. "i'm going to chicago to-night. got to have a conference with the men who are dickering with me about manufacturing my shaving cream. i'll be gone three days and i'll be busy every second." "yes, ambrose. pershing will protect me." "and when i come back," he went on sternly, "i want to be able to get into my own house, do you understand?" "i warned you pershing was a one man dog," she replied. "you'd better come back at noon while he's at lunch. you needn't worry about us." "i shan't worry about pershing," promised mr. pottle, reaching for his suit-case. he had not overstated how busy he would be in chicago. his second day was crowded. after a trip to the factory, he was closeted at his hotel in solemn conference in the evening with the president, a vice-president or two, a couple of assistant vice-presidents and their assistants, and a collection of sales engineers, publicity engineers, production engineers, personnel engineers, employment engineers, and just plain engineers; for a certain large corporation scented profit in his shaving cream. they were putting him through a business third degree and he was enjoying it. they had even reached the point where they were discussing his share in the profits if they decided to manufacture his discovery. mr. pottle was expatiating on its merits. "gentlemen," he said, "there are some forty million beards every morning in these united states, and forty million breakfasts to be eaten by men in a hurry. now, my shaving cream being edible, combines----" "telegram for mr. puddle, mr. puddle, mr. puddle," droned a bell hop, poking in a head. "excuse me, gentlemen," said mr. pottle. he hoped they would think it an offer from a rival company. as he read the message his face grew white. alarming words leaped from the yellow paper. "_come home. very serious accident. blossom._" that was all, but to the recently mated mr. pottle it was enough. he crumpled the message with quivering fingers. "sorry, gentlemen," he said, trying to smile bravely. "bad news from home. we'll have to continue this discussion later." "you can just make the : train," said one of the engineers, sympathetically. "hard lines, old man." granville's lone, asthmatic taxi coughed up mr. pottle at the door of his house; it was dark; he did not dare look at the door-knob. his trembling hand twisted the key in the lock. "who's that?" called a faint voice. it was blossom's. he thanked god she was still alive. he was in her room in an instant, and had switched on the light. she lay in bed, her face, once rosy, now pale; her eyes, once placid, now red-lidded and tear-swollen. he bent over her with tremulous anxiety. "honey, what's happened? tell your ambrose." she raised herself feebly in bed. he thanked god she could move. "oh, it's too awful," she said with a sob. "too dreadful for words." "what? oh, what? tell me, blossom dearest. tell me. i'll be brave, little woman. i'll try to bear it." he pressed her fevered hands in his. "i can hardly believe it," she sobbed. "i c-can hardly believe it." "believe it? believe what? tell me, blossom darling, in heaven's name, tell me." "pershing," she sobbed in a heart-broken crescendo, "pershing has become a mother!" her sobs shook her. "and they're all mungles," she cried, "all nine of them." * * * * * thunderclouds festooned the usually mild forehead of mr. pottle next morning. he was inclined to be sarcastic. "fifty dollars per pup, eh?" he said. "fifty dollars per pup, eh?" "don't, ambrose," his wife begged. "i can't stand it. to think with eyes like that pershing should deceive me." "pershing?" snorted mr. pottle so violently the toast hopped from the toaster. "pershing? not now. violet! violet! violet!" mrs. pottle looked meek. "the ash man said he'd take the pups away if i gave him two dollars," she said. "give him five," said mr. pottle, "and maybe he'll take violet, too." "i will not, ambrose pottle," she returned. "i will not desert her now that she has gotten in trouble. how could she know, having been brought up so carefully? after all, dogs are only human." "you actually intend to keep that----" she did not allow him to pronounce the epithet that was forming on his lips, but checked it, with---- "certainly i'll keep her. she is still a one man dog. she can still protect me from kidnapers and burglars." he threw up his hands, a despairing gesture. * * * * * in the days that followed hard on the heels of violet's disgrace, mr. pottle had little time to think of dogs. more pressing cares weighed on him. the chicago men, their enthusiasm cooling when no longer under the spell of mr. pottle's arguments, wrote that they guessed that at this time, things being as they were, and under the circumstances, they were forced to regret that they could not make his shaving cream, but might at some later date be interested, and they were his very truly. the bank sent him a frank little message saying that it had no desire to go into the barber business, but that it might find that step necessary if mr. pottle did not step round rather soon with a little donation for the loan department. it was thoughts of this cheerless nature that kept mr. pottle tossing uneasily in his share of the bed, and with wide-open, worried eyes doing sums on the moonlit ceiling. he waited the morrow with numb pessimism. for, though he had combed the town and borrowed every cent he could squeeze from friend or foe, though he had pawned his favorite case of razors, he was three hundred dollars short of the needed amount. three hundred dollars is not much compared to all the money in the world, but to mr. pottle, on his bed of anxiety, it looked like the great wall of china. he heard the town clock boom a faint two. it occurred to him that there was something singular, odd, about the silence. it took him minutes to decide what it was. then he puzzled it out. violet née pershing was not barking. it was her invariable custom to make harrowing sounds at the moon from ten in the evening till dawn. he had learned to sleep through them, eventually. he pointed out to blossom that a dog that barks all the time is a dooce of a watch-dog, and she pointed out to him that a dog that barks all the time thus advertising its presence and its ferocity, would be certain to scare off midnight prowlers. he wondered why violet was so silent. the thought skipped through his brain that perhaps she had run away, or been poisoned, and in all his worry, he permitted himself a faint smile of hope. no, he thought, i was born unlucky. there must be another reason. it was borne into his brain cells what this reason must be. slipping from bed without disturbing the dormant blossom, he crept on wary bare toes from the room and down stairs. ever so faint chinking sounds came from the dining room. with infinite caution mr. pottle slid open the sliding door an inch. he caught his breath. there, in a patch of moonlight, squatted the chunky figure of a masked man, and he was engaged in industriously wrapping up the pottle silver in bits of cloth. now and then he paused in his labors to pat caressingly the head of violet who stood beside him watching with fascinated interest, and wagging a pleased tail. mr. pottle was clamped to his observation post by a freezing fear. the busy burglar did not see him, but violet did, and pointing her bushel of bushy head at him, she let slip a deep "grrrrrrrrrrr." the burglar turned quickly, and a moonbeam rebounded from the polished steel of his revolver as he leveled it at a place where mr. pottle's heart would have been if it had not at that precise second been in his throat, a quarter of an inch south of his adam's apple. "keep 'em up," said the burglar, "or i'll drill you like you was an oil-well." mr. pottle's hands went up and his heart went down. the ultimate straw had been added; the wedding silver was neatly packed in the burglar's bag. mr. pottle cast an appealing look at violet and breathed a prayer that in his dire emergency her blue-blood would tell and she would fling herself with one last heroic fling at the throat of the robber. violet returned his look with a stony stare, and licked the free hand of the thief. a thought wave rippled over mr. pottle's brain. "you might as well take the dog with you, too," he said. "your dog?" asked the burglar, gruffly. "whose else would it be?" "where'd you get her?" "raised her from a pup up." "from a pup up?" "yes, from a pup up." the robber appeared to be thinking. "she's some dog," he remarked. "i never seen one just like her." for the first time in the existence of either of them, mr. pottle felt a faint glow of pride in violet. "she's the only one of her kind in the world," he said. "i believe you," said the burglar. "and i know a thing or two about dogs, too." "really?" said mr. pottle, politely. "yes, i do," said the burglar and a sad note had softened the gruffness of his voice. "i used to be a dog trainer." "you don't tell me?" said mr. pottle. "yes," said the burglar, with a touch of pride, "i had the swellest dog and pony act in big time vaudeville once." "where is it now?" mr. pottle was interested. "mashed to bologny," said the burglar, sadly. "train wreck. lost every single animal. like that." he snapped melancholy fingers to illustrate the sudden demise of his troupe. "that's why i took to this," he added. "i ain't a regular crook. honest. i just want to get together enough capital to start another show. another job or two and i'll have enough." mr. pottle looked his sympathy. the burglar was studying violet with eyes that brightened visibly. "if," he said, slowly, "i only had a trick dog like her, i could start again. she's the funniest looking hound i ever seen, bar none. i can just hear the audiences roaring with laughter." he sighed reminiscently. "take her," said mr. pottle, handsomely. "she's yours." the burglar impaled him with the gimlet eye of suspicion. "oh, yes," he said. "i could get away with a dog like that, couldn't i? you couldn't put the cops on my trail if i had a dog like that with me, oh, no. why, i could just as easy get away with pike's peak or a flock of masonic temples as with a dog as different looking as her. no, stranger, i wasn't born yesterday." "i won't have you pinched, i swear i won't," said mr. pottle earnestly. "take her. she's yours." the burglar resumed the pose of thinker. "look here, stranger," he said at length. "tell you what i'll do. just to make the whole thing fair and square and no questions asked, i'll buy that dog from you." "you'll what?" mr. pottle articulated. "i'll buy her," repeated the burglar. mr. pottle was incapable of replying. "well," said the burglar, "will you take a hundred for her?" mr. pottle could not get out a syllable. "two hundred, then?" said the burglar. "make it three hundred and she's yours," said mr. pottle. "sold!" said the burglar. * * * * * when morning came to granville, mr. pottle waked his wife by gently, playfully, fanning her pink and white cheek with three bills of a large denomination. "blossom," he said, and the smile of his early courting days had come back, "you were right. violet was a one man dog. i just found the man." v: _mr. pottle and pageantry_ § "he wouldn't give a cent," announced mrs. pottle, blotting up the nucleus of a tear on her cheek with the tip of her gloved finger. "'not one red cent,' was the way he put it." "what did you want a red cent for, honey?" inquired mr. pottle, absently, from out the depths of the sporting page. "who wouldn't give you a red cent?" "old felix winterbottom," she answered. mr. pottle put down his paper. "do you mean to say you tackled old frosty-face felix himself?" he demanded with interest and some awe. "i certainly did," replied his wife. "right in his own office." her spouse made no attempt to conceal his admiration. "what did you say; then what did he say; then what did you say?" he queried. "i was very polite," mrs. pottle answered, "and tactful. i said 'see here, now, mr. winterbottom, you are the richest man in the county, and yet you have the reputation of being the most careful with your money----'" "i'll bet that put him in a good humor," said mr. pottle in a murmured aside. "you know perfectly well, ambrose, that old felix winterbottom is never in a good humor," said his wife. "after talking with him, i really believe the story that he has never smiled in his life. well, anyhow, i said to him, 'see here now, mr. winterbottom, i'm going to give you a chance to show people your heart is in the right place, after all. the day nursery we ladies of the browning-tagore club of granville are starting needs just one thousand dollars. won't you let me put you down for that amount?'" mr. pottle whistled. "did he bite you?" he asked. "i thought for a minute he was going to," admitted mrs. pottle, "and then he said, 'are the gulicks interested in this?' i said, 'of course, they are. mrs. p. bradley gulick is chairman of the pink contribution team, and mrs. wendell gulick is chairman----' 'stop,' said mr. winterbottom, giving me that fishy look of his, like a halibut in a cake of ice, 'in that case, i wouldn't give a cent, not one red cent. good-day, mrs. pottle.' i went." mr. pottle wagged his head sententiously. "you'll never get a nickel out of him now," he declared. "never. you might have known that felix winterbottom would not go into anything the gulicks were in. and," added mr. pottle thoughtfully, "i can't say that i blame old felix much." "ambrose!" reproved mrs. pottle, but her rebuke lacked a certain whole-heartedness, "the gulicks are nice people; the nicest people in granville." "that's the trouble with them," retorted mr. pottle, "they never let you forget it. that's what ails this town; too much gulicks. i'm not the only one who thinks so, either." she did not attempt rebuttal, beyond saying, "they're our oldest family." "bah," said mr. pottle. he appeared to smolder, and then he flamed out, "honest, blossom, those gulicks make me just a little bit sick to the stummick. just because some ancestor of theirs came over in the mayflower, and because some other ancestor happened to own the farm this town was built on, you'd think they were the duke of kackiack, or something. the town grew up and made 'em rich, but what did they ever do for the town?" "well," began mrs. pottle, more for the sake of debate than from conviction, "there's gulick avenue, and gulick street, and gulick park----" "oh, they give their name freely enough," said mr. pottle. "but what did they give to the day nursery fund?" "they did disappoint me," mrs. pottle admitted. "they only gave fifty dollars, which isn't much for the second wealthiest family in town, but mrs. p. bradley gulick said we could put her name at the head of the list----" mr. pottle's affable features attained an almost sardonic look. "oho," he said, pointedly. "oho." he flamed up again, "that's exactly the amount those pirates added to the rent of my barber shop," he stated, and then, passion seething in his ordinarily amiable bosom, he went on, "a fine lot, they are, to be snubbing a self-made man like felix winterbottom, and turning up their thin, blue noses at felix winterbottom's tannery." "ambrose," said his wife, with lifted blonde eyebrows, "please don't make suggestive jokes in my presence." "honey swat key molly pants," returned mr. pottle with a touch of bellicosity. "it's no worse than other tanneries; and it's the biggest in the state. those gulicks give me a pain, i tell you. you can't pick up a paper without reading, 'mr. p. bradley gulick, one of our leading citizens, unveiled a tablet in the gulick hook and ladder company building yesterday in honor of his ancestor, saul gulick, one of the pioneers who hewed our great state out of the wilderness, and whose cider-press stood on the ground now occupied by the hook and ladder company.' or 'mrs. wendell gulick read a paper before the society of descendants of officers above the rank of captain on general washington's staff on the heroic part played by her ancestor, major noah gulick, at the battle of saratoga.' if it isn't that it's 'the spinning wheel club met at mrs. gulick's palatial residence to observe the anniversary of the birth of phineas gulick, the first red-headed baby born in massachusetts.' bah, is what i say, bah!" he seethed and bubbled and broke out again. "you'd think to hear them blow that the gulicks discovered ancestors and had 'em patented. i guess the pottles had an ancestor or two. even felix winterbottom had ancestors." "probably haddocks," said mrs. pottle coldly. "he can keep his old red cents." "he will, never fear," her husband assured her. "after the way he and his family have been treated by the gulicks, i don't blame him." mrs. pottle pumped up a sigh from the depths of a deep bosom and sank tearfully to a divan. "and i'd set my heart on it," she sobbed. "what, dear?" "the day nursery. and it's to fail for want of a miserable thousand dollars." "don't speak disrespectfully of a thousand dollars, blossom," mr. pottle enjoined his spouse. "that's five thousand shaves. and don't expect me to give anything more. you know perfectly well the barber-business is not what it used to be. i can't give another red cent." mrs. pottle sniffed. "who asked you for your red cents?" she inquired, with spirit. "i'll make the money myself." "you, blossom?" "yes. me." "but how?" she rose majestically; determination was in her pose, and the light of inspiration was in her bright blue eyes. "we'll give a pageant," she announced. "a pageant?" mr. pottle showed some dismay. "a show, blossom?" "evidently," she said, "you have not read your encyclopedia under 'p.'" "i'm only as far as 'ostriches,'" he answered, humbly. "'a pageant,'" she quoted, "'is an elaborate exhibition or spectacle, a series of stately tableaux or living pictures, frequently historic, and often with poetic spoken interludes.'" "ah," beamed mr. pottle, nodding understandingly, "a circus!" "not in the least, ambrose. does your mind never soar? a pageant is a very beautiful and serious thing, with lots of lovely costumes, hundreds of people, horses, historic scenes----" she broke off suddenly. "when was granville founded?" he told her. her eyes sparkled. "wonderful," she cried. "this year it will be two hundred years old. we'll give an historic pageant--the growth of civilization in granville." "it sounds expensive," objected mr. pottle. "don't be sordid, ambrose," said his wife. "i'm not sordid, blossom," he returned. "i'm a practical man. i know these kermesses and feats. my cousin julia onderdonk got up a pageant in peoria once and now she hasn't a friend in the place. besides it only netted fourteen dollars for the bide-a-wee home. now, honey, why not give a good, old-fashioned chicken supper in the church hall, with perhaps a minstrel show afterward? that would get my money----" "chicken supper! minstrel show! oh, ambrose." his wife's snort was the acme of refinement. "have you no soul? this pageant will be an inspiring thing. it will make for, i might almost say militate for, a community spirit. other communities give pageant after pageant. shall granville lag behind? here is a chance for a real community get-together. here is a chance to give our young people the wonderful history of their native town----" "and also a chance for all the gulick tribe to parade around in colonial clothes with spinning wheels under their arms," put in mr. pottle. "i'm afraid we can't avoid that," admitted his wife, ruefully. "after all, they are our oldest family." she meditated. "i suppose," she mused, "that mrs. p. bradley gulick would have to be the spirit of progress----" "progress shouldn't be fat and wall-eyed," interposed mr. pottle. she ignored this. "and i suppose that odious freckled daughter of hers would have to be the spirit of liberty or civilization or something important, and i suppose that pompous mr. gulick would have to be the pioneer spirit--still, i think it could be managed. now, you, ambrose, can be----" "i don't want to be the spirit of anything," he declared. "count me out, blossom." mrs. pottle assumed a hurt pout. "for my sake?" she said. "i'm no actor," he stated. "oh, i don't want you to act," she said. "you're to be treasurer." he wrinkled up his nose and brow into a frown. "the dirty work," he exclaimed. "that's the way the world over. us pottles do the dirty work and the gulicks get the glory. no, blossom, no, no, no." an appealing tear, and another, stole down her pink cheek. "mr. gallup wouldn't have treated me that way," she said. mr. gallup had been her first husband. mr. pottle knew resistance was futile. "oh, all right. i'll be treasurer." she smiled. "now one more tiny favor?" "well?" "i want you to be the spirit of history and read the historic epilogue." "me? i'm no spirit. i'm a boss barber." "well, if you don't take the job, i suppose i can get one of the gulicks." he considered a second. "all right," he said. "i'll be the spirit of history. but understand one thing, right here and now: i will not wear tights." she conceded him that point. "say," he asked, struck by a thought, "how do you know what spirits are going to be in this? who is going to write this thing, anyhow?" "i am," said mrs. pottle. § "it's not decent," objected mr. pottle fervidly. "how can i keep the respect of the community if i go round like this?" he indicated his pink knees, which blushed like spring rosebuds beneath a somewhat nebulous toga of cheese-cloth. "if i can't wear pants, i don't want to be the spirit of history," he added. "for the fifth and last time," said the tired and harassed voice of mrs. pottle, "you cannot wear pants. spirits never do. that settles it. not another word, ambrose. haven't i trouble enough without my own husband adding to it?" she pressed her brow as if it ached. piles of costumes, mostly tinsel and cheese-cloth, shields, tomahawks, bridles and bits of scenery were strewn about the pottle parlor. she sank into a morris chair, and stitched fiercely at an angel's wing. her eyes were the eyes of one at bay. "it's been one thing after another," she declaimed. "those gulicks are making my life miserable. and just now i had a note from etta runkle's mother saying that if in the masque of the fruits and flowers of botts county her little etta has to be an onion while little gertrude crump is a violet, she won't lend us that white horse for the paul revere's ride scene. so i had to make that hateful stupid child of hers a violet and change gertrude crump to an onion and now mrs. crump is mad and won't let any of her children appear in the pageant." "well," remarked mr. pottle, "i don't see why you had to have paul revere's ride anyhow. he didn't ride all the way out here to ohio, did he?" "i know he didn't," she replied, tartly, "i didn't want to put him in. but mrs. gulick insisted. she said it was her ancestor, elijah gulick, who lent paul revere the horse. that's why i have to have paul revere stop in the middle of his ride and say, "_gallant stallion, swift and noble, lent me by my good friend gulick, patriot, scholar, king of horsemen, speed ye, speed ye, speed ye onward!_" mr. pottle groaned. "is there anything in american history the gulicks didn't have a hand in?" he asked. "but say, blossom, that horse of the runkle's is no gallant stallion. she's the one matt runkle uses on his milk route. every one in town knows agnes." "i can't help it," said mrs. pottle wearily. "wendell gulick, jr., who plays paul revere, insisted on having a white horse, and agnes was the only one i could get." "they're the insistingest people i ever knew," observed mr. pottle. his wife gave out the saddest sound in the world, the short sob of thwarted authorship. "they've just about ruined my pageant," she said. "mrs. gulick insisted on having that battle between the settlers and the indians just because a great, great uncle of hers was in it. i didn't want anything rough like that in my pageant. besides it happened in the next county, and the true facts are that the indians chased the settlers fourteen miles, and scalped three of them. of course it wouldn't do to show a gulick running from an indian, so she insisted that i change history around and make the settlers win the battle. none of the nice young men were willing to be indians and be chased, so i had to hire a tough young fellow named brannigan--i believe they call him 'beansy'--and nine other young fellows from the horseshoe works to play indian at fifty cents apiece." mr. pottle looked anxious. "i know that beansy brannigan," he said. "how is that gang behaving?" "oh, pretty well. but ten indians at fifty cents an indian is five dollars, and we c-can't afford it." she was tearful again. "already the costumes have cost four hundred dollars and more. we'll be lucky to make expenses if the gulicks keep on putting in expensive scenes," she moaned. she busied herself with the angel's wing, then paused to ask, "ambrose, have you learned your historical epilogue?" for answer he sprang to his feet, wrapped his cheese-cloth toga about him, struck a ciceronian attitude, and said loudly: "_who am i, oh list'ning peoples? his'try's spirit, stern and truthful! come i here to tell you fully, of our granville's thrilling story, how saul and other noble gulicks, and a few who shall be nameless, hewed a city from the forests, blazed the way for civ'lization._" "stop," cried mrs. pottle. "i can't bear to hear another word about those gulicks. you know it well enough." "there are a few things i wish i could have put in," remarked mr. pottle, wistfully. his tone made her look up with quick interest. "what do you mean?" she inquired. "oh, i found out a thing or two," he replied, "when i was down at the capital last week. i happened to drop into the state historical society's library and run over some old records." he chuckled. "p. bradley gulick told me i didn't have to go down there to get the facts. he'd give them to me, he said. so he did. some of them." "ambrose, what do you mean?" "oh, nothing. all i will say is this: i'm a patient man and can be pestered a lot, but just let one of these gulicks pester me a little too much one of these days, and i'll rear up on my hind legs, that's all." there was a glint in his eye, and she saw it. "ambrose," she said, "if you do anything to spoil my pageant, i'll never forgive you." he snorted. "your pageant? it's just as i said it would be. we pottles will do the dirty work and the gulicks will grab the glory. they've behaved so piggish that everybody in town is sore at them, and i don't see how the pageant is going to come out on top. you'd probably have gotten that thousand from old felix winterbottom if it hadn't been for them. then you wouldn't have to be losing a pound a day over this pageant. now if you'd only gotten up a nice old-fashioned chicken supper, and a minstrel show----" "ambrose! go put on your trousers!" § despite mr. pottle's pessimistic predictions, there was not a vacant seat or an unused cubic foot of air in the granville opera house that clinging spring night, when the asbestos curtain, tugged by tyro hands, jerkily ascended on the prologue of the grand historical pageant of the growth of civilization in granville for the benefit of the browning-tagore club's day nursery. those who did not have relatives in the cast appeared to have been lured thither by a certain morbid curiosity as to what a pageant was. their faces said plainly that they were prepared for anything. after the orchestra had raced through "poet and peasant," with the cornet winning by a comfortable margin, mrs. p. bradley gulick, somewhat short of breath and rendered doubly wall-eyed by an inexpert make-up, appeared in red, white and blue cheese-cloth, and announced in a high voice that she was the spirit of progress and would look on with a kindly, encouraging eye while history's storied page was turned and spread before them, and, she added, in properly poetic language, she would tell them what it was all about. the audience gave her the applause due the dowager of the town's leading family, and not one hand-clap more. mr. p. bradley gulick, bony but impressive, in a grecian robe, appeared and proclaimed that he was the spirit of civilization. a ballet of the waters followed, and as a climax, evelyn gulick, age thirteen, in appropriate green gauze, announced: "_who am i, oh friends and neighbors? i'm the spirit of the waters, lordly, swift, monongahela; argosies float on my bosom----_" she tapped her narrow chest, and a look of horror crept into her face; her mind seemed to be groping for something. tremulously she repeated, "_argosies float on my bosom._" the voice of mrs. pottle prompted from the wings, "_and fleets of ships with treasures laden._" evelyn clutched at the sound, but it slipped from her, and she wildly began, "_argosies float on my bosom_ (slap, slap) _and sheeps of flits--and sheeps of flits----_" she burst into tears, and turning a spiteful face toward one of the boxes, she cried, "you stop making faces at me, jessie winterbottom." then she fled to the wings. this served to bring to the attention of the audience the fact that a strange thing had happened: felix winterbottom and his family had come to the pageant. he was there, concealed as far as possible by the red plush curtains of the box, defiant and forbidding. from the glance he now and then cast at the decolleté back of his wife, it was evident that he had not come voluntarily. mrs. pottle, in the wings, bit a newly manicured fingernail. "i begged mrs. gulick to make that dumb child of hers learn her part," she whispered wrathfully to her husband. "mrs. gulick says it's your fault for not prompting loud enough," said mr. pottle. "she did, did she?" mrs. pottle assumed what is known in ring circles as a fighting face. "i can't stand much more of their pestering," said mr. pottle darkly. "ssssh," said his wife. "the paul revere scene is going to start." in the wings, wendell gulick, junior, was making ready to mount his charger. the charger, as he had specified, was white, peculiarly white, for it had been found necessary at the last moment to conceal some harness stains by powdering her liberally with crushed lilac talcum. agnes looked resentful but resigned. mr. gulick, junior, was a plump young man, with nose-glasses, and satisfied lips, who had the distinction of being the only person in granville who had ever ridden to hounds. he cultivated a horsey atmosphere, wore a riding crop pin in his tie, and was admittedly the local authority on things equine. he looked most formidable in hip-high leathern boots, a continental garb, and a powdered wig. it was regretable that the steed did not measure up to her rider. save for being approximately white, agnes had little to recommend her for the rôle. she had one of those long, sad, philosophic faces, and she appeared to be considerably taller in the hips than in the shoulders. she had a habit of looking back over her shoulder with a surprised expression, as if she missed her milk wagon. encouraged by a slap on the flank from a stage-hand, agnes advanced to the center of the stage at a brisk, business-like trot, and there stopped, and nodded to the audience. "whoa, agnes," shouted some bad little boy in the gallery. young mr. gulick, in the rôle of paul revere, affected to pat his mount's head, and in a voice of thunder, roared: "_gallant stallion, swift and noble,_" agnes reached out a long neck and nibbled at the scenery. "_lent me by my good friend, gulick,_" agnes looked over her shoulder and smiled at her rider. "_patriot, scholar, king of horsemen,_" agnes scratched herself heartily on a property rock. "_speed ye, speed ye, speed ye onward!_" the business of the scene called for a spirited exit by paul revere, waving his cocked hat. but agnes had other plans. she liked the taste of scenery. she did not budge. in vain did the scion of the gulicks beat with frantic heels upon her flat flanks. "speed ye onward, or we'll be late," he improvised cleverly. she masticated a canvas leaf from a convenient shrub and did not speed onward. "gid-ap, agnes," shrilled the boy in the gallery. "the folks is waitin' for their milk." the audience grew indecorous. even his ruddy make-up could not conceal the fact that mr. wendell gulick, junior, was very red in the face, and that his lips were forming words not in that, or any other pageant. his leathern heels boomed hollowly on agnes's barrel of body. to ring down the curtain was impossible; agnes had taken her place directly beneath it. paul revere turned a passionate face to the wings, "hey, pottle," he bellowed, "why don't you do something instead of standing there grinning like a baboon?" thus charged, mr. pottle's toga-clad figure came nimbly from the wings, to great applause, and seized agnes by the bridle. pottle tugged lustily. agnes smiled and did not give way an inch. "send for matt runkle," hissed mr. gulick, junior. "send for matt runkle," echoed mr. pottle. "send for matt runkle," cried voices in the audience. "he's home in bed," wailed mrs. pottle from the wings. "get one of the runkle kids," shouted mr. pottle, seeking to arouse agnes with kicks of his sandal-shod feet. little etta runkle, partly clad in the tinsel and cheese-cloth of a violet, and partly in her everyday underwear, was fetched from a dressing room. she was a bright child and sensed the situation as soon as it had been explained to her twice. "oh," she said, "pa always says agnes won't start unless you clink two milk bottles together." the audience was calling forth suggestions to paul revere, astride, and pottle, on foot. they included a bonfire beneath agnes, and dynamite. even the rock-bound face of old felix winterbottom, in the depths of the box, showed the vestige of a crease that might, with a little imagination, be considered the start of a smile. a fevered search back stage netted two bottles, dusty and smelling of turpentine and gin, respectively. mr. pottle grasped their necks and clinked them together with resounding clinks. the effect on agnes was electrical. from utter immobility she started with a startled hop. the unready mr. gulick, junior, after one mad grasp at her mane, rolled ignominiously from her broad back, and landed on the stage in a position that was undignified for a revere and positively painful for a gulick. agnes bolted to the wings. the curtain darted down. the audience seemed to take this occurrence in a spirit of levity, but not so mrs. pottle. hot tears gathered in her eyes. "that wretch would have a white horse," she said. "they would put paul revere's ride in. now look. now look!" "there, there, honey," said mr. pottle, between sympathetic teeth. "we'll fix 'em." the pageant pursued its more or less majestic way, but as the history of granville was unfolded, scene upon scene, it became all too apparent to mrs. pottle that her poetic opus could not recapture the first serious mood of the audience. it positively jeered when miss eltruda gulick announced that she was the spirit of the bogardus canal. but it grew more interested as the curtain slid up on the battle scene. this, mrs. pottle felt, was her dramatic masterpiece. there lay the peaceful pioneer settlement--artfully fashioned from paste-board--while the simple but virile settlers strolled up and down the embryo main street and exchanged couplets. the chief settler, an adipose young man with a lisp, was mr. gurnee gulick, until then noted as the most adept practitioner of the modern dance-steps in that part of ohio. through a beard, he announced, falsetto, "_i give thee greeting, neighbor gulick, upon this blossom-burgeoning morning, i trust 'tis not the wily red-skin i just heard whooping in the forest._" his trust was misplaced. it was, indeed, the wily red-skin in the persons of mr. edward brannigan--known to intimates as "beansy," and nine of his fellow horseshoe makers who had been hired to impersonate red-men, in rather loose-fitting brown cotton skins. mr. brannigan and fellow red-skins had done their part dutifully at rehearsals, and had permitted themselves to be knocked down, cuffed about a bit, and finally put to inglorious rout by the settlers. but on the fateful night of the pageant, while waiting for their turn to appear, they had passed the moments with a jug of cider that was standing with reluctant feet at that high point in its career where it has ceased to be sweet and has not yet become vinegar. that was no reason why they should not do their part, for it was not an intricate one. they were to rush on, with whoops, be annihilated, and retire in confusion. they did rush on with whoops that left nothing to be desired from the standpoint of realism. mrs. pottle, tense in the wings, was congratulating herself that one scene at least had dramatic strength. it was at this moment that mr. brannigan, as chief winipasuki, sachem of the algonquins, encountered mr. gulick, the principal settler. in his enthusiasm, mr. gulick over-acted his part. he smote the red-skin warrior so earnestly on the ear that mr. brannigan described a parabola and dented a papier-mache rock with his hundred and seventy pounds of muscular body. his part called for him to lie there, prone and impotent, while the settlers drove off his band. it may have been a sudden rebellion of a proud spirit. it may have been the wraith of history in protest; it may have been an inherently perverse nature; or it may have been the cider. in any event, chief winipasuki got to his feet, war-whooped, and knocked the principal settler through the paste-board wall of the block-house. those in the audience who were fond of realism enjoyed what ensued immensely. the settlers of the town, who were the nice young men, and the indians, who were not so nice but were strong and willing, had at one another, and although they had only nature's weapons, the battle, as it waged up and down and back and through the shattered scenery, was stirring enough. when the curtain was at last brought down, chief winipasuki had a half-nelson on settler gulick, who was calling in a loud penetrating voice for the police. in all the hub-bub and confusion, in all the delirium of the audience, mr. pottle remained calm enough to note that a miracle had taken place; mr. felix winterbottom was chuckling. it was a dry, unpracticed chuckle at best, but it was a chuckle, nevertheless. mr. pottle was observing the phenomenon with wide eyes when he felt his elbow angrily plucked. "you're to blame for this, pottle," rasped a voice. it was gurnee gulick's irate father. "me?" sputtered mr. pottle. "yes. you. you knew those ruffians had been drinking." "i did not." "don't contradict me, you miserable little hair-cutting fool." "what? how dare you----" began mr. pottle. "bah. you wart!" said mr. gulick, and turned his square yard of fat back on the incensed little man. mr. pottle was taking a step after him as if he intended to leap up and sink his teeth into the back of mr. gulick's overflowing neck, when another hand clutched him. it was his wife. her face was white and tear-stained, her lip quivering. "they've ruined it, they've ruined it," she exclaimed. "i warned that simpleton gurnee gulick not to be rough with those horseshoe boys. oh, dear, oh, dear." she pillowed her brimming eyes in his toga-draped shoulder. "you've got to go out, now," she sobbed, "and give the historical epilogue." "never," said mr. pottle. "a thousand nevers." "please, ambrose. we've got to end it, somehow." "very well," announced mr. pottle. "i'll go. but mind you, blossom pottle, i won't be responsible for what i say." "neither will i," sobbed his spouse. mr. pottle hitched his toga about him, and strode out on the stage. there was some applause, but more titters. he held up his hand for silence, as orators do, and glared so fiercely at his audience that the theater grew comparatively quiet. at the top of his voice, he began, "_who am i, oh list'ning peoples?_" "pottle the barber," answered a voice in the gallery. mr. pottle paused, fastened an awful eye on the owner of the voice, and, stepping out of character, remarked, succinctly: "if you interrupt me again, charlie meacham, i'll come up there and knock your block off." he swept the house with a ferocious glance. "and that goes for the rest of you," he added. the intimidated audience went "ssssssh" at each other; pottle was popular in granville. he launched himself again. "_who am i, oh list'ning peoples? hist'ry's spirit, stern and truthful! come i here to give you an earful, of our city's inside history, how the gulicks grabbed the real estate, by foreclosing poor folk's mortgages._" he did not have to ask for silence now. the hush of death was on the house, and the audience bent its ears toward him; even old felix winterbottom, on the edge of his chair, cupped a gnarled, attentive ear. mr. pottle went on, "_you have heard the gulick's blowing, of their wonderful relations._ _lend an ear, and i will slip you, what the real, true, red-hot dope is._" he gave his toga a hitch, advanced to the foot-lights, and continued, "_old saul gulick was a drinker, always full of home-made liquor, and he got the town of granville, from the indians, by cheating, got 'em drunk, the records tell us, got 'em boiled and stewed and glassy; ere they sobered up, they sold him, all the land in this fair county, for a dollar and a quarter, which, my friends, he never paid them._" the audience held its breath; felix winterbottom cupped both ears. pottle hurried on, "_now we come to 'lijah gulick, him that lent the noble stallion to revere, the midnight rider. honest, folks, you'll bust out laughing, when i tell you 'lijah stole him. for elijah was a horsethief, and, as such, was hanged near boston. "patriot, scholar, king of horsemen"-- honest, folks, that makes me snicker. yes, he let paul ride his stallion-- and charged him seven bucks an hour! if you think that i am lying, you will find all this in writing, in the library in the state house._" sensation! gasps in the audience. commotion in the wings. felix winterbottom made no attempt to conceal the fact that he was chuckling. pottle drew in a deep breath, and spoke again. "_then you've heard of noah gulick, him that won the revolution. if he ever was a major, george j. washington never knew it. when they charged at saratoga, he was hiding in a cellar. was he on the staff of washington? sure he was--but in the kitchen. i'll admit he made good coffee-- but a soldier? quit your kidding. now i'll take up nathan gulick, his descendants never mention that he spent a month in prison more than once, for stealing chickens----_" here mr. pottle abruptly stopped. the curtain had been dropped with a crashing bang by unseen hands in the wings. as it fell, there was a curious, cackling noise in one of the boxes, the like of which had never before been heard in granville. it was felix winterbottom laughing as if he were being paid a dollar a guffaw. § mr. pottle sat beside the bedside of mrs. pottle, sadly going over a column of figures, as she lay there, wan, weak, tear-marred, sipping pale tea. he cleared his throat. "as retiring treasurer of the granville pageant," he announced, "i regret to report as follows: receipts from tickets $ , . expenses, including rent, music, scenery, costumes, and damages, $ , . "this leaves a total net profit of eighty-three cents." mrs. pottle wept softly into her pillow. a whistle outside caused her to lift a woeful head. "there's the postman," she said, feebly. "another bill, i suppose. we won't even make eighty-three cents." mr. pottle returned with the letter; he opened it; he read it; he whistled; he read it again; then he read it aloud. "dear mrs. pottle: "i never laughed at anything in my life till i saw your pageant. i pay for what i get. "yours, "felix winterbottom. "p. s. inclosed is my check for one thousand dollars for the day nursery." mrs. pottle sat up in bed. she smiled. vi: _the cage man_ all day long they kept horace nimms in a steel-barred cage. for twenty-one years he had perched on a tall stool in that cage, while various persons at various times poked things at him through a hole about big enough to admit an adult guinea pig. every evening round five-thirty they let horace out and permitted him to go over to his half of a double-barreled house in flatbush to sleep. at eight-thirty the next morning he returned to his cage, hung his two-dollar-and-eighty-nine-cent approximately panama hat on a peg and changed his blue-serge-suit coat for a still more shiny alpaca. then he sharpened two pencils to needle-point sharpness, tested his pen by writing "h. nimms, esq.," in a small precise hand, gave his adding machine a few preparatory pokes and was ready for the day's work. horace was proud, in his mild way, of being shut up in the cage with all that money. it carried the suggestion that he was a dangerous man of a possibly predatory nature. he wasn't. a more patient and docile five feet and two inches of cashier was not to be found between spuyten duyvil and tottenville, staten island. cashiers are mostly crabbed. it sours them somehow to hand out all that money and retain so little for their own personal use. but horace was not of this ilk. the timidest stenographer did not hesitate to take the pettiest petty-cash slip to his little window and twitter, according to custom: "forty cents for carbon paper, and let me have it in large bills, please, uncle horace." he would peer at the slip, pretend it was for forty dollars, smile a friendly smile that made little ripples round his eyes and--according to custom--reply: "here you be. now don't be buying yourself a flivver with it." when the office force in a large corporation calls the office cashier "uncle" it is a pretty good indication of the sort of man he is. for the rest, horace nimms was slightly bald, wore convict eye-glasses--the sort you shackle to your head with a chain--kept his cuffs up with lavender sleeve garters, carried a change purse, kept a small red pocket expense book, thought his company the greatest in the world and its president, oren hammer, the greatest man, was devoted to a wife and two growing daughters, dreamed of a cottage on long island with a few square yards of beets and beans and, finally, earned forty dollars a week. horace nimms had a figuring mind. those ten little arabic symbols and their combinations and permutations held a fascination for him. to his ears six times six is thirty-six was as perfect a poem as ever a master bard penned. when on muggy flatbush nights he tossed in his brass bed he lulled himself to sleep by dividing , , by . at other and more wakeful moments he amused himself by planning an elaborate cost-accounting system for his firm, the amalgamated soap corporation, known to the ends of the earth as the suds trust. sometimes he went so far as to play the entertaining game of imaginary conversations. he pictured himself sitting in one of the fat chairs in the office of president hammer and saying between puffs on one of the presidential perfectos: "now, looky here, mr. hammer. my plan for a cost-accounting system is----" and he limned on his mental canvas that great man, spellbound, enthralled, as he, horace nimms, dazzled him with an array of figures, beginning: "now, let's see, mr. hammer. last year the western works at purity city, iowa, made , , cakes of pink petal toilet and , , cakes of lily white laundry at a manufacturing cost of . cents a cake, unboxed; now the selling cost a cake was"--and so on. the interview always ended with vigorous hand-shakings on the part of mr. hammer and more salary for mr. nimms. but actually the interview never took place. it wasn't that horace didn't have confidence in his system. he did. but he didn't have an equal amount in horace nimms. so he worked on in his little cage and enjoyed a fair measure of contentment there, because to him it was a temple of figures, a shrine of subtraction, an altar of addition. figures swarmed in his head as naturally as bees swarm about a locust tree. he could tell you off-hand how many cakes of grade-b soap the southern works at spotless, louisiana, made in the month of may, . he simply devoured statistics. when the door of the cage clanged shut in the morning he felt soothed, at home; he immersed his own small worries in a bath of digits and decimal points. he ate of the lotus leaves of mathematics. he could forget, while juggling with millions of cakes of soap and thousands of dollars, that his rent was due next week; that polly, his wife, needed a new dress; and that on forty a week one must live largely on beef liver and hope. he sometimes thought, while subwaying to his office, that if he could only get the ear of oren hammer some day and tell him about that cost-accounting system he might get his salary raised to forty-five. but president hammer, whose office was on the floor above the cage, was as remote from horace as the pleiades. to get to see him one had to run a gantlet of superior, inquisitive secretaries. besides mr. hammer was reputed to be the busiest man in new york city. "i wash the faces of forty million people every morning," was the way he put it himself. but the chief reason why horace nimms did not approach mr. hammer was that horace held him in genuine awe. the president was so big, so masterful, so decisive. his invariable cutaway intimidated horace; the magnificence of his top hat dazzled the little cashier and benumbed his faculties of speech. once in a while horace rode down in the same elevator with him and--unobserved--admired his firm profile, the concentration of his brow and the jutting jaw that some one had once said was worth fifty thousand a year in itself, merely as a symbol of determination. horace would sooner have slapped general pershing on the back or asked president wilson to dinner in flatbush than have addressed oren hammer. an uncommendable attitude? yes. but after all those years behind bars, perhaps subconsciously his spirit had become a little caged. one cool september morning horace entered the cage humming "annie rooney." coming over in the subway he had straightened out a little quirk in his cost-accounting system that would save the company one-ninety-fifth of a cent a cake. he took off his worn serge coat, was momentarily concerned at the prospect of having to make it last another season and then with a hitch on his lavender sleeve garters he slipped into his alpaca office coat and added up a few numbers on the adding machine for the sheer joy of it. he had not been sitting on his high stool long when he became aware that a man, a stranger, was regarding him fixedly through the steel screen. the man had calmly placed a chair just outside the cage and was examining the little cashier with the scrutinizing eye of an ornithologist studying a newly discovered species of emu. horace was a bit disconcerted. he knew his accounts were in order and accurate to the last penny. he had nothing to fear on that score. nevertheless, he didn't like the way the man stared at him. "if he has something to say to me," thought horace, "why does he say it with glowers?" he would have asked the starer what the devil he was looking at, but horace was incapable of incivility. he began nervously to total up a column of figures and was not a little upset to find that under the cold gaze he had made his first mistake in addition since the spring of ' . he cast a furtive glance or two through the steel netting at the stranger outside, who continued to focus a pair of prominent blue eyes on the self-conscious cashier. horace couldn't have explained why those particular eyes rattled him; some mysterious power--black art perhaps. the staring man was quite bald, and his head, shaped like a pineapple cheese, had been polished until it seemed almost to glitter in the september sun. the eyes, light blue and bulgy, reminded horace of poached eggs left out in the cold for a week. they had also a certain fishy quality; impassive, yet hungry, like a shark's. without being actually fat, the mysterious starer had the appearance of being plump and soft; perhaps it was the way he clasped two small, perfectly manicured hands over a perceptible rotundity at his middle, an unexpected protuberance, as if he were attempting to conceal a honeydew melon under his vest. horace nimms did his best to concentrate on the little columns of figures he was so fond of drilling and parading, but his glance strayed, almost against his will, to the bald-headed man with the fishy blue eyes, who continued to fasten on horace the glance a python aims at a rabbit before he bolts him. at length, after half an hour, horace could stand it no longer. he addressed the stranger politely. "is there anything i can do for you?" asked horace with his avuncular smile. the starer, without once taking his eyes off horace, rose, advanced to the little window and thrust through it an oversized card. "you may go on with your work," he said, "just as if you were not under observation. i am here under mr. hammer's orders." his voice was peculiar--a nasal purr. the caged cashier glanced at the card. it read: s. walmsley cowan efficiency expert extraordinary author of "pep, personality, personnel," "how to enthuse employees" horace nimms had a disquieting sensation. he had heard rumors of a man prowling about in the company, subjecting random employees to strange tests, firing some, moving others to different jobs, but he had always felt that twenty-one years of service and the steel bars of his cage protected him. and now here was the man, and he, horace nimms, was under observation. he had always associated the phrase with reports of lunacy cases in the newspapers. mr. cowan returned to his seat near the cage and resumed his silent watch on its inmate. horace tried to do his work, but he couldn't remember when he had had such a poor day. the figures would come wrong and his hand would tremble a little no matter how hard he tried to forget the vigilant mr. cowan who sat watching him. at the end of a trying day horace dismounted from his high stool, hitched up his lavender sleeve garters and inserted himself into his worn blue serge coat. he would be glad to get back to flatbush. polly would have some fried beef liver and a bread pudding for supper, and they would discuss for the hundredth time just what the ground-floor plan of that cottage would be--if it ever was. but mr. cowan was waiting for him. "step this way, will you--ple-e-ese," said the expert. horace never remembered when he had heard a word that retained so little of its original meaning as mr. cowan's "ple-e-ese." clearly it was tossed in as a sop to the hypersensitive. his "ple-e-ese" could have been translated as "you worm." horace, with a worried brow, followed mr. cowan into one of those goldfish-bowl offices affected by large companies with many executives and a limited amount of office space. it contained only a plain table and two stiff chairs. "sit down," said mr. cowan, "ple-e-ese." it is a difficult linguistic feat to purr and snap at the same time, but mr. cowan achieved it. horace sat down and mr. cowan sat opposite him, with his unwinking blue eyes but two feet from horace's mild brown ones and with no charitable steel screen between them. "i am going to put you to the test," said mr. cowan. horace wildly thought of thumbscrews. he sat bolt upright while mr. cowan whipped from his pocket a tape measure and, bending over, measured the breadth of horace nimms' brow. with an ominous clucking noise the expert set down the measurement on a chart in front of him. then he carefully measured each of horace's ears. the measurements appeared to shock him. he wrote them down. he applied his tape to horace's nose and measured that organ. he surveyed horace's forehead from several different angles. he measured the circumference of horace's head. the result caused mr. cowan acute distress, for he set it down on his elaborate chart and glowered at it a full minute. then he transferred his attention and tape to horace's stubby hands. he measured them, counted the fingers, contemplated the thumb gravely and wrote several hundred words on the chart. horace thought he recognized one of the words as "mechanical." "now," said mr. cowan solemnly, "we will test your mental reactions." he said this more to himself than to horace nimms, on whose brow tiny pearls of perspiration were appearing. mr. cowan drew forth a stop watch and spread another chart on the table before him. "fill this out--ple-e-ese," he said, pushing the chart toward horace. "you have just five minutes to do it." horace nimms, dismayed, almost dazed, seized the paper and started to work at it with feverish confusion. he boggled through a maze full of pitfalls for a tired, rattled man: if george washington discovered america, write the capital of nebraska in this space.........but if he was called the father of his country, how much is × ?........now name three presidents of the united states in alphabetical order, including jefferson, but do not do so if ice is warm.........if adam was the first man, dot all the "i's" in "eleemosynary" and write your last name backward.........omit the next three questions with the exception of the last two: how much is × = ?........what is the capital of omaha?........how many "e's" are there in the sentence, "tell me, pretty maiden, are there any more at home like you?"........put a cross over all the consonants in the foregoing sentence. now fill in the missing words in the following sentences: "while picking........i was stung in the........by a........." "don't bite the........that feeds you." how old are you? multiply your age by the year you were born in. erase your answer. if a pound of steel is heavier than a pound of oyster crackers, don't write anything in this space.........otherwise write three words that rhyme with "icicle." now write your name, and then cross out all the consonants. name three common garden vegetables......... it seemed to horace nimms that he had floundered along for less than a minute when mr. cowan said briskly, "time," and took the paper from horace. "now the association test," said mr. cowan, drawing forth still another chart, very much as a magician draws forth a rabbit from a hat. "i'll say a word," he went on, seeming to grow progressively more affable as horace grew more discomfited, "and you will say the word it suggests immediately after--ple-e-ese," he added as an afterthought. horace nimms moistened his dry lips. mr. cowan pulled out his stop watch. "oyster?" said mr. cowan. "s-stew!" quavered horace. "flat?" "bush!" "hammer?" "president!" "soap?" "cakes!" "money?" "forty-five!" "up?" "down!" "man?" "cage!" "most peculiar," muttered mr. cowan as he noted down the answers. "we'll have to look into this." horace could not suppress a shudder. "that's all," said mr. cowan. when horace arrived at his flatbush flat, late for supper, he did not enjoy the bread pudding, though it was a particularly good one--with raisins. nor did he go to sleep quickly, no matter how many numbers he multiplied. he was thinking what it would mean to him at his age if mr. cowan should have him put out of his cage. his dreams were haunted by a pair of eyes like those of a frozen owl. the next afternoon horace nimms, busy in his cage, received a notice that there would be an organization meeting at the end of the day. he went. the meeting had been called by s. walmsley cowan, who in his talks to large groups adopted the benevolent big-brother manner and turned on and off a beaming smile. "my friends," he began, "it is no secret to some of you that mr. hammer has not been pleased with the way things are going in the company. he has felt that there has been a great deal of waste of time and money; that neither the volume of business nor the profits on it are what they should be. he has commissioned me to find out what is wrong in the company and to put pep, efficiency, enthusiasm into our organization." he smiled a modest smile. "i rather fancy," he continued, "that i'll succeed. i have been conducting the tests with which you are all doubtless familiar through reading my books, 'pep, personality, personnel,' and 'how to enthuse employees.' i have made a most interesting and startling discovery. most of you are in the wrong jobs!" he paused. the men and women looked at each other uneasily. then he went on. "i'll cite just one instance. yesterday i tested the mentality of one of you. i found that he was of the cage, or solitary, type of worker. see page of my book on getting into men's brains. but he was already working in a cage! here was a problem. could it be that that was where he would do best? no! then a happy solution struck me. he was in the wrong cage. so i am going to transfer him from a mathematical cage to a mechanical cage. i am going to transfer him to be an elevator operator. this may surprise you, my friends, but science is always surprising. just fancy! this man has been working with figures for more than twenty years, and i discover by measuring that his thumbs are of the purely mechanical type, and all that time he would have been much happier running an elevator. now by an odd coincidence i found that one of the elevator operators has a pure type of mathematical ear, so i am transferring him to the cashier's cage. he may seem a bit awkward there at first, but we shall see, we shall see." he turned on his smile. but the eyes of the employees had turned sympathetically to the pale face of horace nimms. how old and tired uncle horace looked, they thought. in a nightmare horace heard his doom pronounced. after twenty-one years! his temple of figures! s. walmsley cowan unconcernedly began one of his celebrated pep-and-punch talks calculated to send morale up as a candle sends up the mercury in a thermometer. "friends," he said, thumping the table before him, "when opportunity comes to knock be on the front porch! don't hold back! he who hesitates is lost. it may be that the humble will inherit the earth, but that will be when all the bold have died. don't hide your light under a basket; don't keep your ideas locked up in your skulls. bring 'em out! let's have a look at them. you wouldn't wear a diamond ring inside your shirt, would you? be sure you're right, then holler your head off. get what is coming to you! nobody will bring it on a platter; you've got to step up and grab it. when you have an impulse, think it over. if it looks like the real goods, obey it. get me? obey it! nobody will bite you. think all you like, but for heaven's sake, act!" it was for such talks that mr. cowan was famous. even horace nimms forgot his impending fall as the efficiency expert extraordinary declaimed the gospel of action and boldness. but when the meeting was over, silent misery came into the heart of the little cashier and like an automaton he stumbled into the subway. he ate his bread pudding without tasting it and tried to talk to polly about the proposed living room in the long island cottage. he hadn't the courage to tell her what had happened; indeed he hardly realized what had happened himself. in the morning he tried to pretend to himself that it was all a joke; surely mr. cowan couldn't have meant it. but when he reached his cage he saw another figure already in that temple of addition and subtraction. he rattled the wire door timidly. the figure turned. "wadda yah want?" it asked bellicosely. horace nimms recognized the bluish jaw of gus, one of the elevator men. sick at heart, horace turned away. in the blur of his thoughts was the one that he must keep his job, some job, any job. one can't save much on forty a week in flatbush. and that he should work for any one but the amalgamated soap corporation was unthinkable. so without knowing exactly how it happened, he found himself in a blue-and-gray uniform clumsily trying to vindicate his mechanical hands and attempting to stop his car within six inches of the floors. all morning he patiently escorted his car up and down the elevator shaft--twenty stories up, twenty stories down, twenty stories up, twenty stories down. he thought of the song of the shirt. at noon he stopped his car at the eighteenth floor and two passengers got on. horace recognized them. one was jim wright, assistant to president hammer; the other was mr. perrine, western sales manager. they were in animated conversation. "that fellow has the crust of a mud turtle and the tact of a rattlesnake," mr. perrine was saying. "remember," jim wright reminded him, "he is an efficiency expert extraordinary. the big boss seems to have confidence in him." "he won't have quite so much," said mr. perrine, "when he hears that he put an elevator man in as cashier. i hear he walked off with six hundred dollars before he'd been on the job an hour." horace pricked up his ears. he made the car go as slowly as possible. "he did?" jim wright was excited. "and this is one of the boss' bad days too! just before i left him he was saying, 'the amalgamated has about as much system as a piece of cheese. why, these high-salaried executives can't tell me how much it costs them to make and sell a cake of soap!'" then horace reluctantly let them out of the elevator at the street floor. all that afternoon he struggled with an impulse. the words of mr. cowan's oration of the night before began to come back to him. if only he had obeyed his impulses---- as he was a new man, they gave him the late shift. at one minute to six the indicator in his car gave two short, sharp, peremptory buzzes. horace, who was mastering the elements of elevator operating, shot up to the eighteenth floor. a single passenger got on. with a little gasp horace recognized the cutaway coat and top hat of the president of the amalgamated. horace set his teeth. his small frame grew tense. he turned the lever and the car started to glide downward. seventeen, sixteen, fifteen, fourteen, thirteen, twelve! then with a quick twist of his wrist horace stalled the car between the twelfth and eleventh floors and slipped the controlling key into his pocket. then he turned and faced the big president. "you don't know a hell of a lot about running an elevator," remarked oren hammer. "no, i don't," said horace nimms in a strange, loud voice that he didn't recognize. "but i do know how much it costs a cake to make pink petal toilet." "what's that? who the devil are you?" the great man was more surprised than angry. "nimms," said horace briefly. "office cashier on seventeenth floor twenty-one years. elevator operator one day. mr. cowan's orders." mr. hammer's brow contracted. "so you think you can tell me how much pink petal costs a cake to make, eh?" he said. he had the reputation of never overlooking an opportunity. the imaginary conversations that horace had been having crowded back into his mind. "now, looky here, mr. hammer," he began. "the western works made , , cakes of pink petal toilet last year. now the cost a cake was--" and so on. horace was on familiar ground now. figures and statistics tripped from his tongue; the details he had bottled up inside him so long came pouring forth. he knew the business of the amalgamated down to the last stamp and rubber band. oren hammer, listening with keen interest, now and then put in a short, direct question. horace nimms snapped back short, direct answers. once launched, he forgot all about the cutaway coat and the dazzling top hat and even about the big-jawed man who washed the faces of forty million people every morning. horace was talking to get back into his cage and words came with a new-found eloquence. "by george," exclaimed president hammer, "you know more about the business than i do myself! and cowan told you you didn't have a figuring mind, did he? i want you to report at my office the first thing to-morrow morning." horace nimms, in the black suit he saved for funerals and weddings, and a new tie, was ushered into the big office of president hammer the next morning. outwardly, it was his hope, he was calm; inwardly, he knew, he was quaking. "have a cigar, nimms," said oren hammer, passing horace one of the presidential perfectos of his dreams. then he summoned a secretary. "ask mr. cowan to come in, will you?" he said. the efficiency expert extraordinary entered, beaming affably. "good morning to you, mr. hammer," he called out in a cheery voice. then he stopped short as he recognized horace. "oh, come here, cowan," said president hammer genially. "before you go i want you to meet mr. nimms. he is going to install a new cost-accounting system for us. just step down to the cashier's cage with him, will you, and get your salary to date." vii: _where is the tropic of capricorn?_ "one, two, three, bend! one, two, three, bend!" so barked the physical instructor, a bulgy man with muscles popping out all over him as if his skin had been stuffed with hard-boiled eggs. little peter mullaney oned, twoed, threed and bent with such earnest and whole-hearted violence that his blue eyes seemed likely to be jostled from their sockets and the freckles to be jarred loose from his thin, wiry arms. though breathless, and not a little sinew-sore from the stiff setting-up exercises, his small, sharp-jawed face wore a beatified look, the look that bespeaks the rare, ecstatic thrill that comes to mortals so seldom in this life of taxes, prohibitions and denied ambitions. such a look might a hero-worshiping boy wear if seen by his gang in the company of jack dempsey, or a writer if caught in the act of taking tea with shaw. peter mullaney was standing at the very door of his life's ambition; he was about to be taken "on the cops." to be taken "on the cops"--the phrase is departmental argot and is in common use by those who enjoy that distinction--this had been the ideal of peter mullaney since the days when he, an undersized infant, had tottered around his christopher street back-yard, an improvised broom-stick billy in his hand, solemnly arresting and incarcerating his small companions. to wear that spruce, brass-button studded blue uniform, and that glittering silver shield, to twirl a well-trained night-stick on its cord, to eye the layman with the cold, impassive eye of authority, to whisper mysterious messages into red iron signal boxes on street-corners, to succor the held-up citizen and pursue the crook to his underworld lair, to be addressed as "officer"--he had lived for this dream. and here he was, the last man on a row of thirty panting, perspiring probationary patrolmen, ranged, according to height, across the gymnasium of the police training school. from big dan mack, six feet four in his socks, they graded down as gently as a ramp to little peter on the end of the line a scant, a bare five feet five and seven-eighths inches tall including the defiant bristle of his red pompadour. peter was happy, and with reason. it was by no generous margin that peter had gained admission to the school that was to prepare him for his career. by the sheerest luck he had escaped being cast into the exterior darkness; by the slimmest degree he had wiggled into the school, and whether he could attain the goal on which he had kept his eye for twenty years--or ever since he was four--was still decidedly in doubt. the law said in plain, inexorable black and white that the minimum height a policeman can be is five feet and six inches. peter mullaney lacked that stature by the distance between a bumble-bee's eyes; and this, despite the fact that for years he had sought most strenuously, by exercise, diet and even torture to stretch out his body to the required five feet six. when he was eighteen and it seemed certain that an unsympathetic fate had meant him to be a short man, his father found him one day in the attic, lashed to a beam, with a box full of window-weights tied to his feet, and his face gray with pain. "shure, me bye," remarked old man mullaney as he cut peter down, "are ye after thinkin' that the mullaneys is made of injy rubber? don't it say in the bible, 'what man by takin' thought can add a cupid to his statue?'" peter, in hot and anguished rebellion against this all too evident law of nature had sought relief by going straight out of the house and licking the first boy he met who was twice as big as he was, in a fight that is still remembered in the second ward. but stretching and wishing and even eating unpleasant and expensive tablets, alleged by their makers to be made from giraffes' glands, did not bring peter up to a full and unquestionable five feet six. when peter came up for a preliminary examination which was to determine whether he possessed the material from which policemen are made, commissioner kondorman, as coldly scientific as his steel scales and measures, surveyed the stricken peter, as he stood there on the scales, his freckles in high relief on his skin, for he was pale all over at the thought that he might be rejected. "candidate mullaney," said the commissioner, "you're too short." peter felt marble lumps swelling in his throat. "if you'd only give me a chance, commissioner," he was able to gulp out, "i'd----" commissioner kondorman, who had been studying the records spread on his desk, cut the supplicant short with: "your marks in the other tests are pretty good, though you seem a little weak in general education. but your strength test is unusually high for a small man. however, regulations are regulations and i believe in sticking to them. next candidate!" peter did not go. "commissioner," he began urgently, "all i ask is a chance----" his eyes were tense and pleading. the chief inspector, grizzled matthew mccabe, plucked at the commissioner's coat-sleeve. "well, chief?" inquired commissioner kondorman, a little impatiently. "he's a good lad," put in the chief inspector, "and well spoke of in the second ward." "he's under height," said the commissioner, briefly. "but he knows how to handle his fists," argued the old chief inspector. "does he?" said the commissioner, skeptically. "he looks rather small." he examined peter through his eye-glasses; beneath that chill and critical gaze peter felt that he had shrunk to the size of a bantam rooster; the lumps in his throat were almost choking him; in an agony of desperation, he cried, "bring in the biggest man you got. i'll fight him." the commissioner's face was set in hard, and one would have thought, immovable lines, yet he achieved the feat of turning up, ever so slightly, the corners of his lips in an expression which might pass as the germ of a smile, as he gazed at the small, nude, freckled figure before him with its vivid shaving-brush hair, its intense eyes and its clenched fists posed in approved prize-ring form. again the official bent over the records and studied them. "character recommendations seem pretty good," he mused. "never has used tobacco or liquor----" "'fraid it might stunt me," muttered peter, "so i couldn't get on the cops." the commissioner stared at him with one degree more of interest. "give the lad a chance," urged the chief inspector. "he only lacks a fraction of an inch. he may grow." "now, chief," said the commissioner turning to the official by his side, "you know i'm a stickler for the rules. what's the good of saying officers must be five feet six and then taking men who are shorter?" "you know how badly we need men," shrugged the chief inspector, "and mullaney here strikes me as having the making of a good cop. it will do no harm to try him out." the commissioner considered for a moment. then he wheeled round and faced peter mullaney. "you've asked for a chance," he shot out. "you'll get it. you can attend police training school for three months. i'll waive the fact that you're below the required height, for the time being. but if in your final examinations you don't get excellent marks in every branch, by the lord harry, you get no shield from me. do you understand? one slip, and good-by to you. next candidate!" they had to guide peter mullaney back to his clothes; he was in a dazed blur of happiness. next day, with the strut of a conqueror and with pride shining from every freckle, little peter mullaney entered the police training school. to fit himself physically for the task of being a limb of the law, he oned, twoed, threed and bent by the hour, twisted the toes of two hundred pound fellow students in frantic jiu jitsu, and lugged other ponderous probationers about on his shoulders in the practice of first aid to the injured. this physical side of his schooling peter enjoyed, and, despite his lack of inches, did extremely well, for he was quick, tough and determined. but it was the book-work that made him pucker his brow and press his head with his hands as if to keep it from bursting with the facts he had to jam into it. it was the boast of commissioner kondorman that he was making his police force the most intelligent in the world. give him time, he was fond of saying, and there would not be a man on it who could not be called well-informed. he intended to see to it that from chief inspector down to the greenest patrolman they could answer, off-hand, not only questions about routine police matters, but about the whole range of the encyclopedia. "i want well-informed men, intelligent men," he said. "men who can tell you the capital of patagonia, where copra comes from, and who discovered the cotton-gin. i want men who have used their brains, have read and thought a bit. the only way i can find that out is by asking questions, isn't it?" the anti-administration press, with intent to slight, called the policemen "kondorman's encyclopedias bound in blue," but he was not in the least perturbed; he made his next examination a bit stiffer. peter mullaney, handicapped by the fact that his span of elementary schooling had been abbreviated by the necessity of earning his own living, struggled valiantly with weighty tomes packed with statutes, ordinances, and regulations--what a police officer can and cannot do about mayhem, snow on the sidewalks, arson, dead horses in the street, kidnaping, extricating intoxicated gentlemen from man-holes, smoking automobiles, stray goats, fires, earthquakes, lost children, blizzards, disorderly conduct and riots. he prepared himself, by no small exertion, to tell an inquiring public where bedford street is, if traffic can go both ways on commerce street, what car to take to get from hudson street to chatham square, how to get to the nearest branch library, quick lunch, public bath, zoo, dispensary and garage, how to get to the old slip station, flower hospital, the st. regis, coney island, duluth and grant's tomb. he stuffed himself with these pertinent facts; he wanted to be a good cop. he could not see exactly how it would help him to know in addition to an appalling amount of local geography and history, the name of the present ruler of bulgaria, what a zebu is, and who wrote "home, sweet home." but since questions of this sort were quite sure to bob up on the examination he toiled through many volumes with a zeal that made his head ache. when he had been working diligently in the training school for three months lacking a day, the great moment came when he was given a chance to put theory into practice, by being sent forth, in a uniform slightly too large for him, to patrol a beat in the company of a veteran officer, so that he might observe, at first hand, how an expert handled the many and varied duties of the police job. except that he had no shield, no night stick, and no revolver, peter looked exactly like any of the other guardians of law. he trudged by the side of the big officer gaffney, trying to look stern, and finding it hard to keep his joy from breaking out in a smile. if judy mcnulty could only see him now! they were to be married as soon as he got his shield. but joy is never without its alloy. even as peter strode importantly through the streets of the upper west side, housing delicious thrills in every corpuscle from the top of his blue cap to the thick soles and rubber heels of his shiningly new police shoes, a worry kept plucking at his mind. on the morrow he was to take his final examination in general education, and that was no small obstacle between him and his shield. he had labored to be ready, but he was afraid. that worry grew as he paced along, trying to remember whether the amazon is longer than the ganges and who gambetta was. he did not even pay close attention to his mentor, although on most occasions those five blue service stripes on officer gaffney's sleeve, representing a quarter of a century on the force, would have caused peter to listen with rapt interest to officer gaffney's genial flow of reminiscence and advice. dimly he heard the old policeman rumbling: "when i was took on the cops, pether, all they expected of a cop was two fists and a cool head. but sthyles in cops changes like sthyles in hats, i guess. i've seen a dozen commissioners come and go, and they all had their own ideas. the prisint comish is the queerest duck of the lot, wid his "who was pernambuco and what the divil ailed him, and who invinted the gin rickey and who discovered the gowanus canal." not that i'm agin a cop bein' a learned man. divil a bit. learnin' won't hurt him none if he has two fists and a clear head." he paused to take nourishment from some tabloid tobacco in his hip-pocket, and rumbled on, "whin i was took on the cops, as i say, they was no graduatin' exercises like a young ladies' siminary. the comish--it was auld malachi bannon--looked ye square in the eye and said, 'young fella, ye're about to go forth and riprisint the majesty of the law. whin on juty be clane and sober and raisonably honest. keep a civil tongue in your head for ivrybody, even republicans. get to know your precinct like a book. don't borrow trouble. but above all, rimimber this: a cop can do a lot of queer things and square himself wid me afterward, but there's one sin no cop can square--the sin of runnin' away whin needed. go to your post.'" little peter nodded his head. they paced along in silence for a time. then peter asked, "jawn----" "what, pether?" "jawn, where is the tropic of capricorn?" officer gaffney wrinkled his grey eyebrows quizzically. "the tropic of whichicorn?" he inquired. "the tropic of capricorn," repeated peter. "pether," said officer gaffney, dubiously, scratching his head with the tip of his night-stick, "i disrimimber but i think--i think, mind ye, it's in the bronx." they continued their leisurely progress. "'tis a quiet beat, this," observed officer gaffney. "quiet but responsible. rich folks lives in these houses, pether, and that draws crooks, sometimes. but mostly it's as quiet as a sunday in dooleyville." he laughed deep in his chest. "it makes me think," he said, "of tommie toohy, him that's a lieutinant now over in canarsie. 'tis a lesson ye'd do well to mind, pether." peter signified that he was all ears. "he had the cop bug worse than you, even, pether," said the veteran. peter flushed beneath his freckles. "yis, he had it bad, this tommie toohy," pursued officer gaffney. "he was crazy to be a cop as soon as he could walk. i never seen a happier man in me life than toohy the day he swaggers out of the station-house to go on post up in the twenty-ninth precinct. in thim days there was nawthin' up there but rows of little cottages wid stoops on thim; nawthin but dacint, respictable folks lived there and they always give that beat to a recruity because it was so quiet. well, toohy goes on juty at six o'clock in the evenin', puffed up wid importance and polishing his shield every minute or two. 'tis a short beat--up one side of garden avenue and down on the other side. toohy paces up and down, swingin' his night-stick and lookin' hard and suspicious at every man, woman or child that passes him. he was just bustin' to show his authority. but nawthin' happened. toohy paced up and back, up and back, up and back. it gets to be eight o'clock. nawthin happens. toohy can stand it no longer. he spies an auld man sittin' on his stoop, peacefully smokin' his evenin' pipe. toohy goes up to the old fellow and glares at him. "'what are you doin' there?' says toohy. "'nawthin,' says the auld man. "'well,' says toohy, wid a stern scowl, shakin' his night-stick at the scared auld gazabo, 'you go in the house.'" peter chuckled. "but toohy lived to make a good cop for all that," finished the veteran. "wid all his recruity monkey-shines, he never ran away whin needed." "i wonder could he bound bolivia," said peter mullaney. "i'll bet he could," said officer gaffney, "if it was in his precinct." late next afternoon, peter sat gnawing his knuckles in a corner of the police schoolroom. all morning he had battled with the examination in general education. it had not been as hard as he had feared, but he was worried nevertheless. so much was at stake. he was quivering all over when he was summoned to the office of the commissioner, and his quivering grew as he saw the rigid face of commissioner kondorman, and read no ray of hope there. papers were strewn over the official desk. kondorman looked up, frowned. "mullaney," he said, bluntly, "you've failed." "f-failed?" quavered peter. "yes. in general education. i told you if you made excellent marks we'd overlook your deficiency in height. your paper"--he tapped it with his finger--"isn't bad. but it isn't good. you fell down hard on question seventeen." "question seventeen?" "yes. the question is, 'where is the tropic of capricorn?' and your answer is"--the commissioner paused before he pronounced the damning words--"'the tropic of capricon is in the bronx.'" peter gulped, blinked, opened and shut his fists, twisted his cap in his hands, a picture of abject misery. the commissioner's voice was crisp and final. "that's all, mullaney. sorry. turn in your uniform at once. well?" peter had started away, had stopped and was facing the commissioner. "commissioner," he begged---- "that will do," snapped the commissioner. "i gave you your chance; you understood the conditions." "it--it isn't that," fumbled out peter mullaney, "but--but wouldn't you please let me go out on post once more with officer gaffney?" "i don't see what good that would do," said commissioner kondorman, gruffly. tears were in peter's eyes. "you see--you see----" he got out with an effort, "it would be my last chance to wear the uniform--and i--wanted--somebody--to--see--me--in--it--just--once." the commissioner stroked his chin reflectively. "were you scheduled to go out on post for instruction," he asked, "if you passed your examination?" "yes, sir. from eight to eleven." the commissioner thought a moment. "well," he said, "i'll let you go. it won't alter the case any, of course. you're through, here. turn in your uniform by eleven thirty, sure." peter mumbled his thanks, and went out of the office with shoulders that drooped as if he were carrying a safe on them. * * * * * it was with heavy steps and a heavier heart that little peter mullaney, by the side of his mentor, passed the corner where judy mcnulty stood proudly waiting for him. he saluted her gravely with two fingers to his visor--police officers never bow--and kept his eyes straight ahead. he did not have the heart to stop, to speak to her, to tell her what had happened to him. he hadn't even told officer gaffney. he stalked along in bitter silence; his eyes were fixed on his shoes, the stout, shiny police shoes he had bought to wear at his graduation, the shoes he was to have worn when he stepped up to the commissioner and received his shield, with head erect and a high heart. his empty hands hung heavily at his sides; there was no baton of authority in them; there never would be. beneath the place his silver shield would never cover now was a cold numbness. * * * * * "damn the tropic of capricorn," came from between clenched teeth, "damn the tropic of capricorn." gaffney's quick ears heard him. "still thinkin' about the tropic of capricorn?" he asked, not knowing that the words made peter wince. "well, me bye, 'twill do no harm to know where it is. i'm not denyin' that it's a gran' thing for a cop to be a scholar. but just the same 'tis me firm belief that a man may be able to tell the difference bechune a begonia and a petunia, he may be able to tell where the--now--tropic of unicorn is, he may know who wrote "in the sweet bye and bye," and who invented the sprinklin' cart, he may be able to tell the population of peking and pann yann, but he ain't a cop at all if he iver runs away whin needed. ye can stake your shield on that, me bye." his shield? peter dug his nails into the palm of his hand. blind hate against the commissioner, against the whole department, flared up in him. he'd strip the uniform off on the spot, he'd hurl it into the gutter, he'd---- officer gaffney had stopped short. a woman was coming through the night, running. as she panted up to them in the quiet, deserted street, the two men saw that she was a middle-aged woman in a wrapper, and that she was white with fright. "burglars," she gasped. "where?" rapped out officer gaffney. "number ." "be calm, ma'am. what makes ye think they're burglars?" "i heard them.... moving around.... in the drawing room.... upstairs." "who are you?" asked the old policeman, imperturbably. "mrs. finn--caretaker. the family is away." "pether," said officer gaffney, "you stay here and mind the beat like a good bucko, while i stroll down to ninety-sivin wid mrs. finn." "let me come too, jawn," cried peter. gaffney laid his big hand on little peter's chest. "'tis probably a cat movin' around," he said softly so that mrs. finn could not hear. "lonely wimmin is always hearin' things. besides me ambitious but diminootive frind, if they was yeggs what good could ye do wid no stick and no gun? you stay here on the corner like i'm tellin' you and i'll be back in ten minutes by the clock." * * * * * peter mullaney waited on the corner. he saw the bulky figure of officer gaffney proceed at a dignified but rapid waddle down the block, followed by the smaller, more agitated figure of the woman. he saw officer gaffney go into the basement entrance, and he saw mrs. finn hesitate, then timidly follow. he waited. a long minute passed. another. another. then the scream of a woman hit his ears. he saw mrs. finn dart from the house, wringing her hands, screaming. he sprinted down to her. "they've kilt him," screamed the woman. "oh, they've kilt the officer." "who? tell me. quick!" "the yeggs," she wailed. "there's two of them. the officer went upstairs. they shot him. he rolled down. don't go in. they'll shoot you. send for help." peter stood still. he was not thinking of the yeggs, or of gaffney. he was hearing kondorman ask, "where is the tropic of capricorn?" he was hearing kondorman say, "you've failed." something had him tight. something was asking him, "why go in that house? why risk your life? you're not a cop. you'll never be a cop. they threw you out. they made a fool of you for a trifle." peter started back from the open door; he looked down; the street light fell on the brass buttons of his uniform; the words of the old policeman darted across his brain: "a cop never runs away when needed." he caught his breath and plunged into the house. at the foot of the stairs leading up to the second floor he saw by the street light that came through the opened door, the sprawling form of a big man; the light glanced from the silver badge on his broad chest. peter bent over hastily. "is it you, pether?" breathed gaffney, with difficulty. "they got me. got me good. wan of thim knocked me gun from me hand and the other plugged me. through the chist. i'm done for, pether. i can't breathe. stop, pether, stop!" the veteran tried to struggle to his feet, but sank back, holding fiercely to peter's leg. "let me go, jawn. let me go," whispered peter hoarsely. "they'll murder you, pether. it's two men to wan,--and they're armed." "let me go in, i tell you, jawn. let me go. a good cop never runs--you said it yourself--let me go----" slowly the grip on peter's leg relaxed; the dimming eyes of the wounded man had suddenly grown very bright. "ye're right, me little bucko," he said faintly. "ye'll be a credit to the foorce, pether." and then the light died out of his eyes and the hand that had grasped peter fell limp to the floor. peter was up the stairs that led to the second floor in three swift, wary jumps. he heard a skurry of footsteps in the back of the house. dashing a potted fern from its slender wooden stand, he grasped the end of the stand, and swinging it like a baseball bat, he pushed through velvet curtains into a large room. there was enough light there from the moon for him to see two black figures prying desperately at a door. they wheeled as he entered. bending low he hurled himself at them as he had done when playing football on a back lot. there was a flash so near that it burned his face; he felt a sharp fork of pain cross his head as if his scalp had been slashed by a red-hot knife. with all the force in his taut body he swung the stand at the nearest man; it caught the man across the face and he went down with a broken, guttural cry. a second and a third shot from the revolver of the other man roared in peter's ears. still crouching, peter dived through the darkness at the knees of the man with the gun; together they went to the floor in a cursing, grunting tangle. the burglar struggled to jab down the butt of his revolver on the head of the small man who had fastened himself to him with the death grip of a mongoose on a cobra. they thrashed about the room. peter had gotten a hold on the man's pistol wrist and he held to it while the man with his free hand rained blow after blow on the defenseless face and bleeding head of the little man. as they fought in the darkness, the burglar with a sudden violent wrench tore loose the clinging peter, and hurled him against a table, which crashed to the floor with the impact of peter's one hundred and thirty pounds of muscle and bone. as peter hurtled back, his arms shot out mechanically to break his fall; one groping hand closed on a heavy iron candle-stick that had stood on the table. he was up in a flash, the candle-stick in his hand. his eyes were blinded by the blood from his wound; he dashed the blood away with his coat-sleeve. with a short, sharp motion he hurled the candle-stick at his opponent's head, outlined against a window, not six feet away. at the moment the missile flew from peter's hand, the yegg steadied himself and fired. then he reeled to the floor as the candle-stick's heavy base struck him between the eyes. for the ghost of a second, peter mullaney stood swaying; then his hands clawed at the place on his chest where his shield might have been as if his heart had caught fire and he wished to tear it out of himself; then, quite gently, he crumpled to the floor, and there was the quiet of night in the room. * * * * * as little peter mullaney lay in the hospital trying to see through his bandages the flowers judy mcnulty had brought him, he heard the voice of the doctor saying: "here he is. nasty chest wound. we almost lost him. he didn't seem to care much whether he pulled through or not. was delirious for hours. kept muttering something about the tropic of capricorn. but i think he'll come through all right now. you just can't kill one of these tough little micks." peering through his bandages, peter mullaney saw the square shoulders and stern face of commissioner kondorman. "good morning, mullaney," the commissioner said, in his formal official voice. "i'm glad to hear that you're going to get better." "thank you, commissioner," murmured peter, watching him with wondering eyes. commissioner kondorman felt round in an inside pocket and brought out a small box from which he carefully took something that glittered in the morning sunlight. bending over the bed, he pinned it on the night-shirt of peter mullaney. peter felt it; stopped breathing; felt it again; slowly pulled it out so that he could look at it. "it was officer john gaffney's," said the commissioner, and his voice was trying hard to be official and formal, but it was getting husky. "he was a brave officer. i wanted another brave officer to have his shield." "but, commissioner," cried peter, winking very hard with both eyes, for they were blurring, "haven't you made a mistake? you must have got the wrong man. don't you remember? i'm the one that said the tropic of capricorn is in the bronx!" "officer mullaney," said commissioner kondorman in an odd voice, "if a cop like you says the tropic of capricorn is in the bronx, then, by the lord harry, that's where the tropic of capricorn is." viii: _mr. braddy's bottle_ § "this," said mr. william lum solemnly, "is the very las' bottle of this stuff in these united states!" it was a dramatic moment. he held it aloft with the pride and tender care of a recent parent exhibiting a first-born child. mr. hugh braddy emitted a long, low whistle, expressive of the awe due the occasion. "you don't tell me!" he said. "yes, siree! there ain't another bottle of this wonderful old hooch left anywhere. not anywhere. a man couldn't get one like it for love nor money. not for love nor money." he paused to regard the bottle fondly. "nor anything else," he added suddenly. mr. braddy beamed fatly. his moon face--like a two-hundred-and-twenty-pound kewpie's--wore a look of pride and responsibility. it was his bottle. "you don't tell me!" he said. "yes, siree. must be all of thirty years old, if it's a day. mebbe forty. mebbe fifty. why, that stuff is worth a dollar a sniff, if it's worth a jit. and you not a drinking man! wadda pity! wadda pity!" there was a shade of envy in mr. lum's tone, for mr. lum was, or had been, a drinking man; yet fate, ever perverse, had decreed that mr. braddy, teetotaler, should find the ancient bottle while poking about in the cellar of his very modest new house--rented--in that part of long island city where small, wooden cottages break out in clusters, here and there, in a species of municipal measles. mr. braddy, on finding the treasure, had immediately summoned mr. lum from his larger and more pretentious house near by, as one who would be able to appraise the find, and he and mr. lum now stood on the very spot in the cellar where, beneath a pile of old window blinds, the venerable liquor had been found. mr. braddy, it was plain, thought very highly of mr. lum's opinions, and that great man was good-naturedly tolerant of the more placid and adipose mr. braddy, who was known--behind his back--in the rug department of the great store as "ole hippopotamus." not that he would have resented it, had the veriest cash boy called him by this uncomplimentary but descriptive nickname to his face, for mr. braddy was the sort of person who never resents anything. "y'know, mr. lum," he remarked, crinkling his pink brow in philosophic thought, "sometimes i wish i had been a drinking man. i never minded if a man took a drink. not that i had any patience with these here booze fighters. no. enough is enough, i always say. but if a fella wanted to take a drink, outside of business hours, of course, or go off on a spree once in a while--well, i never saw no harm in it. i often wished i could do it myself." "well, why the dooce didn't you?" inquired mr. lum. "as a matter of solid fact, i was scared to. that's the truth. i was always scared i'd get pinched or fall down a manhole or something. you see, i never did have much nerve." this was an unusual burst of confidence on the part of mr. braddy, who, since he had moved into mr. lum's neighborhood a month before, had played a listening rôle in his conferences with mr. lum, who was a thin, waspy man of forty-four, in ambush behind a fierce pair of mustachios. mr. braddy, essence of diffidence that he was, had confined his remarks to "you don't tell me!" or, occasionally, "ain't it the truth?" in the manner of a greek chorus. * * * * * now inspired, perhaps, by the discovery that he was the owner of a priceless bottle of spirits, he unbosomed himself to mr. lum. mr. lum made answer. "scared to drink? scared of anything? bosh! tommyrot! everybody's got nerve. only some don't use it," said mr. lum, who owned a book called "the power house in man's mind," and who subscribed for, and quoted from, a pamphlet for successful men, called "i can and i will." "mebbe," said mr. braddy. "but the first and only time i took a drink i got a bad scare. when i was a young feller, just starting in the rugs in the great store, i went out with the gang one night, and, just to be smart, i orders beer. them was the days when beer was a nickel for a stein a foot tall. the minute i taste the stuff i feel uncomfortable. i don't dare not drink it, for fear the gang would give me the laugh. so i ups and drinks it, every drop, although it tastes worse and worse. well, sir, that beer made me sicker than a dog. i haven't tried any drink stronger than malted milk since. and that was all of twenty years ago. it wasn't that i thought a little drinking a sin. i was just scared; that's all. some of the other fellows in the rugs drank--till they passed a law against it. why, i once seen charley freedman sell a party a genuine, expensive bergamo rug for two dollars and a half when he was pickled. but when he was sober there wasn't a better salesman in the rugs." mr. lum offered no comment; he was weighing the cob-webbed bottle in his hand, and holding it to the light in a vain attempt to peer through the golden-brown fluid. mr. braddy went on: "i guess i was born timid. i dunno. i wanted to join a lodge, but i was scared of the 'nitiation. i wanted to move out to jersey, but i didn't. why, all by life i've wanted to take a turkish bath; but somehow, every time i got to the door of the place i got cold feet and backed out. i wanted a raise, too, and by golly, between us, i believe they'd give it to me; but i keep putting off asking for it and putting off and putting off----" "i was like that--once," put in mr. lum. "but it don't pay. i'd still be selling shoes in the great store--and looking at thousands of feet every day and saying thousands of times, 'yes, madam, this is a three-a, and very smart, too,' when it is really a six-d and looks like hell on her. no wonder i took a drink or two in those days." he set down the bottle and flared up with a sudden, fierce bristling of his mustaches. "and now they have to come along and take a man's liquor away from him--drat 'em! what did our boys fight for? liberty, i say. and then, after being mowed down in france, they come home to find the country dry! it ain't fair, i say. of course, don't think for a minute that i mind losing the licker. not me. i always could take it or leave it alone. but what i hate is having them say a man can't drink this and he can't drink that. they'll be getting after our smokes, next. i read in the paper last night a piece that asked something that's been on my mind a long time: 'whither are we drifting?'" "i dunno," said mr. braddy. "you'd think," went on mr. lum, not heeding, as a sense of oppression and injustice surged through him, "that liquor harmed men. as if it harmed anybody but the drunkards! liquor never hurt a successful man; no, siree. look at me!" mr. braddy looked. he had heard mr. lum make the speech that customarily followed this remark a number of times, but it never failed to interest him. "look at me!" said mr. lum, slapping his chest. "buyer in the shoes in the great store, and that ain't so worse, if i do say it myself. that's what nerve did. what if i did used to get a snootful now and then? i had the self-confidence, and that did the trick. when old man briggs croaked, i heard that the big boss was looking around outside the store for a man to take his place as buyer in the shoes. so i goes right to the boss, and i says, 'look here, mr. berger, i been in the shoes eighteen years, and i know shoes from a to z, and back again. i can fill briggs' shoes,' i says. and that gets him laughing, although i didn't mean it that way, for i don't think humor has any place in business. "'well,' he says, 'you certainly got confidence in yourself. i'll see what you can do in briggs' job. it will pay forty a week.' i knew old briggs was getting more than forty, and i could see that berger needed me, so i spins on him and i laughs in his face. 'forty popcorn balls!' i says to him. 'sixty is the least that job's worth, and you know it.' well, to make a long story short, he comes through with sixty!" this story never failed to fascinate mr. braddy, for two reasons. first, he liked to be taken into the confidence of a man who made so princely a salary; and, second, it reminded him of the tormenting idea that he was worth more than the thirty dollars he found every friday in his envelope, and it bolstered up his spirit. he felt that with the glittering example of mr. lum and the constant harassings by his wife, who had and expressed strong views on the subject, he would some day conquer his qualms and demand the raise he felt to be due him. "i wish i had your crust," he said to mr. lum in tones of frank admiration. "you have," rejoined mr. lum. "i didn't know that i had, for a long, long time, and then it struck me one day, as i was trying an oxford-brogue style k on a dame, 'how did schwab get where he is? how did rockefeller? how did this here vanderlip? was it by being humble? was it by setting still?' you bet your sweet boots it wasn't. i just been reading an article in 'i can and i will,' called 'big bugs--and how they got that way,' and it tells all about those fellows and how most of them wasn't nothing but newspaper reporters and puddlers--whatever that is--until one day they said, 'i'm going to do something decisive!' and they did it. that's the idea. do something decisive. that's what i did, and look at me! braddy, why the devil don't you do something decisive?" "what?" asked mr. braddy meekly. "anything. take a plunge. why, i bet you never took a chance in your life. you got good stuff in you, braddy, too. there ain't a better salesman in the rugs. why, only the other day i overheard berger say, 'that fellow braddy knows more about rugs than the mayor of bagdad himself. too bad he hasn't more push in him.'" "i guess mebbe he's right," said mr. braddy. "right? of course, he's right about you being a crack salesman. why, you could sell corkscrews in kansas," said mr. lum. "you got the stuff, all right. but the trouble is you can sell everything but yourself. get busy! act! do something! make a decision! take a step!" mr. braddy said nothing. little lines furrowed his vast brow; he half closed his small eyes; his round face took on an intent, scowling look. he was thinking. silence filled the cellar. then, with the air of a man whose mind is made up, hugh braddy said a decisive and remarkable thing. "mr. bill lum," he said, "i'm going to get drunk!" "what? you? hugh braddy? drunk? my god!" the idea was too much even for the mind of mr. lum. "yes," said mr. braddy, in a hollow voice, like cæsar's at the rubicon, "i'm going to drink what's in that bottle this very night." "not all of it?" mr. lum, as an expert in such things, registered dismay. "as much as is necessary," was the firm response. mr. lum brightened considerably at this. "better let me help you. there's enough for both of us. plenty," he suggested. "are you sure?" asked mr. braddy anxiously. "sure," said mr. lum. § and he was right. there was more than enough. it was nine o'clock that night when the cellar door of mr. braddy's small house opened cautiously, and mr. braddy followed his stub nose into the moonlight. mr. lum, unsteady but gay, followed. mr. braddy, whose customary pace was a slow, dignified waddle, immediately broke into a brisk trot. "doan' go so fas', hoo," called mr. lum, for they had long since reached the first-name stage. "gotta get to city, n'yawk, b'fore it's too late," explained mr. braddy, reining down to a walk. "too late for what, hoo?" inquired mr. lum. "i dunno," said mr. braddy. they made their way, by a series of skirmishes and flank movements, to the subway station, and caught a train for manhattan. their action in doing this was purely automatic. once aboard, they began a duet, which they plucked out of the dim past: "oh, dem golden slippers! oh, dem golden slippers!" this, unfortunately, was all they could remember of it, but it was enough to supply them with a theme and variations that lasted until they arrived in the catacombs far below the grand central station. there they were shooed out by a vigilant subway guard. they proceeded along the brightly lighted streets. mr. braddy's step was that of a man walking a tight-rope. mr. lum's method of progression was a series of short spurts. between the grand central and times square they passed some one thousand eight hundred and twenty-nine persons, of whom one thousand eight hundred and twenty-nine remarked, "where did they get it?" on broadway they saw a crowd gathered in front of a building. "fight," said mr. braddy hopefully. "'naccident," thought mr. lum. at least a hundred men and women were industriously elbowing each other and craning necks in the hope of seeing the center of attraction. mr. braddy, ordinarily the most timid of innocent bystanders, was now a lion in point of courage. "gangway," he called. "we're 'tectives," he added bellicosely to those who protested, as he and mr. lum shoved and lunged their way through the rapidly growing crowd. the thing which had caused so many people to stop, to crane necks, to push, was a small newsboy who had dropped a dime down through an iron grating and who was fishing for it with a piece of chewing gum tied on the end of a string. they spent twenty minutes giving advice and suggestions to the fisher, such as: "a leetle to the left, now. naw, naw. to the right. now you got it. shucks! you missed it. try again." at length they were rewarded by seeing the boy retrieve the dime, just before the crowd had grown to such proportions that it blocked the traffic. the two adventurers continued on their way, pausing once to buy four frankfurters, which they ate noisily, one in each hand. suddenly the veteran drinker, mr. lum, was struck by a disquieting thought. "hoo, i gotta go home. my wife'll be back from the movies by eleven, and if i ain't home and in bed when she gets there, she'll skin me alive; that's what she'll do." mr. braddy was struck by the application of this to his own case. "waddabout me, hey? waddabout me, b'lum?" he asked plaintively. "angelica will just about kill me." mr. lum, leaning against the automat, darkly considered this eventuality. at length he spoke. "you go getta turkish bath. tell 'gellica y' hadda stay in store all night to take inventory. turkish bath'll make you fresh as a daisy. fresh as a li'l' daisy--fresh as a li'l' daisy----" saying which mr. lum disappeared into the eddying crowd and was gone. mr. braddy was alone in the great city. but he was not dismayed. while disposing of the ancient liquor, he and mr. lum had discussed philosophies of life, and mr. braddy had decided that his was, "a man can do what he is a-mind to." and mr. braddy was very much a-mind to take a turkish bath. to him it represented the last stroke that cut the shackles of timidity. "i can and i will," he said a bit thickly, in imitation of mr. lum's heroes. § there was a line of men, mostly paunchy, waiting to be assigned dressing rooms when mr. braddy entered the turkish bath, egged sternly on by his new philosophy. he did not shuffle meekly into the lowest place and wait the fulfillment of the biblical promise that some one would say, "friend, go up higher." not he. "i can and i will," he remarked to the man at the end of the line, and, forthwith, with a majestic, if rolling, gait, advanced to the window where a rabbit of a man, with nose glasses chained to his head, was sleepily dealing out keys and taking in valuables. the other men in line were too surprised to protest. mr. braddy took off his huge derby hat and rapped briskly on the counter. "service, here. li'l' service!" the rabbit with the nose glasses blinked mildly. "wotja want?" he inquired. "want t' be made fresh as a li'l' daisy," said mr. braddy. "awright," said the rabbit, yawning. "here's a key for locker number thirty-six. got any valuables? one dollar, please." mr. braddy, after some fumbling, produced the dollar, a dog-eared wallet, a tin watch, a patent cigar cutter, a pocket piece from a pickle exhibit at the world's fair in chicago, and some cigar coupons. the rabbit handed him a large key on a rubber band. "put it on your ankle. next," he yawned. and then mr. braddy stepped through the white door that, to him, led into the land of adventure and achievement. he found himself in a brightly lighted corridor pervaded by an aroma not unlike the sort a chinese hand laundry has. there were rows of little, white doors, with numbers painted on them. mr. braddy began at once a search for his own dressing room, no. ; but after investigating the main street and numerous side alleys, in a somewhat confused but resolute frame of mind, he discovered that he was lost in a rabbit warren of white woodwork. he found nos. , , , and , but he could not find no. . he tried entering one of the booths at random, but was greeted with a not-too-cordial, "hey, bo; wrong stall. back out!" from an ample gentleman made up as grandpa in the advertisements of non-skid underwear. he tried bawling, "service, li'l' service," and rapping on the woodwork with his derby, but nothing happened, so he replaced his hat on his head and resumed his search. he came to a door with no number on it, pushed it open, and stepped boldly into the next room. pat, pat, pat, pat, pat, pat, pat, pat, pat, pat--it was the shower bath on mr. braddy's hat. "'srainin'," he remarked affably. an attendant, clad in short, white running pants, spied him and came bounding through the spray. "hey, mister, why don't you take your clothes off?" "can't find it," replied mr. braddy. "can't find what?" the attendant demanded. "thirry-sizz." "thirry sizz?" "yep, thirry-sizz." "aw, he means room number thoity-six," said a voice from under one of the showers. the attendant conducted mr. braddy up and down the white rabbit warren, across an avenue, through a lane, and paused at last before no. . mr. braddy went in, and the attendant followed. "undress you, mister?" the mr. braddy of yesterday would have been too weak-willed to protest, but the new mr. braddy was the master of his fate, the captain of his soul, and he replied with some heat: "say, wadda you take me for? can undress m'self." he did so, muttering the while: "undress me? wadda they take me for? wadda they take me for?" then he strode, a bit uncertainly, out into the corridor, pink, enormous, his key dangling from his ankle like a ball and chain. the man in the white running pants piloted mr. braddy into the hot room. mr. braddy was delighted, intrigued by it. on steamer chairs reclined other large men, stripped to their diamond rings, which glittered faintly in the dim-lit room. they made guttural noises, as little rivulets glided down the salmon-pink mounds of flesh, and every now and then they drank water from large tin cups. mr. braddy seated himself in the hot room, and tried to read a very damp copy of an evening paper, which he decided was in a foreign language, until he discovered he was holding it upside down. an attendant approached and offered him a cup of water. the temptation was to do the easy thing--to take the proffered cup; but mr. braddy didn't want a drink of anything just then, so he waved it away, remarking lightly, "never drink water," and was rewarded by a battery of bass titters from the pink mountains about him, who, it developed from their conversation, were all very important persons, indeed, in the world of finance. but in time mr. braddy began to feel unhappy. the heat was making him ooze slowly away. hell, he thought, must be like this. he must act. he stood up. "i doan like this," he bellowed. an attendant came in response to the roar. "what, you still in the hot room? say, mister, it's a wonder you ain't been melted to a puddle of gravy. here, come with me. i'll send you through the steam room to gawge, and gawge will give you a good rub." he led mr. braddy to the door of the steam room, full of dense, white steam. "hey, gawge," he shouted. "hello, al, wotja want?" came a voice faintly from the room beyond the steam room. "oh, gawge, catch thoity-six when he comes through," shouted al. he gave mr. braddy a little push and closed the door. mr. braddy found himself surrounded by steam which seemed to be boiling and scalding his very soul. he attempted to cry "help," and got a mouthful of rich steam that made him splutter. he started to make a dash in the direction of gawge's door, and ran full tilt into another mountain of avoirdupois, which cried indignantly, "hey, watch where you're going, will you? you ain't back at dear old yale, playing football." mr. braddy had a touch of panic. this was serious. to be lost in a labyrinth of dressing rooms was distressing enough, but here he was slowly but certainly being steamed to death, with gawge and safety waiting for him but a few feet away. an idea! firemen, trapped in burning buildings, he had read in the newspapers, always crawl on their hands and knees, because the lower air is purer. laboriously he lowered himself to his hands and knees, and, like a flabby pink bear, with all sense of direction gone, he started through the steam. "hey!" "lay off me, guy!" "ouch, me ankle!" "wot's the big idea? this ain't no circus." "leggo me shin." "ouf!" the "ouf" came from mr. braddy, who had been soundly kicked in the mid-riff by an angry dweller in the steam room, whose ankle he had grabbed as he careered madly but futilely around the room. then, success! the door! he opened it. "where's gawge?" he demanded faintly. "well, i'll be damned! it's thoity-six back again!" it was al's voice; not gawge. mr. braddy had come back to the same door he started from! he was unceremoniously thrust by al back into the steaming hell from which he had just escaped, and once more al shouted across, "hey, gawge, catch thoity-six when he comes through." mr. braddy, on his hands and knees, steered as straight a course as he could for the door that opened to gawge and fresh air, but the bewildering steam once again closed round him, and he butted the tumid calves of one of the moes and was roundly cursed. veering to the left, he bumped into the legs of another moe so hard that this moe went down as if he had been submarined, a tangle of plump legs, arms, and profanity. mr. braddy, in the confusion, reached the door and pushed it open. "holy jumpin' mackerel! thoity-six again! say, you ain't supposed to come back here. you're supposed to keep going straight across the steam room to gawge." it was al, enraged. once more mr. braddy was launched into the steam room. how many times he tried to traverse it--bear fashion--he never could remember, but it must have been at least six times that he reappeared at the long-suffering al's door, and was returned, too steamed, now, to protest. mr. braddy's new-found persistence was not to be denied, however, and ultimately he reached the right door, to find waiting for him a large, genial soul who was none other than gawge, and who asked, with untimely facetiousness, mr. braddy thought: "didja enjoy the trip?" gawge placed mr. braddy on a marble slab and scrubbed him with a large and very rough brush, which made mr. braddy scream with laughter, particularly when the rough bristles titillated the soles of his feet. "wot's the joke?" inquired gawge. "you ticker me," gasped mr. braddy. he was rather enjoying himself now. it made him feel important to have so much attention. but he groaned and gurgled a little when gawge attacked him with cupped hands and beat a tattoo up and down his spine and all over his palpitating body. wop, wop, wop, wop, wop, wop, wop, wop wop went gawge's hands. then he rolled mr. braddy from the slab, like jelly from a mold. mr. braddy jelled properly and was stood in a corner. "all over?" he asked. zizzzzzz! a stream of icy water struck him between his shoulder blades. "ow, ow, ow, ow, ow, ow!" he cried. the stream, as if in response to his outcries, immediately became boiling hot. first one, then the other played on him. then they stopped. an attendant appeared and dried mr. braddy vigorously with a great, shaggy towel, and then led him to a dormitory, where, on white cots, rows of moes puffed and wheezed and snored and dreamed dreams of great profits. mr. braddy tumbled happily into his cot, boiled but triumphant. he had taken a turkish bath! the world was at his feet! he had made a decision! he had acted on it! he had met the demon timidity in fair fight and downed him. he had been drunk, indubitably drunk, for the first and last time. he assured himself that he never wanted to taste the stuff again. but he couldn't help but feel that his one jamboree had made a new man of him, opening new lands of adventure, showing him that "he could if he would." as he buried his head in the pillow, he rehearsed the speech he would make to mr. berger, the manager, in the morning. should he begin, "mr. berger, if you think i'm worth it, will you please raise my pay five dollars a week?" no, by heaven, a thousand noes! he was worth it, and he would say so. should he begin, "see here, mr. berger, the time has come for you to raise my salary ten dollars?" no, he'd better ask for twenty dollars while he was about it, and compromise on ten dollars as a favor to his employers. but then, again, why stop at twenty dollars? his sales in the rugs warranted much more. "i can have thirty dollars, and i will," he said a number of times to the pillow. carefully he rehearsed his speech: "now, see here, berger----" and then he was whirled away into a dream in which he saw a great hand take down the big sign from the front of the great store, and put up in its place a still larger sign, reading: braddy's greater store dry goods and turkish baths hugh braddy, sole prop. § he woke feeling very strange, and not exactly as fresh as a daisy. he felt much more like a cauliflower cooled after boiling. his head buzzed a bit, with a sort of gay giddiness, but for all that he knew that he was not the same hugh braddy that had been catapulted from bed by an alarm clock in his long island city home the morning before. "a man can do what he's a mind to," he said to himself in a slightly husky voice. his first move was to get breakfast. the old hugh braddy would have gone humbly to a one-armed beanery for one black coffee and one doughnut--price, one dime. the new hugh braddy considered this breakfast, and dismissed it as beneath a man of his importance. instead, he went to the mortimore grill and had a substantial club breakfast. he called up angelica, his wife, and cut short her lecture with--"unavoidable, m'dear. inventory at the store." his tone, somehow, made her hesitate to question him further. "it'll be all right about that raise," he added grandly. "have a good supper to-night. g'by." he bought himself an eleven-cent cigar, instead of his accustomed six-center, and, puffing it in calm defiance of a store rule, strode into the employees' entrance of the great store a little after nine. without wavering, he marched straight to the office of mr. berger, who looked up from his morning mail in surprise. "well, mr. braddy?" mr. braddy blew a smoke ring, playfully stuck his finger through it, and said: "mr. berger, i'm thinking of going with another concern. a fellow was in to see me the other day, and he says to me, 'braddy, you are the best rug man in this town.' and he hinted that if i'd come over with his concern they'd double my salary. now, i've been with the great store more than twenty years, and i like the place, mr. berger, and i know the ropes, so naturally i don't want to change. but, of course, i must go where the most money is. i owe that to mrs. b. but i'm going to do the square thing. i'm going to give you a chance to meet the ante. sixty's the figure." he waved his cigar, signifying the utter inconsequence of whether mr. berger met the ante or not. before the amazed manager could frame a reply, mr. braddy continued: "you needn't make up your mind right away, mr. berger. i don't have to give my final decision until to-night. you can think it over. i suggest you look up my sales record for last year before you reach any decision." and he was gone. all that day mr. braddy did his best not to think of what he had done. even the new mr. braddy--philosophy and all--could not entirely banish the vision of angelica if he had to break the news that he had issued an ultimatum for twice his salary and had been escorted to the exit. he threw himself into the work of selling rugs so vigorously that his fellow salesmen whispered to each other, "what ails the ole hippopotamus?" he even got rid of a rug that had been in the department for uncounted years--showing a dark-red lion browsing on a field of rich pink roses--by pointing out to the woman who bought it that it would amuse the children. at four o'clock a flip office boy tapped him on the shoulder and said, "mr. boiger wants to see you." mr. braddy, whose head felt as if a hive of bees were establishing a home there, but whose philosophy still burned clear and bright, let mr. berger wait a full ten minutes, and then, with dignified tread that gave no hint of his inward qualms, entered the office of the manager. it seemed an age before mr. berger spoke. "i've been giving your proposition careful consideration, mr. braddy," he said. "i have decided that we'd like to keep you in the rugs. we'll meet that ante." ix: _gretna greenhorns_ § the brown eyes of chester arthur jessup, jr., were fixed on the maroon banner of the clintonia high school which adorned his bedroom wall, but they did not see that vivid emblem of the institution in whose academic halls he was a senior. rather, they appeared to look through it, beyond it, into some far-away land. bright but unseeing, they proclaimed that their owner was in that state of mild hypnosis known as "turkey-dreaming." his lips were parted in a slight smile, and the shoe which he had been in the act of removing as he sat on his bed was poised in mid-air above the floor, for reverie had overcome him in the very midst of preparations for an evening call. the object of his pensive musings was at that moment eating her evening meal some blocks away in the home of her parents. fondly, with that inward eye which is alleged to be the bliss of solitude, chester followed the process. it had only been lately that he could bring himself to admit that she ate at all. she was so dainty, so ethereal. and yet reason, and the course he was taking in physiology, told him that she, even she, must sometimes give way to the unworthy promptings of necessity, and eat. but that she should eat as ordinary mortals do, was unthinkable. it was not the first time that chester, in reverie, had permitted her a slight refection. the menu of her meals never varied. to-night, as on other occasions, it consisted of watercress salad, a mere nibble of it; a delicate dab of ice-cream, no bigger than a thimble; a small cup of tea, and, perhaps, a lady-finger. the lady-finger was a concession. on the occasion of his last call, mildred had confessed that she could die eating lady-fingers. of course, later in the evening she might have a candy or two, but then candy can hardly be considered food. a mundane clatter of dishes in the kitchen below caused chester to start from his dream, and drop the shoe. he leaped up and began to make elaborate and excited preparations for dressing. from an ancient, battered chest of drawers he carefully took a tissue-paper package containing a union forever suit, whose label proclaimed that "from factory to you, no human hand touches it." with brow puckered in abstract thought, chester broke the seal and laid the crisp, immaculate garment on the bed. with intense seriousness, he regarded it for a moment; apparently it passed his searching examination, for he turned again to the chest of drawers and drew forth a smaller package, from which he extracted new socks of lustrous blue. these he placed on the bed. from beneath the bed he drew a pair of low shoes, which gleamed in the gaslight from arduous polishing. on their toes, fanciful artisans had pricked curves and loops and butterfly designs. chester gave them a few final rubs with the shirt he had just discarded and placed them on the bed. at this point there was a hiatus in the wardrobe. he went out into the hall and shouted down the back stairs. "oh, ma. oh, ma!" "well?" came his mother's voice from the regions below. "are my trousers pressed yet?" "my goodness, chester," she called, "i haven't had time yet. it's only a little after six. do come down and eat some supper." "but i don't want any supper," protested chester. "there's apple pudding with cream," she announced. "oh, well," said chester, reluctantly, "i suppose i'd better. can i have a dish of it on the back stairs? i'm not dressed." "yes. but you have plenty of time. you know you shouldn't make an evening call before eight-fifteen at the very earliest," said mrs. jessup. * * * * * after he had disposed of two helpings of apple pudding, chester returned to his room and spent some moments analyzing the comparative merits of a dozen neckties hanging in an imitation brass stirrup. he had eliminated all but two, a black one and a red one, when his mother's voice floated up the back stairs. "for goodness' sake, chester, do be careful of that bathtub. it's running over again. how many times do i have to tell you to watch it?" chester bounded to the bathroom and shut off the water. it had, indeed, started to overflow the tub, and chester, accepting the archimedian principle without ever having heard of it, perceived that he must let some of the water out before he could put himself in. accordingly he pulled out the plug and returned to his own room to wait for a little of the water to run off. he made the most of this idle moment. throwing off his multi-hued navajo bathrobe, he surveyed the reflection of his torso in the mirror. he contracted his biceps and eyed the resulting egg-like bulges with some satisfaction. suddenly, his ordinarily amiable face took on a fierce, dark scowl. he crouched until he was bent almost double. he lowered at the mirror. his left fist was extended and his right drawn back in the most approved scientific style of the prize-ring. "you will, will you?" came from between his clenched teeth, and his left fist darted out rapidly, three, four, five times, and then he shot out his right fist with such violence that he all but shattered the mirror. this last blow seemed to have a cataclysmic effect on chester's opponent, for the victorious chester backed off and waited, still crouching and lowering, for his victim to rise. the opponent apparently was a tough one, and not the man to succumb easily. chester waited for him to regain his feet and then they were at it again. chester let loose a shower of savage uppercuts. from the way he leaped six inches into the air to deliver his blows it was evident that his opponent was considerably bigger than he. at length, when all but breathless from his exertions, chester with one prodigious punch, a _coup de grâce_ that there was no withstanding, knocked all the fight out of his foe. but, seemingly, he was not satisfied with flooring his giant opponent; with stern, set face, chester walked to the corner where the fellow was sprawling, seized him by his collar, and dragged him across the room. then, shaking him fiercely, chester hissed: "now, you cad, apologize to this lady for daring to offer her an affront by passing remarks about her." the apology would, no doubt, have been forthcoming had not chester at that moment heard an unmistakable sound from the bathroom. he abandoned his prostrate foe and rushed in just in time to see the last of his bath-water go gargling and gurgling out of the tub. chester sat moodily on the edge of the tub until enough hot water had bubbled into it for him to perform ablutions of appalling thoroughness. he was red almost to rawness from his efforts with the bath brush, and was redolent of scented soap and talcum powder when he again returned to his bedroom. he dressed with a sort of feverish calmness, now and again pausing to sigh gently and gaze for a moment into nothingness. by now she had finished her lady-finger-- his mother had laid his freshly pressed trousers on the bed, and he ran an appreciative eye along their razor-blade crease. from the chest of drawers he brought forth a snowy shirt, which, from the piece of cardboard shoved down its throat and the numerous pins which chester extracted impatiently, one could surmise was fresh from the laundry. when he came to the collar-and-tie stage, he was halted for a time. three collars of various shapes were tried and deemed unworthy, and then, at the last minute, yielding to a sudden wild impulse, he discarded the black tie in favor of the red one. he slipped on a blue serge coat, the cut of which endeavored to promote his waist-line to his shoulder blades, and was all dressed but for the crowning task--to comb his hair. by dint of many dismal experiences, chester knew that this would be trying, for his hair was abundant but untamed. he tried first to induce it to part while it was still dry, but the results of this operation, as he had feared, were negligible. he then attempted to achieve a part with his hair slightly moistened with witch hazel. for fully five seconds it looked like a success, but, as chester started to leave, one parting look told him that little spikes and wisps were rearing rebellious heads and quite ruining the perfection of his handiwork. with a sigh he fell back upon his last resort, the liberal application of a sticky, jelly-like substance derived from petroleum, which imparted to his brown hair an unwonted shine. but the part held as if it had been carved in marble. arranging his white silk handkerchief so that it protruded a modish eighth of an inch from his breast pocket, chester arthur jessup, jr., sallied forth to make his call. on the front porch was his family, and chester would have avoided their critical eyes if he could. however, the gantlet had to be run, so he emerged into the family group with a saunter that he hoped might be described as "nonchalant." in the privacy of his room he often practiced that saunter; he had seen in the papers that a certain celebrated criminal had "sauntered nonchalantly into the court-room," and the phrase had fascinated him. "what in the name of thunder have you been doing to your hair?" demanded his father, looking up from his pipe and paper. "combing it," replied chester, coldly. "with axle grease?" inquired jessup senior, genially. "and it does look so nice when it's dry and wavy," put in his mother. chester emitted a faint groan. "oh, ma, you never seem to realize that i'm grown up," he protested. "wavy hair!" he groaned again. "well," remarked the father, "i suppose it's better that way than not combed at all. seems to me that last summer you didn't care much whether it was combed, or cut either, for that matter." "a woman has come into his life," explained his twenty-two year-old sister, from behind her novel. "you just be careful who you go callin' a woman," exclaimed chester, turning on her, with some warmth. "don't you consider mildred wrigley a woman?" asked hilda, mildly. "not in the sense you mean it." "by the way," said hilda, "i saw her last night." chester's manner instantly became eager and conciliatory. "did you? where?" "at the mill street baptist church supper," said hilda. "at the supper?" chester's tone suggested incredulity. "yes. and goodness me, i never saw a girl eat so much in my life. she----" "hilda jessup, how dare you!" chester's voice cracked with the emotion he felt at so damnable an imputation. "there, there, hilda, stop your teasing," said mrs. jessup. "what if she did? a big, healthy girl like that----" "mother----" chester's tone was anguished. "come, nell," said mr. jessup, "leave him to his illusions. it's a bad day for romance when a man discovers that his goddess likes a second helping of corned beef." "father, how can you say such things! i will not stay here and listen to you say such things about one who i----" "one whom," interrupted hilda. chester flounced down the front steps and slammed the gate after him, in a manner that could not possibly be described as "nonchalant." § the wrigley home was four blocks away, and chester, once out of sight of his own home, became meditative. he stopped, and after looking about to see that he was not observed, drew from his inside pocket an envelope, and for the twelfth time that day counted its contents. ninety-four dollars! the savings of a lifetime! it had originally been saved for the purchase of a motor-cycle, but that was before mildred wrigley had smiled at him one day across the senior study-hall. that seemed but yesterday, and yet it must have been fully seven weeks before! he replaced the money and continued on his way. chester paused at the greek candy kitchen on main street to buy a box of candy, richly bedight with purple silk, and by carefully gauging his saunter, contrived to arrive at the wrigley residence at fourteen minutes after eight. he gave his tie a final adjustment, his hair a last frantic smoothing, licked his dry lips--and rang the bell. "oh, good evening, chester." mildred wrigley had a small, birdlike voice. she was looking not so much at chester as at the beribboned purple box he held. they went into the parlor. "oh, chester," cried mildred, as she opened the purple box, "how sweet of you to bring me such heavenly candy. i just adore chocolate-covered cherries. i could just die eating them." she popped two of them into her mouth, and sighed ecstatically. they discussed, with great thoroughness, the weather of the day, the weather of the day before and the probable weather of the near future. then mildred moved her chair a quarter of an inch nearer chester's. "there, now," she said, with her dimpling smile, "let's be real comfy." a glow enveloped chester. "i had the most heavenly supper to-night," confided mildred. "i hardly ate at all," said chester. "oh, you poor, poor boy," said mildred. "do pass me another candy." they discussed school affairs, and the approaching examinations. "i'm so worried," confessed mildred. "horrid old geometry. stupid physics. what do i care why apples fall off trees? i'm going to go on the stage. that miserable old wretch, miss shufelt, has been writing nasty notes to dad, saying i don't study enough." her lip trembled; she looked so small, so weak. "look here," said chester, hoarsely, "we've known each other for a long time now, haven't we?" "yes, ever so long," said mildred, taking another chocolate-covered cherry. "months and months." "do you think one person ought to be frank with another person?" "of course i do, chester, if they know each other well enough." "i mean very frank." "well," said mildred, "if they know each other very, very well, i think they ought to be very frank." "how long do you think one person ought to know another person before he, or for that matter she, ought to be very frank with that person." "oh, months and months," answered mildred. chester passed his white silk handkerchief over his damp brow. "when i say very frank, i mean very frank," he said. "that's what i mean, too." she took another chocolate-covered cherry. chester went on, speaking rapidly. "for example, if one person should tell another person that he liked that person and he didn't really mean like at all but another word like like, only meaning something much more than like--don't you think he ought to tell that person what he really meant? i mean, of course, providing that he had known that person months and months and knew her very well and----" "i guess he should," she said, taking a sudden keen interest in the toe of her slipper. chester plunged on. "but suppose you were the person that another person had said they liked, only they really didn't mean like but another word that begins with 'l,' do you think that person ought to be very frank and tell you that the way he regarded you did not begin 'li' but began 'lo'?" "i guess so," she said, without abandoning the minute scrutiny of her toe. "well," said chester, "that's how i regard you, not with an 'li' but with an 'lo.'" mildred did not look up. "oh, chester," she murmured. he hitched his chair an inch nearer hers, and with a quick, uncertain movement, took hold of her hand. a loud slam of the front door caused them both to start. "it's dad," whispered mildred. "and he's mad about something." her father, large and red-faced, entered the room. "good evening," he said, nodding briefly at chester. "mildred, come into my study a minute, will you. there's something i want to talk to you about." * * * * * the folding doors closed on father and daughter, and chester was left balancing himself on the edge of a chair. mildred's father had a rumbling voice that now and then penetrated the folding doors and chester caught the words "whippersnapper" and "callow." he heard, too, mildred's small, high voice, protesting. she was in tears. presently mildred reappeared, lacrimose. "oh, that nasty, horrid miss shufelt," she burst out. "what has she done?" asked chester. "the nasty old cat asked dad to stop in to see her to-night on his way home from the office, and she told him the awfulest things about me." "she did?" chester's voice was rich with loathing. "i just wish i had her here, that's all i wish," he added fiercely. "she said," went on mildred, with fresh sobs, "she said--i--was--boy--c-c-crazy. and--i--never--studied--and----" "darn that woman!" cried chester. "and dad's--going--to--send--me--to--s-simpson hall!" the idea stunned chester. "simpson hall? why, that's a boarding school in massachusetts, miles and miles from here," he gasped. "i know it," said mildred. "i know a girl who went there. it's a nasty, horrid place." a fresh attack of sobs seized her. "they'll--make--me--do--c-calisthenics, and--they--won't--give--me--anything--to--eat--but--b-beans." nothing but beans! mildred eat beans! it was an outrage, a sacrilege. "he's already written to simpson hall," wailed mildred. "and i have to go, monday." "monday? not monday? why, to-day's friday!" chester's face became resolute; he felt in his inside pocket where his envelope was. "you _sha'n't_ go," he declared. "you and i will elope to-morrow morning." § chester met mildred aboard the : train for new york city the next morning. mildred, clasping a small straw suit-case, had misgivings. but chester reassured her. "don't worry, mildred, please don't worry," he pleaded. "my cousin, phil snyder, who is at princeton and knows all about such things, says it's a cinch to get married in new york. all you do is walk up to a window, pay a dollar, and you're married. and if we can't get married there, we can go to hoboken. anybody, anybody at all, can get married in hoboken, phil told me so." she smiled at him. "our wedding day," she said, softly. "why are you so pensive?" he asked, after a while. "i haven't had my breakfast," she said. "i always feel sort of weak and funny till i've had my breakfast." chester bought several large slabs of nut-studded chocolate from the train boy. when they passed harmon, at mildred's suggestion he bought a package of butter-scotch. her flagging spirits were revived by these repasts. "i could just die eating butter-scotch," she said, dimpling. "we'll always keep some in the house, little woman," chester promised her, mentally adding butter-scotch to the menu of watercress salad, tea, ice-cream and an occasional lady-finger. the human torrent in the grand central station whirled the elopers with it along the ramp and out under the zodiac dome of the great, busy hall. they stood there, wide-eyed. "new york," said mildred. "our new york," said chester. he steered a roundabout course for the subway, for he wanted to reach the municipal building as soon as possible. he had fears, the worldly phil snyder to the contrary notwithstanding, that he might encounter difficulties in getting a marriage license there. and he and mildred would then have to go to hoboken. he had only a sketchy idea of where hoboken was. and it was then nearly eleven. but mildred was not to be hurried. "couldn't we have just one little fudge sundae first?" she asked. "i haven't had my regular breakfast, you know. and i do feel so sort of weak and funny when i haven't had my regular breakfast." to schuyler's they went, and consumed precious minutes and two fudge sundaes. on the way out, mildred stopped short. "oh, look," she exclaimed, "real new orleans pralines. i just adore them. and you can't get them in clintonia." chester looked at her a little nervously. "it's getting sort of late," he suggested. "all right, mr. hurry," mildred pouted, "just you go on to the horrid old city hall by your lonesome. i'm going to stop and have a praline." chester capitulated, contritely, so mildred had two. they started for the subway which was to take them far down-town to the municipal building. on forty-second street they passed a shiny, white edifice in the window of which an artist in immaculate white duck was deftly tossing griddle cakes into the air so that they described a graceful parabola and flopped on a soapstone griddle where they sizzled brownly and crisply. a faint but provoking aroma floated through the open door. mildred's footsteps slackened, then she paused, then she came to a dead stop. "ummm-mmm! what a heavenly smell!" she said. "don't you just adore griddle cakes?" "yes, yes," said chester, a little desperately. "let's have some for lunch. it's twenty-five minutes to twelve. let's hurry." "why, chester jessup, you know i haven't had my regular breakfast yet. i just couldn't go away down to that old city hall and get married and everything without having had some nourishment. it won't take a minute to have a little breakfast." "oh, all right," said chester. the griddle cakes tasted like rubber to chester. mildred ate hers with great relish and insisted on having them decorated with country sausage. "it's so nourishing," she explained. "i could just die eating sausage." chester paid the check and forgot to take the change from a two-dollar bill. "i could just die eating sausage. i could just die eating sausage." the wheels of the subway train seemed to click to this refrain as it sped down-town. it was nearly one o'clock when the elopers at last reached the municipal building. they found a sign which read, "marriage licenses. keep to the right." with his heart just under his collar button and his dollar grasped tightly in his hand, chester knocked timidly. the door was opened by a stout minor politician with a cap on the back of his head. "i want a marriage license, please," said chester. he dropped his voice a full octave below his normal speaking-tone. the minor politician blinked at chester and mildred. then he guffawed, hoarsely. "say," he said, "in the foist place, you'll have to get a little more age on yuh, and in the second place, this is satiddy and this joint closes at noon. come back thoisday between ten and four about eight years from now." he closed the door. chester turned miserably to mildred. "that means hoboken," he said. "i don't care," she said, "as long as i'm with you." they went out into the canyons of lower manhattan, in search of the way to hoboken. their wanderings took them past a restaurant whose windows were adorned with vicious-looking, green, live lobsters, scrambling about pugnaciously on cakes of ice. "oh, lobsters," cried mildred, her eye brightening. "i've only had lobster once in my life. couldn't you just die eating lobster?" "i suppose so," said chester, gloomily. "couldn't we stop in and have a teeny, weeny bit of lunch?" she asked, eyeing the lobsters wistfully. "it makes me feel sort of queer to go on long trips without food." "i'm not hungry," said chester. "but i am," said mildred. they went in. a superior waiter handed mildred a large menu card. "may i order just anything i want?" she asked eagerly. "wouldn't you like some nice watercress salad and some tea and lady-fingers?" chester asked, hopefully. "pooh! why, there's no nourishment in that at all!" mildred was studying the menu card. "i want a great big lobster, and some asparagus. and then i want some nice chicken salad with mayonnaise. and then some pistache ice-cream. and, oh, yes, a piece of huckleberry pie." to chester that lunch seemed the longest experience of his life. it seemed to him that no lobster ever looked redder, no mayonnaise yellower, no pistache ice-cream greener and no huckleberry pie purpler. mildred ate steadily. now and then she made little joyful noises of approbation. when lunch was over at last, they started for hoboken. "it's a nice pleasant trip by ferry-boat," a policeman told them. "i don't think i'd care for a boat trip," said mildred. "but we have to go to hoboken," chester expostulated. "couldn't we walk?" she asked. "no, no, of course we couldn't. it's across the river." "i feel sort of queer, somehow," said mildred, faintly. the north river was choppy from darting tugs and gliding barges as the ferry-boat bore the elopers toward the jersey side. leaning on the rail, chester gazed morosely at the retreating metropolitan sky-line. mildred plucked at his coat sleeve. he turned and looked at her. her face was pale. "oh, chester, i want to go back. i want to go home," she said, tearfully. "why, mildred," exclaimed chester, and for the first time there was impatience in his voice, "what's the matter?" "i'm going to be sick," she said. she was. § "i hate you, chester jessup. i hate, hate, hate you. and i'm going to go back," she said, tearfully. the elopers had never reached hoboken. mildred refused to leave the ferry-boat and chester did not urge her. it bore them back to the new york side. their flight to gretna green was a failure. "you take me right home, do you hear?" cried mildred. "we can get the : from the grand central," said chester in an icy voice. "that will get you home in time for supper." "chester jessup, you're a nasty, heartless boy to mention supper to me when i'm in this condition," said mildred. they made the trip from new york back to clintonia in silence. chester, watching the scenery flow by, was thinking deeply. he was wondering at what age young men are admitted to monasteries. he left mildred at her house. "good night, mr. jessup," she said, coolly. "good night, miss wrigley," said chester, and stalked home. "where have you been all day?" demanded his mother. "oh, just around," said chester. "why weren't you home for lunch?" "i wasn't hungry," said chester. "and we had the best things, too. just what you like--chicken salad with mayonnaise, and deep-dish huckleberry pie." chester shivered. "i don't think i'll take any supper to-night," he said. "why, what ails you, anyhow?" asked his mother, solicitously. "we're going to have such a nice supper. your father brought home a couple of lobsters. and afterward we're going to have pistache ice-cream, and lady-fingers." "good heavens, mother, i guess i know when i'm not hungry. there are other things in life besides food, aren't there?" "like being in love, for example?" suggested his sister hilda. "i'm not in love," declared chester, vehemently. "how would you like to have me tell mildred wrigley you said that?" asked hilda. "i just wish you would," said chester, "i just wish you would." "by the way," remarked mr. jessup, "i met tom wrigley to-day and he said he was sending that girl of his off to boarding school at simpson hall." "oh, is he?" said mrs. jessup. "chester, did you hear what your father said?" "yes, i did," said chester, "and all i can say is that i hope she gets enough to eat." x: _terrible epps_ § the blue prints and specifications in the case of tidbury epps follow: age: the early thirties. status: bachelor. habitat: mrs. kelty's refined boarding house, brooklyn. occupation: a lesser clerk in the wholesale selling department of spingle & blatter, nifty straw hattings. see advts. appearance: that of a lesser clerk. weight: feather. nose: stub. eyes: apologetic. teeth: obvious. figure: brief. manner: diffident. nature: kind. disposition: amiable but subdued. conspicuous vices: none. conspicuous virtues: none. distinguishing marks: none. tidbury was no napoleon. he was aware of this, and so was everybody in the hat company, including, unfortunately, titus spingle, the president, who felt that he knew a thing or two about bonapartes because he had once been referred to in a straw-hat trade paper as the napoleon of hatdom. mildly, as he did everything else in life, tidbury admired, indeed almost envied mr. spingle's silk shirts, which customarily suggested an explosion in a paint factory. but such sartorial grandeur, tidbury felt, was not for him. he stuck to plain white shirts, dark blue ties and pepper-and-salt suits. the pepper-and-salt suit was invented for tidbury epps. tidbury worked diligently and even cheerfully on a high stool and a low salary, copying neat little black figures into big black books. the salary and the stool were the same tidbury had been given when he first came to new york from calais, maine, ten years before. it probably never entered his head, as he bent over his columns of digits that crisp fall morning, that in their sanctum of real mahogany and spanish leather his employers were discussing him. "whitaker has quit," announced mr. blatter, who acted as sales manager. mr. spingle's acre of face, pink and dimpled from much good living, showed concern. "how come you can't keep an assistant, otto?" he inquired. "after they've been with me for six months," explained mr. blatter modestly, "they get so good that they simply have to get better jobs." "well, got any candidates for the place?" queried the president. "burdette?" suggested mr. blatter. mr. spingle eliminated burdette with a flick of his finger. "too young," he said. "wetsel?" "too old." "fitch?" "too careless." "hydeman?" "too inexperienced." "well," ventured mr. blatter, "what about tidbury epps?" mr. spingle's shrug included his shoulders, face and entire body. "he's neither too old, too young, too careless nor too inexperienced," advanced mr. blatter. "you're not serious, otto?" "sure i am. epps has been with us ten years and he's worked hard. i believe in giving our old employees a chance." "so do i," rejoined the napoleon of hatdom; "but you know perfectly well, otto, that tidbury epps is a dud." "he's as conscientious as a pilgrim father," remarked mr. blatter. "that's the trouble with him," snorted mr. spingle. "he spends so much time being conscientious that he hasn't time to be anything else. not that i object to a man having a conscience, y'understand. but epps hasn't anything else. you know how it is in the hat trade, otto; you've got to be a good fellow." mr. spingle paused to pat his silken bosom, in hue reminiscent of sunset in the grand cañon. that he was a good fellow, a _bon vivant_, even, was generally admitted in the hat trade. "you see," went on the napoleon of hatdom, "your assistant has to be nice to the trade. that's almost his chief job. remember the motto of our house is, 'our business friends are our personal friends.' that's meant a lot to us, otto. now and then you've simply got to take a big buyer out and show him a good time--buy him a meal and take him to the winter garden. you and i are mostly too busy to do it, but your assistant isn't. whitaker made us a lot of good friends, and good customers, too, because he was a regular fella and knew the ropes. but can you imagine old epps giving a party?" mr. blatter was forced to admit that he couldn't. "but he's so willing," he argued. "oh, sure," agreed mr. spingle; "and sober and industrious and stands without hitching and all that. but he's too much of a hermit. no more personality than a parsnip. no spirit. no nerve. no fire. no zip. sorry i can't jump him up; he may be a good man, but he's not a good fellow." "i suppose it will have to be hydeman, then," remarked mr. blatter, rising. "he's a little too slick and flip to suit me, and we don't know much about him, but i suppose he'd know how to show a buyer broadway." "i'll bet he would," said mr. spingle. "try him out. but watch his expense account, otto." so tidbury epps continued to enjoy his high stool and his low salary and to copy endless little figures into big black books. his shoulders drooped a little when he heard of hydeman's quick promotion, but he said nothing. messrs. spingle and blatter, being interested solely in what went on outside men's heads, did not attempt to find out what was wrong with tidbury epps. but had a psychoanalyst peered darkly into the interior of tidbury's small round cranium he would have instantly noted that mr. epps was suffering from a bad case of inferiority complex, complicated by an acute attack of puritanical complex. if anybody was to blame for this it was not tidbury himself but his aunt elvira, who, with the aid of a patented cat-o'-nine-tails she had sent all the way to chicago for, willow switches from her own back yard, and an edged tongue that cut worse than either, had confined his juvenile steps to a very straight and exceedingly narrow path by the simple process of lambasting him roundly whenever he so much as glanced to the right or to the left. aunt elvira was a lean woman with no digestion to speak of, and the chief tenet of her philosophy was that whatever is enjoyable is sinful. she impressed this creed on young tidbury with her thin but sinewy arm, until one day while castigating him violently for laughing at a comic supplement that the groceries had come in she succumbed to an excess of virtue and a broken blood vessel. tidbury promptly came to new york with two suits of flannel underwear and many suppressed desires, and went soberly to work in the hat company. his subsequent life was as empty of adventure, variety, sin or success as the life of a hubbard squash. his job wholly absorbed him. the little figures in the big books became his only world. he had never learned to play. yet people liked tidbury, even while they thought him kin to the snail. he had a quiet twinkle in his eye and he took over mean jobs and night work without a peep of protest. it was his willingness to take on overtime work, and his quiet competence that first attracted the approving eye of mr. blatter. but mr. blatter had to admit that mr. spingle had diagnosed the case of tidbury epps all too accurately; tidbury was indubitably, incurably a dud; and that is worse than being a dub. if any latent fire lurked beneath that pepper-and-salt bosom no one had ever glimpsed so much as a spark of it. tidbury never lived up to that twinkle in his eye. one would have said that tidbury was as inconspicuous as an oyster in a fifteen-cent stew, and yet love, mysterious, ubiquitous love, found him out and laid him violently by the heels. it was the round black eyes of martha ritter, the new girl at the information desk, and the way she cocked her head on one side when she smiled, that first brought to tidbury the alarming realization that his heart was something more than a pump. she was an alert little thing who would have been teaching school in her native ohio village of granville had not the glittering metropolitan magnet drawn her to it as every year it draws ten thousand martha ritters from ten thousand granvilles. she smiled at tidbury one day as he registered his punctual arrival on the time clock, and a sudden strange warmth was kindled under his pepper-and-salt coat. tidbury knew that it was wicked to feel so good, but he couldn't help it. love laughs at complexes. he saw her home; he called on her; he brought her salted peanuts; he took her to a concert in central park; he kept her picture on his washstand. but, characteristically, tidbury as a lover was no volcano of imperious emotion. he was no aggressive bark, battling fiercely against wind and wave; he was a chip, floating with the tide. matrimony, with martha, was a desirable but distant shore; he would drift there in time. but martha ritter, who had more than a dash of romance in her, did not think much of this sort of courting. the last time he had been with her--they had gone to the aquarium to view the fishes--pent-up protest had burst from her, and she had exclaimed, "oh, tidbury, you are so--so quiet!" the words had jolted him; he had said them over to himself uncounted times, and had pondered over them; indeed he was trying to keep from thinking of them as he bent over his task the day they made hydeman assistant to the sales manager. tidbury had noticed lately that martha talked about mr. hydeman a great deal; she had mentioned his polished finger-nails; she had suggested that tidbury would do well to get one of those high-lapeled, snug-waisted suits that mr. hydeman affected; she had quoted some of mr. hydeman's witticisms, and had retailed some incidents from his highly colored life. in short, she appeared to have taken a sudden acute interest in mr. hydeman. tidbury epps could not drive from his mind the disquieting thought that mr. hydeman as a rival would be dangerous. in the washroom mr. hydeman made no secret of his finesse as a don juan. he was everything that tidbury was not--dashing, worldly, confident. there was something about his smooth black hair, held in place by a shiny gummy substance, something about the angle at which he tilted his short-brimmed hat, something about the way his tight little knot of brilliant tie fitted into his modishly low collar, something about the way he filliped the ash from his cigarette so that one could see the diamond twinkle on his finger--that carried a subtle suggestion of sophistication and an adventurous nature. that morning they had entered together--tidbury and mr. hydeman--and tidbury, with icy fingers gripping his heart, had noted that martha bestowed on mr. hydeman a smile with a lingering personal note in it, while her greeting to tidbury was a curt formal nod. his bitter cup was full, and for the first time in his life he gave way to the pangs of jealousy when, at noontime, he saw mr. hydeman take her to lunch. tidbury came upon them, talking and laughing together, and martha made not the slightest attempt to conceal her interest in the suave new assistant to the sales manager; she was open, even brazen about it. tidbury was moodily copying figures and trying not to heed the fact that the green-eyed monster was clutching him with torturing talons when mr. hydeman came up to his desk and prodded him playfully in the ribs. "well, old tid," remarked mr. hydeman, "i'll bet you wish you were going to be in my shoes to-night." tidbury looked up from his work. "why?" he asked. for answer mr. hydeman thrust two tickets beneath tidbury's stub of nose. with only a vague comprehension tidbury glanced at what was printed on them. admit one the pagan rout all greenwich village will be there webber hall only persons in costume admitted. don't miss the daring garden of eden ballet and masque at four a.m. "are you a greenwich villager?" asked tidbury. mr. hydeman smiled at the note of horror in tidbury's voice. "oh, i hang out down there," he admitted airily. "and you're going to the pagan rout?" even into the seclusion of calais, maine, and mrs. kelty's, rumors of that revel had filtered. "i never miss one," replied mr. hydeman grandly. "and say, i've a costume this year that's a knockout." "you have?" "yes. i've got a preacher's outfit. can you imagine me a parson?" weakly tidbury said he couldn't. "and say," went on mr. hydeman, lowering his voice to a confidential whisper, "i'll have a flask of hip oil on me." "hip oil?" "sure. diamond juice." "diamond juice?" "aw, hooch. for me and the gal." "the girl?" quavered tidbury. "say," demanded mr. hydeman, "did you think i was going to take a hippopotamus with me?" tidbury's small face was pathetic. "you don't know what you're missing, tid," mr. hydeman rattled on. "it's a real naughty party. those costumes! oh, bebe." mr. hydeman rolled his eyes toward the roof and blew thither a kiss. "last year there was a cleopatra there and she didn't have a thing on her but a pair of----" "the cashier's waiting for these figures," mumbled mr. epps. "i've got to go to him." he heard hydeman's sniggle of laughter behind him. that evening the desperate tidbury met martha ritter as she was leaving the hat company's building. "may i come to see you to-night?" he asked, trying not to stammer, and hoping his ears were not as red as they felt. "there's a nice band concert in prospect park and i thought----" martha ritter cocked her head to one side and smiled mysteriously. "i'm sorry, mr. epps," she said coolly, "but i have an engagement." "you--have--an--engagement?" he repeated the words as if they were a prison sentence. "yes." "where?" "oh, it's a masquerade." she smiled, her head on one side. "whom are you going with?" he blurted; he was trembling. "that would be telling," she laughed. "well, good night, mr. epps. i must hurry home and get my costume on. i'm going as a gypsy." and she disappeared into the maw of the subway. a masquerade! in gypsy costume! tidbury was struck by the lightning of complete realization; he understood hydeman's leer now. feebly he leaned against a lamp-post until his numbed brain could recover from the impact. then he committed a sin. deliberately he kicked the lamp-post a vicious kick. "darn it all," he muttered through clenched teeth. "yes, gosh darn it all!" then he went wearily to his boarding house. morosely he ate of mrs. kelty's boiled beef and bread pudding; morosely he sat in his lonely stall of a bedroom and glowered at a hole in the red carpet. "i'm too quiet. too darn quiet," he kept saying to himself in a sort of litany. "yes, too gosh darn quiet." and when he thought of martha, sweet simple martha, and so short a time ago his martha, at the pagan rout with hydeman, surrounded by indecorous and no doubt inebriate denizens of greenwich village, his head all but burst. that she was lost, and, most poignant thought of all, lost to him, kept beating in upon his brain. he moaned. suddenly his spine straightened with a terrible resolve. his small guileless face was set in lines of stern decision. he leaped from his chair, dived under his brass bed, rummaged in his trunk and fished up twenty-five hard-saved dollars in a sock. clapping his hat on his head in emulation of the tilt of mr. hydeman's hat tidbury issued forth. in the hall he passed mrs. kelty, who regarded him with some surprise. "you're not going out, mr. epps?" she asked. "why, it's after nine!" "i am going out, mrs. kelty," announced tidbury epps. "back soon?" "i may never come back," he answered hollowly. "sakes alive! where are you going?" "i am going," said tidbury epps firmly, "to the devil." and he strode into the night. § never having gone to the devil before, mr. epps was somewhat perplexed in mind as to the direction he should take. but a moment's reflection convinced him that greenwich village was the most promising place for such a pilgrimage. he had never been there before; he had been afraid to go there. startling stories of the gay profligacy rampant in that angle of old new york had reached his ears. he believed firmly that if the devil has any headquarters in new york they are somewhere below fourteenth street and west of washington square. mr. epps debouched from a bus in washington square and started westward along west fourth street with the cautious but determined tread of an explorer penetrating a trackless and cannibal-infested jungle. he glanced apprehensively to right and left, his eyes wide for the sight of painted sirens, his ears agape for gusts of ribald merriment. at each corner he paused expectantly, anticipating that he might come upon a delirious party of art students gamboling about a model. he traversed two blocks without seeing so much as a smock; what he did see was an ancient man of italian derivation carrying a bag of charcoal on his head, and a stout woman wheeling twins stuffed uncomfortably into a single-seater gocart, and a number of nondescript humans who from their sedate air might well have been brooklyn funeral directors. he owned, after a bit, to a certain sense of disappointment. going to the devil was more of a chore than he had fancied. as he trekked ever westward a sound at length smote his dilated ears and made him catch his breath. it was issuing from a dim-lit basement, and was filtering through batik curtains stenciled with strange, smeary beasts. he had heard the wild, dissipated notes of a mechanical piano. a lurid but somewhat inexpertly lettered sign above the basement door read, ye amiable oyster refreshmints at all hrs. with a newborn boldness tidbury epps thrust open the door and entered. no shower of confetti, no popping of corks, no rousing stein song greeted him. save for the industrious piano the place seemed empty. however, by the feeble beams that came from the lights, bandaged in batik like so many sore thumbs, he discerned a mountainous matron behind a cash register, engaged in tatting. "where's everybody?" he asked of her. "oh, things will liven up after a bit," she yawned. tidbury sat at a small bright blue table and scanned a card affixed to the wall. angel's ambrosia ........ $ . horse's neck ............ . devil's delight ......... . dry martini ............. . very dry martini ........ . very, very dry martini .. . champagne sizzle ........ . a sleepy waiter with a soup-stained vest came from the inner room presently. "gimme a devil's delight," ordered tidbury epps recklessly. he had heard that greenwich village, the untrammeled, laughs openly in the teeth of the eighteenth amendment. he had never in his life tasted an alcoholic drink, but to-night he was stopping at nothing. the devil's delight came, and tidbury as he sipped its pink saccharinity found himself feeling that the devil is rather easily delighted. he had expected the potion to make his head buzz; but it did not. instead it distinctly suggested rather weak and not very superior strawberry sirup and carbonated water. he crooked a summoning finger at the waiter. "horse's neck," he commanded. the horse's neck made its appearance, an insipid-looking amber fluid with a wan piece of lemon peel floating shamefacedly on its surface. "tastes just like ginger ale to me," remarked mr. epps. "wadjuh expeck in a horse's neck?" queried the waiter bellicosely. "chloride of lime?" "i can't feel it at all," complained mr. epps. "feel it?" the waiter raised his brows. "say, what do you think this joint is? a dump? we ain't bootleggers, mister." "oh!" exclaimed mr. epps. he was about to go elsewhere, when a babel of excited voices outside the door made him sink back into his chair; evidently the promise of the tatting matron was to be made good, and ye amiable oyster was about to liven up. the first thing that entered the door was an animal--a full-size, shaggy anthropoid ape, big as a man. mr. epps was too alarmed to bolt. but as the creature careened into the light mr. epps observed that his face was human and slightly hibernian. behind him came a girl, rather sketchily dressed for autumn in a pair of bead portieres, a girdle or two, and a gilt plaster bird, which was bound firmly to her head. mr. epps had seen things like her on cigarette boxes. a second couple followed, hilarious. the man wore a tight velvet suit, a sombrero several yards around, black mustaches of prodigious length and bristle that did not match the red of his hair, and earrings the size of cantaloupes; it was not clear whether he was intended to be a pirate or an organ grinder or a compromise between the two; but it was clear that he was in a state where it did not matter, to him, in the least. his companion wore a precarious garment of dry grass, and her arms were stained brown; at intervals she conveyed the information to the general atmosphere that she was a bimbo from a bamboo isle. the four, after an impromptu ring-around-a-rosie, collapsed into chairs near the wide-eyed epps. fascinated he stared at them--the first authentic natives of greenwich village on whom his cloistered eye had ever rested. "ginger ale," bawled the ape. it was brought. the ape dipping into a fold in his anatomy brought to light a capacious flask, kissed it solemnly, and poured its contents into the glasses of the others. "jake, that sure is the real old stuff," said the girl in the grass dress. "made it m'sef," said the ape proudly. "y'see, i took dozen apricots, and ten pounds sugar, and some yeast and some raisins, and mixed 'em in a jug, and added water and----" "that's nine times we heard all about that," interrupted the pirate or organ grinder. "better be careful, anyhow. mebbe that guy is a revnoo officer." they all turned to stare at mr. epps. "of course he ain't 'nofficer, ed," protested the ape, surveying tidbury with care. "he's got too kind a face. you ain't 'nofficer, are you?" "no," said tidbury. "what did i tell yuh?" cried the ape, triumphantly, to his companions. "shove up your chair, old sport, and have a drink with us. you look like a live one. i like your face." thus bidden, tidbury, with an air of abandon, joined the group. the ape named jake tilted his flask over tidbury's spiritless horse's neck with such vehement good-fellowship that a gush of pungent brown fluid spurted from the container. tidbury downed the mixture at a gulp; it made tears start to his eyes and a conflagration flame up in his brain. "howzit?" demanded jake the ape. "'sgoo'," answered tidbury warmly. "have 'nuther. got plenty," said jake, producing a second flask from another recess in his shaggy skin. "i like your face." "don't care if i do," said tidbury nonchalantly. the lights in the near-café were very bright, the voices very high, the conversation exquisitely witty, the mechanical piano a symphonic rhapsody, and the heart of tidbury epps was pumping with wild, unwonted pumps; he smiled to himself. he was going to the devil at a great rate. he waxed loquacious. he told them anecdotes; he even sang a little. he beamed upon jake, and playfully plucked a tuft of hair from his costume. "nice li'l' monkey," he said affably. "not a monkey!" denied jake indignantly. "wad are you? s-s-schimpaz-z-ze-e-e?" "nope. not a s-s-schimpaz-z-ze-e-e." "ran-tan?" "nope. not a ran-tan." "bamboo?" "nope. not a bamboo." "well, wad are you?" jake thumped his hairy chest proudly. "i'm a griller," he explained. "oh," said mr. epps, satisfied. "a griller. of course! is it hard work?" "work?" cried jake. "say, this ain't my real skin. it's a 'sguise." "oh," said mr. epps. "so you're 'sguised? wad did you do?" "careful, jake," the organ grinder or pirate warned. "he may be a revnoo officer." the gorilla turned on him angrily. "lookahere, ed peterson, how dare you pass remarks like that about my ole friend, mr. ---- what is your name, anyhow? of course he ain't no revnofficer? are you?" "i'll fight anybody who says i am," declared tidbury epps, glaring fiercely around at the empty chairs and tables. "you a fighter?" inquired the gorilla, in a voice in which awe, admiration and alcohol mingled. mr. epps contracted his brow and narrowed his eyes. "yep," he said impressively. "i'm terrible battling epps. i'd rather fight than eat." he turned sternly to the gorilla. "why are you 'sguised? wad did you do?" "why, you poor nut," put in the girl in the beads, "we're going to the pagan rout." "sure, that's it," chimed in jake. "goin' to the pagan row. come on along, terrible." "aw, i'm tired of pagan routs," said mr. epps loftily. but the suggestion speeded up the pumpings of his heart. "oh, do come!" urged the girl in the beads. "ain't got no 'sguise," said mr. epps. he was wavering. "aw, come on!" cried the gorilla, clapping him on the shoulder till his teeth rattled. "proud to have you with us, terrible. i know a live one when i see one. come on along. you'll see a lot of your friends there." his friends? tidbury thought of martha. "if i only had a 'sguise----" he began. "you can get one round at steinbock's, on seventh avenue," promptly informed the organ grinder-pirate. "that is," he added with sudden suspicion, "if you ain't one of these here revnofficers." "s-s-s-s-sh, ed," cautioned jake, the gorilla. "do you want terrible battling epps to take a poke at you?" tidbury had made up his mind. "i'll go," he announced. "good!" exclaimed the gorilla delightedly. "atta boy! glad to have a real n'yawk sport with us. meet you at webber hall, terrible." "webber hall? wherezat?" inquired tidbury as he sought to negotiate the door. "well," confessed the gorilla, "i dunno 'zactly m'sef. y'see, i'm from kansas city m'sef. in the lid game, i am. biggest firm west of the mizzizippi. last year we sold----" "aw, stop selling and tell terrible how to get to webber hall," put in the girl in the beads; she appeared to be the gorilla's wife. "well," said jake, thoughtfully rubbing his fuzzy head, "far as i remember, you go out to the square and you go straight along till you get to the l and you turn to the right----" "left!" interjected the organ grinder-pirate. "right," repeated the gorilla firmly. "and then you turn down another street--no, you don't--you go straight on till you see a dentist's sign, a big gold tooth, with 'gee, it didn't hurt a bit at dr. b. schmuck's parlors,' painted on it, and you turn to your right----" "left," corrected the pirate-organ grinder sternly. "waz difference?" went on the gorilla blandly. "well, as i was saying, you turn to the right or left and then you go along three or four blocks, and then you turn to your left----" "right, i tell you!" roared the man in velvet. "oh, well, you go along until you come to a corner and you turn it and go down a little bit, and there you are!" "where am i?" mr. epps, posing against the door, asked. "webber hall," said jake. "pagan row." "oh," said mr. epps. "didn't you follow me?" "of course i followed you." "good. see you at the party, terrible. you're hot stuff." "i'll be there. g'night." "g'night, terrible, old scout." § mr. epps emerged from ye amiable oyster, walking with elaborate but difficult dignity. he had only a remote idea where he was, but he knew where he wanted to go--steinbock's on seventh avenue. so with a temerity quite foreign to him he stepped up briskly to the first passing pedestrian and asked, "say, frien', where's sebble abloo?" the man accosted puckered a puzzled brow. "i don't get you, frien'," he said. "sebble abloo!" repeated mr. epps loudly, thinking the stranger's hearing might be defective. "what?" "sebble abloo!" roared mr. epps. the man shook his head as one giving up a conundrum. "sebble abloo," repeated mr. epps at the top of his voice "look." he held up his fingers and counted them off. "one, two, sree, four, fi', sizz, sebble. sebble abloo!" "oh, seventh avenue. why didn't you say so in the first place?" "i did." "i'm going that way. i'll show you." the stranger steered tidbury through a rabbit warren of streets--the greenwich village streets never have made up their minds where they are going--and started him, with a gentle push, up seventh avenue. presently by some miracle tidbury stumbled upon steinbock's, and pushed his way into a jumble of masks, wigs, helmets and assorted junk, till he approached a patriarch in a skullcap, hidden behind a niagara of white beard. "'lo, ole fel'," said mr. epps affably. "what are you 'sguised as? sandy claws or a cough drop?" "did you wish something?" inquired the patriarch coldly. "sure," said tidbury. "gimme 'sguise for pagon row." "cash in advance," said the patriarch. "what sort of costume?" tidbury considered. "wadjuh got?" the venerable steinbock enumerated rapidly, "bear, bandit, policeman, turk, golliwog, ballet girl, kewpie, pantaloon, uncle sam, tramp, diver, lord fauntleroy, devil----" the ears of mr. epps twitched at the last word. "devil?" "yes," said mr. steinbock; "a swell rig; nice red suit; hasn't been worn a dozen times." he leaned forward toward tidbury and whispered, "and i'll throw in a brand-new pair of horns and a tail!" "i'll take it!" cried tidbury. "where can i hang my pants?" after an interval there emerged from the depths of the steinbock establishment a small uncertain figure muffled in an old raincoat. the coat was short and from beneath it protruded bright red legs and a generous length of red tail, with a spike on the end of it that gave forth sharp metallic sounds as it bumped along the pavement. a derby hat concealed one horn, but the other was visible; the face was mephistophelian in its general character, but softened and rounded--the countenance of a rather amiable minor devil. tidbury epps paused on a street corner to get his bearings. he had read somewhere that woodsmen, lost in the forest, can find the points of the compass because moss always grows on the north side of trees. he was carefully investigating a lamp-post for a trace of moss when a beady-eyed urchin approached him with outthrust hand. "give us one, mister?" "one what?" "a sample." "sample of what?" "ain't you advertising something?" tidbury drew himself up. "no," he said with dignity. "how do i get to wazzington square?" "aw, chee," the urchin said in disgust, "you're one of them artist guys! washington square is two blocks south and three blocks west." with every corpuscle in his small frame aglow with an excitement he had never before experienced tidbury epps started in determined search of the pagan rout. a grim purpose had been forming in his brain. so martha ritter thought he was quiet, eh? hydeman had sniggered at him, had he? just wait till terrible battling epps reached the ball and discovered the well-fed person of mr. hydeman in clerical garb. there would be fireworks, he promised himself. no one was going to steal the girl of terrible epps and get away with it. these, and thoughts of a similar trend, reeled through the brain of tidbury as he hurried with a series of skips and now and then a short sprint along the curbstone. so busy did he become planning a dramatic descent on hydeman that he forgot the directions of the urchin, and soon found himself hopelessly astray in an eel tangle of streets, as he repeated, "two blocks wes' and three blocks souse. or was it three blocks souse and two blocks wes'?" gripping his tail firmly in his hand he tried both plans. passers-by eyed him with the blasé curiosity of new yorkers, as he passed at a dog trot. sometimes they nudged each other and remarked, "artist. goin' to this here pagan rout. pretty snootful, too. lucky stiff." no one ventured to impede his slightly erratic progress; after half an hour of wandering he stopped, mopped his brow and observed, "ought to be there by now." as he said this he saw two figures across the street, two ladies of mature mold, picking their way along. it was their garb which made him give a shout of triumph and follow them. for one, who was fat, was dressed as a colonial dame with powdered hair, and the other, who was fatter, was a forty-year-old edition of little red riding hood; her hair was in pigtails, but she was discreetly skirted to the ankle bones. he followed these masqueraders with the wary steps of an indian stalking a moose, until they turned into the basement of a towering building of brick, from which issued the melodic scraping of fiddles and the pleasing bleating of horns. his heart skipped a beat. the pagan rout! the devil's doorway. tidbury epps shucked off his raincoat and derby hat, tossed them at a fire hydrant, put on his mask, dropped his tail, squared his red shoulders, knotted up his small fists, drew in a deep breath and plunged into the hall. so engrossed was he in these preparations that he failed to note a home-made poster nailed outside the door. it read: come one, come all the ladies' aid society will give a costume party in the church basement to-night with a rolling gait tidbury epps entered the hall. figures eddied about him in a dance, and, somewhat surprised, tidbury noted that it was very like the old-fashioned waltzes he had seen in calais, maine. the waltzers evidently regarded dancing as a business of the utmost seriousness; their lips, beneath their dominoes, were rigid and severe, save when they counted softly but audibly, "one, two, three, turn. one, two, three, turn." in vain tidbury searched the room for jake the gorilla, the beaded lady, the organ-grinding pirate and the bimbo from the bamboo isle. he concluded that jake's flasks had been too much for them. and he saw no gypsy or hydeman. indeed, as he watched the restrained and sober waltzers he could not escape the conviction that the pagan rout, for an institution so widely known for impropriety, was singularly decent in the matter of costume. there were priscillas in ample skirts, farmerettes in baggy overalls, milkmaids in mother hubbards, pilgrim fathers, sailors, and chinese in voluminous kimonos. tidbury, a little dazed in a corner, began to think that he had overestimated the glamour of sin. he perceived that the obese red riding hood was standing at his elbow, gazing at him with some curiosity. he lurched toward her, and administered a slap of good-fellowship on her plump shoulder. "'lo, cutie," he remarked in accents slightly blurred. "where's cleopotter?" the lady gave vent to a squeal of surprise. "sir," she said, "i do not know miss potter." she sniffed the atmosphere in the vicinity of mr. epps, gave a little cluck of horror, and scurried away like a duck from a hawk. the eyes of mr. epps followed her flight and he saw that she headed straight for a man who sat in a distant corner of the hall; the man was masked, but tidbury felt every muscle in his five feet three inches of body stiffen as he saw that the man in the corner wore the garb of the clergy. hydeman! red riding hood whispered in his ear and pointed an accusing finger toward tidbury; the man in the corner gazed earnestly at the diminutive red devil teetering on red hoofs. by now tidbury had spied another figure, sitting next to the masked preacher. she was a gypsy. and as she gazed at her companion she cocked her head to one side. with tail bouncing along the floor after him tidbury started briskly in their direction at a lope. within a yard of them he reined himself down, and stood, with a hand on either hip, glaring at the cleric and the gypsy. hydeman stood up. he seemed larger, rounder than the assistant to the sales manager known to tidbury in business hours, but the fierce fire of jealousy burned within mr. epps--and he was not to be daunted by size. "so it's you, is it?" he remarked with biting emphasis. "naturally," said the man. "whom did you expect it to be?" his voice had a soft sweet note in it, not at all like the sharp staccato of hydeman's crisp business new yorkese. "he's making fun of me," said tidbury, and the spirit of terrible battling epps wholly possessed him. "you thought i was a dead one, eh?" remarked mr. epps. "well, i'm going to show you that sometimes the quiet ones come to life and----" the other eyed him sternly. "young man," he said, "i fear that you are er--a bit--er--under the weather. i fear you are not one of us." "not one of you?" roared tidbury with passion mounting. "you're darn right i'm not one of you--you low, immoral greenwich villagers, leading innocent girls astray." he waved a thin red arm toward the gypsy. the music had stopped in the midst of a bar; the masqueraders were crowding about. the accused ecclesiastic glared down at the small devil before him. "how dare you say such a thing of me?" he demanded. "who are you?" "you know well enough who i am, milt hydeman," cried tidbury, breathing jerkily. "i'm terrible battling epps, and----" "leave our hall at once!" the other returned. "you are plainly under the influence of----" he stretched out a hand to grasp tidbury epps by the shoulder, and as he did so tidbury brought a small but angry fist into swift contact with the clerical waist-line. "oof!" grunted the man. "oh, dear! oh, dear!" screamed the red riding hood. "the devil has struck the reverend doctor bewley. help! help!" but tidbury, deaf to all things but battle, had buried his other fist so violently in his opponent's soft center that the mask popped from the man's face. it was the round, pink, frightened face of a total stranger. with a yelp of dismay tidbury turned to flee, but the outraged parishioners had pounced on him, torn off his mask, and were proving, at his expense, that there is still such a thing as militant, muscular christianity in the world. as they bore him, kicking and struggling, to the door, he saw in all the blur of excited faces one face with staring, unbelieving eyes. the gypsy had removed her mask, and she was martha ritter. in all the babble of voices hers was the only one he heard. "oh, mr. epps! oh, mr. epps!" she was sobbing. "i didn't think it of you! i didn't think it of you!" from the gutter in front of the church tidbury after a while picked himself, felt tenderly of his red-clad limbs, found them whole but painful, applied a bit of cold paving brick to his swelling eye, and started slowly and thoughtfully down the street, his tail, broken in the fracas, hanging limply between his legs. despite all, the potent stimulus of jake's concoction lingered with him, and there was a comforting buzzing in his head which all but offset the feeling of dank despair that was crowding in upon him. he had lost martha. that was sure. he--he was a failure. he couldn't even go to the devil. how he got back to his own room in mrs. kelty's boarding house he never knew, but that was where the brazen voice of the alarm clock summoned him sharply from deep slumber. his head felt like a bass drum full of bumblebees. but it was his heart, as he buttoned his pepper-and-salt vest over it, that hurt him most. he tried to drive from him the aching thoughts of the lost martha, but the only thought he could substitute was the scarcely more cheerful one that he'd probably be cast incontinently from the hat company when news of his brawl reached the alert ears of messrs. spingle and blatter. spurning breakfast he hurried to his office, and before martha or the rest arrived he had climbed wearily to the pinnacle of his high stool, and had hunched himself over his figures. he was struggling to distinguish between the dancing nines and sixes when he heard a voice--an oddly familiar voice--booming out from the doorway that led to the presidential sanctum. "well," said the voice, "it looks to me just now, spingle, as if we could use about ten thousand dozen of your number a hats out in kansas city this year. of course i'll have to shop around a bit to see what the others can offer----" "of course, jake, of course," replied mr. spingle, in the satin voice tidbury knew he reserved for the very largest buyers. "but say, jake, wouldn't you and your wife like to be our guests at a little party to-night? dinner and then the winter garden? our mr. hydeman will be delighted to take you out." the person addressed as jake lowered his voice, but not so low that the avid ears of tidbury epps missed a syllable. "between you and me, spingle," said jake, "i wouldn't care to at all." "why, jake," expostulated mr. spingle, "i thought you and the wife always liked to whoop it up a bit when you came to the big town." "so we do," admitted jake, "but not with him." "what's wrong with hydeman?" demanded the napoleon of hatdom, and tidbury read anxiety in his tone. "everything," replied jake succinctly. "you know him, then?" "yep, ran into him last night at the pagan rout," said jake. "he didn't make much of a hit with me or the missus. too fresh. treated us as if we were rubes. out in kansas city we know a good fellow when we see one----why, what the devil----" jake had chopped his sentence off short, and with a whoop of joy had bounded across the room. "well, if it isn't terrible epps!" he bellowed heartily. "how's the head, old sport? say, terrible, why didn't you join us at the pagan rout?" "i--i couldn't find you there," said tidbury, trembling. "oh, yes," remarked jake thoughtfully. "you must have got there after they put us out." "they put me out too," said tidbury. jake's roar of laughter made the straw hats quiver on the heads of the dummies in the show cases. he turned a beaming face to mr. spingle. "say, spingle," he cried, "what do you mean by trying to palm off a tin-horn like hydeman on me when you've got the best little fellow, the warmest little entertainer east of the mississippi, right here?" to this mr. spingle was totally unable to make any reply. but after a minute his brain functioned sufficiently for him to say, "about that order of yours, jake----" "oh," said jake reassuringly. "i'll talk to terrible epps about it at dinner to-night." * * * * * "and to think," repeated mr. spingle for the third or fourth time to mr. blatter, "that tidbury is a man-about-town who goes to pagan routs and everything! you'll give him hydeman's job, won't you, otto?" "i already have," said mr. blatter. "good!" exclaimed the napoleon of hatdom. "didn't i always say that tidbury epps was a live one, underneath?" * * * * * the round cheek of martha ritter was in immediate contact with the pepper-and-salt shoulder of tidbury epps. "and you tried to make me think," he repeated in a tone of wonder, "that you liked hydeman and were going to the pagan rout with him? oh, martha dear, why did you do it?" she hid her eyes from his. "i did it," she murmured, "because i wanted to make you jealous." the clock ticked many ticks. "but, tidbury, if i marry you," she said anxiously, "you'll reform, won't you? you'll promise me you'll give up greenwich village and drinking, won't you, tidbury?" "if you'll help me, dearest," promised tidbury epps, "i'll try." xi: _honor among sportsmen_ each with his favorite hunting pig on a stout string, a band of the leading citizens of montpont moved in dignified procession down the rue victor hugo in the direction of the hunting preserve. it was a mild, delicious sunday, cool and tranquil as a pool in a woodland glade. to perigord alone come such days. peace was in the air, and the murmur of voices of men intent on a mission of moment. the men of montpont were going forth to hunt truffles. as brillat-savarin points out in his "physiology of taste"--"all france is inordinately truffliferous, and the province of perigord particularly so." on week-days the hunting of that succulent subterranean fungus was a business, indeed, a vast commercial enterprise, for were there not thousands of perigord pies to be made, and uncounted tins of _pâté de foie gras_ to be given the last exquisite touch by the addition of a bit of truffle? but on sunday it became a sport, the chief, the only sport of the citizens of montpont. a preserve, rich in beech, oak and chestnut trees in whose shade the shy truffle thrives, had been set apart and here the truffle was never hunted for mercenary motives but for sport and sport alone. on week-days truffle hunting was confined to professionals; on sunday, after church, all montpont hunted truffles. even the sub-prefect maintained a stable of notable pigs for the purpose. for the pig is as necessary to truffle-hunting as the beagle is to beagling. a pig, by dint of patient training, can be taught to scent the buried truffle with his sensitive snout, and to point to its hiding place, as immobile as a cast-iron setter on a profiteer's lawn, until its proud owner exhumes the prize. an experienced pointing pig, with a creditable record, brings an enormous price in the markets of montpont. at the head of the procession that kindly sunday marched monsieur bonticu and monsieur pantan, with the decisive but leisurely tread of men of affairs. they spoke to each other with an elaborate, ceremonial politeness, for on this day, at least, they were rivals. on other days they were bosom friends. to-day was the last of the fall hunting season, and they were tied, with a score of some two hundred truffles each, for the championship of montpont, an honor beside which winning the derby is nothing and the _grand prix de rome_ a mere bauble in the eyes of all perigord. to-day was to tell whether the laurels would rest on the round pink brow of monsieur bonticu or the oval olive brow of monsieur pantan. monsieur bonticu was the leading undertaker of montpont, and in his stately appearance he satisfied the traditions of his calling. he was a large man of forty or so, and in his special hunting suit of jade-hued cloth he looked, from a distance, to be an enormous green pepper. his face was vast and many chinned and his eyes had been set at the bottom of wells sunk deep in his pink face; it was said that even on a bright noon he could see the stars, as ordinary folk can by peering up from the bottom of a mine-shaft. they were small and cunning, his eyes, and a little diffident. in montpont, he was popular. even had his heart not been as large as it undoubtedly was, his prowess as a hunter of truffles and his complete devotion to that art--he insisted it was an art--would have endeared him to all right-thinking montpontians. he was a bachelor, and said, more than once, as he sipped his old anjou in the café de l'univers, "i marry? bonticu marry? that is a cause of laughter, my friends. i have my little house, a good cook, and my anastasie. what more could mortal ask? certainly not an eve in his paradise. i marry? i be dad to a collection of squealing, wiggling cabbages? i laugh at the idea." anastasie was his pig, a prodigy at detecting truffles, and his most priceless treasure. he once said, at a truffle-hunters' dinner, "i have but two passions, my comrades. the pursuit of the truffle and the flight from the female." monsieur pantan had applauded this sentiment heartily. he, too, was a bachelor. he combined, lucratively, the offices of town veterinarian and apothecary, and had written an authoritative book, "the science of truffle hunting." to him it was a science, the first of sciences. he was a fierce-looking little man, with bellicose eyes and bristling moustachio, and quick, nervous hands that always seemed to be rolling endless thousands of pills. he was given to fits of temper, but that is rather expected of a man in the south of france. his devotion to his pig, clotilde, atoned, in the eyes of montpont, for a slightly irascible nature. the party, by now, had reached the hunting preserve, and with eager, serious faces, they lengthened the leashes on their pigs, and urged them to their task. by the laws of the chase, the choicest area had been left for monsieur bonticu and monsieur pantan, and excited galleries followed each of the two leading contestants. bets were freely made. * * * * * in a scant nine minutes by the watch, anastasie was seen to freeze and point. monsieur bonticu plunged to his plump knees, whipped out his trowel, dug like a badger, and in another minute brought to light a handsome truffle, the size of a small potato, blackish-gray as the best truffles are, and studded with warts. with a gesture of triumph, he exhibited it to the umpire, and popped it into his bag. he rewarded anastasie with a bit of cheese, and urged her to new conquests. but a few seconds later, monsieur pantan gave a short hop, skip and jump, and all eyes were fastened on clotilde, who had grown motionless, save for the tip of her snout which quivered gently. monsieur pantan dug feverishly and soon brandished aloft a well-developed truffle. so the battle waged. at one time, by a series of successes, monsieur bonticu was three up on his rival, but clotilde, by a bit of brilliant work beneath a chestnut tree, brought to light a nest of four truffles and sent the pantan colors to the van. the sun was setting; time was nearly up. the other hunters had long since stopped and were clustered about the two chief contestants, who, pale but collected, bent all their skill to the hunt. practically every square inch of ground had been covered. but one propitious spot remained, the shadow of a giant oak, and, moved by a common impulse, the stout bonticu and the slender pantan simultaneously directed their pigs toward it. but a little minute of time now remained. the gallery held its breath. then a great shout made the leaves shake and rustle. like two perfectly synchronized machines, anastasie and clotilde had frozen and were pointing. they were pointing to the same spot. monsieur pantan, more active than his rival, had darted to his knees, his trowel poised for action. but a large hand was laid on his shoulder, politely, and the silky voice of monsieur bonticu said, "if monsieur will pardon me, may i have the honor of informing him that this is my find?" monsieur pantan, trowel in mid-air, bowed as best a kneeling man can. "i trust," he said, coolly, "that monsieur will not consider it an impertinence if i continue to dig up what my clotilde has, beyond peradventure, discovered, and i hope monsieur will not take it amiss if i suggest that he step out of the light as his shadow is not exactly that of a sapling." monsieur bonticu was trembling, but controlled. "with profoundest respect," he said from deep in his chest, "i beg to be allowed to inform monsieur that he is, if i may say so, in error. i must ask monsieur, as a sportsman, to step back and permit me to take what is justly mine." monsieur pantan's face was terrible to see, but his voice was icily formal. "i regret," he said, "that i cannot admit monsieur's contention. in the name of sport, and his own honor, i call upon monsieur to retire from his position." "that," said monsieur bonticu, "i will never do." they both turned faces of appeal to the umpire. that official was bewildered. "it is not in the rules, messieurs," he got out, confusedly. "in my forty years as an umpire, such a thing has not happened. it is a matter to be settled between you, personally." as he said the words, monsieur pantan commenced to dig furiously. monsieur bonticu dropped to his knees and also dug, like some great, green, panic-stricken beaver. mounds of dirt flew up. at the same second they spied the truffle, a monster of its tribe. at the same second the plump fingers of monsieur bonticu and the thin fingers of monsieur pantan closed on it. cries of dismay rose from the gallery. "it is the largest of truffles," called voices. "don't break it. broken ones don't count." but it was too late. monsieur bonticu tugged violently; as violently tugged monsieur pantan. the truffle, indeed a giant of its species, burst asunder. the two men stood, each with his half, each glaring. "i trust," said monsieur bonticu, in his hollowest death-room voice, "that monsieur is satisfied. i have my opinion of monsieur as a sportsman, a gentleman and a frenchman." "for my part," returned monsieur pantan, with rising passion, "it is impossible for me to consider monsieur as any of the three." "what's that you say?" cried monsieur bonticu, his big face suddenly flamingly red. "monsieur, in addition to the defects in his sense of honor is not also deficient in his sense of hearing," returned the smoldering pantan. "monsieur is insulting." "that is his hope." monsieur bonticu was aflame with a great, seething wrath, but he had sufficient control of his sense of insult to jerk at the leash of anastasie and say, in a tone all montpont could hear: "come, anastasie. i once did monsieur pantan the honor of considering him your equal. i must revise my estimate. he is not your sort of pig at all." monsieur pantan's eyes were blazing dangerously, but he retained a slipping grip on his emotions long enough to say: "come, clotilde. do not demean yourself by breathing the same air as monsieur and madame bonticu." the eyes of monsieur bonticu, ordinarily so peaceful, now shot forth sparks. turning a livid face to his antagonist, he cried aloud: "monsieur pantan, in my opinion you are a puff-ball!" this was too much. for to call a truffle-hunter a puff-ball is to call him a thing unspeakably vile. in the eyes of a true lover of truffles a puff-ball is a noisome, obscene thing; it is a false truffle. in truffledom it is a fighting word. with a scream of rage monsieur pantan advanced on the bulky bonticu. "by the thumbs of st. front," he cried, "you shall pay for that, monsieur aristide gontran louis bonticu. here and now, before all montpont, before all perigord, before all france, i challenge you to a duel to the death." words rattled and jostled in his throat, so great was his anger. monsieur bonticu stood motionless; his full-moon face had gone white; the half of truffle slipped from his fingers. for he knew, as they all knew, that the dueling code of perigord is inexorable. it is seldom nowadays that the perigordians, even in their hottest moments, say the fighting word, for once a challenge has passed, retirement is impossible, and a duel is a most serious matter. by rigid rule, the challenger and challenged must meet at daybreak in mortal combat. at twenty paces they must each discharge two horse-pistols; then they must close on each other with sabers; should these fail to settle the issue, each man is provided with a poniard for the most intimate stages of the combat. such duels are seldom bloodless. monsieur bonticu's lips formed some syllables. they were: "you are aware of the consequences of your words, monsieur pantan?" "perfectly." "you do not wish to withdraw them?" monsieur bonticu despite himself injected a hopeful note into his query. "i withdraw? never in this life. on the contrary, not only do i not withdraw, i reiterate," bridled monsieur pantan. in a _requiescat in pace_ voice, monsieur bonticu said: "so be it. you have sealed your own doom, monsieur. i shall prepare to attend you first in the capacity of an opponent, and shortly thereafter in my professional capacity." monsieur pantan sneered openly. "monsieur the undertaker had better consider in his remaining hours whether it is feasible to embalm himself or have a stranger do it." with this thunderbolt of defiance, the little man turned on his heel, and stumped from the field. monsieur bonticu followed at last. but he walked as one whose knees have turned to _meringue glace_. he went slowly to his little shop and sat down among the coffins. for the first time in his life their presence made him uneasy. a big new one had just come from the factory. for a long time he gazed at it; then he surveyed his own full-blown physique with a measuring eye. he shuddered. the light fell on the silver plate on the lid, and his eyes seemed to see engraved there: monsieur aristide gontran louis bonticu died in the forty-first year of his life on the field of honor. "_he was without peer as a hunter of truffles_." may he rest in peace. with almost a smile, he reflected that this inscription would make monsieur pantan very angry; yes, he would insist on it. he looked down at his fat fists and sighed profoundly, and shook his big head. they had never pulled a trigger or gripped a sword-hilt; the knife, the peaceful table knife, the fork, and the leash of anastasie--those had occupied them. anastasie! a globular tear rose slowly from the wells in which his eyes were set, and unchecked, wandered gently down the folds of his face. who would care for anastasie? with another sigh that seemed to start in the caverns of his soul, he reached out and took a dusty book from a case, and bent over it. it contained the time-honored dueling code of ancient perigord. suddenly, as he read, his eyes brightened, and he ceased to sigh. he snapped the book shut, took from a peg his best hat, dusted it with his elbow, and stepped out into the starry perigord night. * * * * * at high noon, three days later, as duly decreed by the dueling code, monsieur pantan, in full evening dress, appeared at the shop of monsieur bonticu, accompanied by two solemn-visaged seconds, to make final arrangements for the affair of honor. they found monsieur bonticu sitting comfortably among his coffins. he greeted them with a serene smile. monsieur pantan frowned portentously. "we have come," announced the chief second, monsieur duffon, the town butcher, "as the representatives of this grossly insulted gentleman to demand satisfaction. the weapons and conditions are, of course, fixed by the code. it remains only to set the date. would friday at dawn in the truffle preserve be entirely convenient for monsieur?" monsieur bonticu's shrug contained more regret than a hundred words could convey. "alas, it will be impossible, messieurs," he said, with a deep bow. "impossible?" "but yes. i assure messieurs that nothing would give me more exquisite pleasure than to grant this gentleman"--he stressed this word--"the satisfaction that his honor"--he also stressed this word--"appears to demand. however, it is impossible." the seconds and monsieur pantan looked at monsieur bonticu and at each other. "but this is monstrous," exclaimed the chief second. "is it that monsieur refuses to fight?" monsieur bonticu's slowly shaken head indicated most poignant regret. "but no, messieurs," he said. "i do not refuse. is it not a question of honor? am i not a sportsman? but, alas, i am forbidden to fight." "forbidden." "alas, yes." "but why?" "because," said monsieur bonticu, "i am a married man." the eyes of the three men widened; they appeared stunned by surprise. monsieur pantan spoke first. "you married?" he demanded. "but certainly." "when?" "only yesterday." "to whom? i demand proof." "to madame aubison of barbaste." "the widow of sergeant aubison?" "the same." "i do not believe it," declared monsieur pantan. monsieur bonticu smiled, raised his voice and called. "angelique! angelique, my dove. will you come here a little moment?" "what? and leave the lentil soup to burn?" came an undoubtedly feminine voice from the depths of the house. "yes, my treasure." "what a pest you are, aristide," said the voice, and its owner, an ample woman of perhaps thirty, appeared in the doorway. monsieur bonticu waved a fat hand toward her. "my wife, messieurs," he said. she bowed stiffly. the three men bowed. they said nothing. they gaped at her. she spoke to her husband. "is it that you take me for a punch and judy show, aristide?" "ah, never, my rosebud," cried monsieur bonticu, with a placating smile. "you see, my own, these gentlemen wished----" "there!" she interrupted. "the lentil soup! it burns." she hurried back to the kitchen. the three men--monsieur pantan and his seconds--consulted together. "beyond question," said monsieur duffon, "monsieur bonticu cannot accept the challenge. he is married; you are not. the code says plainly: 'opponents must be on terms of absolute equality in family responsibility.' thus, a single man cannot fight a married one, and so forth. see. here it is in black and white." monsieur pantan was boiling as he faced the calm bonticu. "to think," stormed the little man, "that truffles may be hunted--yes, even eaten, by such a man! i see through you, monsieur. but think not that a pantan can be flouted. i have my opinion of you, monsieur the undertaker." monsieur bonticu shrugged. "your opinions do not interest me," he said, "and only my devotion to the cause of free speech makes me concede that you are entitled to an opinion at all. good morning, messieurs, good morning." he bowed them down a lane of caskets and out into the afternoon sunshine. the face of monsieur pantan was black. time went by in perigord. other truffle-hunting seasons came and went, but messieurs bonticu and pantan entered no more competitions. they hunted, of course, the one with anastasie, the other with clotilde, but they hunted in solitary state, and studiously avoided each other. then one day monsieur pantan's hairy countenance, stern and determined, appeared like a genie at the door of monsieur bonticu's shop. the rivals exchanged profound bows. "i have the honor," said monsieur pantan, in his most formal manner, "to announce to monsieur that the impediment to our meeting on the field of honor has been at last removed, and that i am now in a position to send my seconds to him to arrange that meeting. may they call to-morrow at high noon?" "i do not understand," said monsieur bonticu, arching his eyebrows. "i am still married." "i too," said monsieur pantan, with a grim smile, "am married." "you? pantan? monsieur jests." "if monsieur will look in the newspaper of to-day," said monsieur pantan, dryly, "he will see an announcement of my marriage yesterday to madame marselet of pergieux." there was astonishment and alarm in the face of the undertaker. then reverie seemed to wrap him round. the scurrying of footsteps, the bumble of voices, in the rooms over the shop aroused him. his face was tranquil again as he spoke. "will monsieur and his seconds do me the honor of calling on me day after to-morrow?" he asked. "as you wish," replied monsieur pantan, a gleam of satisfaction in his eye. punctual to the second, monsieur pantan and his friends presented themselves at the shop of monsieur bonticu. his face, they observed, was first worried, then smiling, then worried again. "will to-morrow at dawn be convenient for monsieur?" inquired the butcher, duffon. monsieur bonticu gestured regret with his shoulders, and said: "i am desolated with chagrin, messieurs, believe me, but it is impossible." "impossible. it cannot be," cried monsieur pantan. "monsieur has one wife. i have one wife. our responsibilities are equal. is it that monsieur is prepared to swallow his word of insult?" "never," declared monsieur bonticu. "i yearn to encounter monsieur in mortal combat. but, alas, it is not i, but nature that intervenes. i have, only this morning, become a father, messieurs." as if in confirmation there came from the room above the treble wail of a new infant. "behold!" exclaimed monsieur bonticu, with a wave of his hand. monsieur pantan's face was purple. "this is too much," he raged. "but wait, monsieur. but wait." he clapped his high hat on his head and stamped out of the shop. truffles were hunted and the days flowed by and monsieur pantan and his seconds one high noon again called upon monsieur bonticu, who greeted them urbanely, albeit he appeared to have lost weight and tiny worry-wrinkles were visible in his face. "monsieur," began the chief second, "may i have the honor----" "i'll speak for myself," interrupted monsieur pantan. "with my own voice i wish to inform monsieur that nothing can now prevent our meeting, at dawn to-morrow. to-day, monsieur the undertaker, i, too, became a father!" the news seemed to interest but not to stagger monsieur bonticu. his smile was sad as he said: "you are too late, monsieur the apothecary and veterinarian. two days ago i, also, became a father again." monsieur pantan appeared to be about to burst, so terrible was his rage. "but wait," he screamed, "but wait." and he rushed out. next day monsieur pantan and his seconds returned. the moustachios of the little man were on end with excitement and his eye was triumphant. "we meet to-morrow at daybreak," he announced. "ah, that it were possible," sighed monsieur bonticu. "but the code forbids. as i said yesterday, monsieur has a wife and a child, while i have a wife and children. i regret our inequality, but i cannot deny it." "spare your regrets, monsieur," rejoined the small man. "i, too, have two children now." "you?" monsieur bonticu stared, puzzled. "yesterday you had but one. it cannot be, monsieur." "it can be," cried monsieur pantan. "yesterday i adopted one!" the peony face of monsieur bonticu did not blanch at this intelligence. again he smiled with an infinite sadness. "i appreciate," he said, "monsieur pantan's courtesy in affording me this opportunity, but, alas, he has not been in possession of the facts. by an almost unpardonable oversight i neglected to inform monsieur that i had become the father not of one child, but of two. twins, messieurs. would you care to inspect them?" monsieur pantan's face was contorted with a wrath shocking to witness. he bit his lip; he clenched his fist. "the end is not yet," he shouted. "no, no, monsieur. by the thumbs of st. front, i shall adopt another child." at high noon next day three men in grave parade went down the rue victor hugo and entered the shop of monsieur bonticu. monsieur pantan spoke. "the adoption has been made," he announced. "here are the papers. i, too, have a wife and three children. shall we meet at dawn to-morrow?" monsieur bonticu looked up from his account books with a rueful smile. "ah, if it could be," he said. "but it cannot be." "it cannot be?" echoed monsieur pantan. "no," said monsieur bonticu, sadly. "last night my aged father-in-law came to live with me. he is a new, and weighty responsibility, monsieur." monsieur pantan appeared numbed for a moment; then, with a glare of concentrated fury, he rasped. "i, too, have an aged father-in-law." he slammed the shop door after him. * * * * * that night when monsieur bonticu went to the immaculate little stye back of his shop to see if the pride of his heart, anastasie, was comfortable, to chat with her a moment, and to present her with a morsel of truffle to keep up her interest in the chase, he found her lying on her side moaning faintly. between moans she breathed with a labored wheeze, and in her gentle blue eyes stood the tears of suffering. she looked up feebly, piteously, at monsieur bonticu. with a cry of horror and alarm he bent over her. "anastasie! my anastasie! what is it? what ails my brave one?" she grunted softly, short, stifled grunts of anguish. he made a swift examination. expert in all matters pertaining to the pig, he perceived that she had contracted an acute case of that rare and terrible disease, known locally as perigord pip, and he knew, only too well, that her demise was but a question of hours. his anastasie would never track down another truffle unless---- he leaned weakly against the wall and clasped his warm brow. there was but one man in all the world who could cure her. and that man was pantan, the veterinarian. his "elixir pantan," a secret specific, was the only known cure for the dread malady. pride and love wrestled within the torn soul of the stricken bonticu. to humble himself before his rival--it was unthinkable. he could see the sneer on monsieur pantan's olive face; he could hear his cutting words of refusal. the dew of conflicting emotions dampened the brow of monsieur bonticu. anastasie whimpered in pain. he could not stand it. he struck his chest a resounding blow of decision. he reached for his hat. monsieur bonticu knocked timidly at the door of the apothecary-veterinarian's house. a head appeared at a window. "who is it?" demanded a shrill, cross, female voice. "it is i. bonticu. i wish to speak with monsieur pantan." "nice time to come," complained the lady. she shouted into the darkness of the room: "pantan! pantan, you sleepy lout. wake up. there's a great oaf of a man outside wanting to speak to you." "patience, my dear rosalie, patience," came the voice of monsieur pantan; it was strangely meek. presently the head of monsieur pantan, all nightcap and moustachios, was protruded from the window. "you have come to fight?" he asked. "but no." "bah! then why wake me up this cold night?" "it is a family matter, monsieur," said the shivering bonticu. "a matter the most pressing." "is it that monsieur has adopted an orphanage," inquired pantan. "or brought nine old aunts to live with him?" "no, no, monsieur. it is most serious. it is anastasie. she--is--dying." "a thousand regrets, but i cannot act as pall-bearer," returned monsieur pantan, preparing to shut the window. "good-night." "i beg monsieur to attend a little second," cried monsieur bonticu. "you can save her." "i save her?" monsieur pantan's tone suggested that the idea was deliciously absurd. "yes, yes, yes," cried bonticu, catching at a straw. "you alone. she has the perigord pip, monsieur." "ah, indeed." "yes, one cannot doubt it." "most amusing." "you are cruel, monsieur," cried bonticu. "she suffers, ah, how she suffers." "she will not suffer long," said pantan, coldly. there was a sob in bonticu's voice as he said: "i entreat monsieur to save her. i entreat him as a sportsman." in the window monsieur pantan seemed to be thinking deeply. "i entreat him as a doctor. the ethics of his profession demand----" "you have used me abominably, monsieur," came the voice of pantan, "but when you appeal to me as a sportsman and a doctor i cannot refuse. wait." the window banged down and in a second or so monsieur pantan, in hastily donned attire, joined his rival and silently they walked through the night to the bedside of the dying anastasie. once there, monsieur pantan's manner became professional, intense, impersonal. "warm water. buckets of it," he ordered. "yes, monsieur." "olive oil and cotton." "yes, monsieur." with trembling hands monsieur bonticu brought the things desired, and hovered about, speaking gently to anastasie, calling her pet names, soothing her. the apothecary-veterinarian was busy. he forced the contents of a huge black bottle down her throat. he anointed her with oil, water and unknown substances. he ordered his rival about briskly. "rub her belly." bonticu rubbed violently. "pull her tail." bonticu pulled. "massage her limbs." bonticu massaged till he was gasping for breath. the light began to come back to the eyes of anastasie, the rose hue to her pale snout; she stopped whimpering. monsieur pantan rose with a smile. "the crisis is passed," he announced. "she will live. what in the name of all the devils----" this last ejaculation was blurred and smothered, for the overjoyed bonticu, with the impulsiveness of his warm southern nature, had thrown his arms about the little man and planted loud kisses on both hairy cheeks. they stood facing each other, oddly shy. "if monsieur would do me the honor," began monsieur bonticu, a little thickly, "i have some ancient port. a glass or two after that walk in the cold would be good for monsieur, perhaps." "if monsieur insists," murmured pantan. monsieur bonticu vanished and reappeared with a cob-webbed bottle. they drank. pantan smacked his lips. timidly, monsieur bonticu said: "i can never sufficiently repay monsieur for his kindness." he glanced at anastasie who slept tranquilly. "she is very dear to me." "do i not know?" replied monsieur pantan. "have i not clotilde?" "i trust she is in excellent health, monsieur." "she was never better," replied monsieur pantan. he finished his glass, and it was promptly refilled. only the sound of anastasie's regular breathing could be heard. monsieur pantan put down his glass. in a manner that tried to be casual he remarked, "i will not attempt to conceal from monsieur that his devotion to his anastasie has touched me. believe me, monsieur bonticu, i am not unaware of the sacrifice you made in coming to me for her sake." monsieur bonticu, deeply moved, bowed. "monsieur would have done the same for his clotilde," he said. "monsieur has demonstrated himself to be a thorough sportsman. i am grateful to him. i'd have missed anastasie." "but naturally." "ah, yes," went on monsieur bonticu. "when my wife scolds and the children scream, it is to her i go for a little talk. she never argues." monsieur pantan looked up from a long draught. "does your wife scold and your children scream?" he asked. "alas, but too often," answered monsieur bonticu. "you should hear my rosalie," sighed monsieur pantan. "i too seek consolation as you do. i talk with my clotilde." monsieur bonticu nodded, sympathetically. "my wife is always nagging me for more money," he said with a sudden burst of confidence. "and the undertaking business, my dear pantan, is not what it was." "do i not know?" said pantan. "when folks are well we both suffer." "i stagger beneath my load," sighed bonticu. "my load is no less light," remarked pantan. "if my family responsibilities should increase," observed bonticu, "it would be little short of a calamity." "if mine did," said pantan, "it would be a tragedy." "and yet," mused bonticu, "our responsibilities seem to go on increasing." "alas, it is but too true." "the statesmen are talking of limiting armaments," remarked bonticu. "an excellent idea," said pantan, warmly. "can it be that they are more astute than two veteran truffle-hunters?" "they could not possibly be, my dear bonticu." there was a pregnant pause. monsieur bonticu broke the silence. "in the heat of the chase," he said, "one does things and says things one afterwards regrets." "yes. that is true." "in his excitement one might even so far forget himself as to call a fellow sportsman--a really excellent fellow--a puff-ball." "that is true. one might." suddenly monsieur bonticu thrust his fat hand toward monsieur pantan. "you are not a puff-ball, armand," he said. "you never were a puff-ball!" tears leaped to the little man's eyes. he seized the extended hand in both of his and pressed it. "aristide!" was all he could say. "aristide!" "we shall drink," cried bonticu, "to the art of truffle-hunting." "the science--" corrected pantan, gently. "to the art-science of truffle-hunting," cried bonticu, raising his glass. the moon smiled down on perigord. on the ancient, twisted streets of montpont it smiled with particular brightness. down the rue victor hugo, in the middle of the street, went two men, a very stout big man and a very thin little man, arm in arm, and singing, for all montpont, and all the world, to hear, a snatch of an old song from some forgotten revue. "_oh, gaby, darling gaby. bam! bam! bam! why don't you come to me? bam! bam! bam! and jump in the arms of your own true love, while the wind blows chilly and cold? bam! bam! bam!_" xii: _the $ , jaw_ "rather thirsty this morning, eh, mr. addicks?" inquired cowdin, the chief purchasing agent. the "mister" was said with a long, hissing "s" and was distinctly not meant as a title of respect. cowdin, as he spoke, rested his two square hairy hands on croly addicks' desk, and this enabled him to lean forward and thrust his well-razored knob of blue-black jaw within a few inches of croly addicks' face. "too bad, mr. addicks, too bad," said cowdin in a high, sharp voice. "do you realize, mr. addicks, that every time you go up to the water cooler you waste fifteen seconds of the firm's time? i might use a stronger word than 'waste,' but i'll spare your delicate feelings. do you think you can control your thirst until you take your lunch at the waldorf-astoria, or shall i have your desk piped with ice water, mr. addicks?" croly addicks drew his convex face as far away as he could from the concave features of the chief purchasing agent and muttered, "had kippered herring for breakfast." a couple of the stenographers tittered. croly's ears reddened and his hands played nervously with his blue-and-white polka-dot necktie. cowdin eyed him for a contemptuous half second, then rotated on his rubber heel and prowled back to his big desk in the corner of the room. croly addicks, inwardly full of red revolution, outwardly merely flustered and intimidated, rustled among the piles of invoices and forms on his desk, and tried desperately to concentrate on his task as assistant to the assistant purchasing agent of the pierian piano company, a vast far-flung enterprise that boasted, with only slight exaggeration, "we bring melody to a million homes." he hated cowdin at all times, and particularly when he called him "mr. addicks." that "mister" hurt worse than a slap on a sunburned shoulder. what made the hate almost beyond bearing was the realization on croly's part that it was impotent. "gawsh," murmured the blond stenographer from the corner of her mouth, after the manner of convicts, "old grizzly's pickin' on the chinless wonder again. i don't see how croly stands it. i wouldn't if i was him." "aw, wadda yuh expeck of chinless?" returned the brunette stenographer disdainfully as she crackled paper to conceal her breach of the office rules against conversation. "feller with ingrown jaws was made to pick on." at noon croly went out to his lunch, not to the big hotel, as cowdin had suggested, but to a crowded basement full of the jangle and clatter of cutlery and crockery, and the smell and sputter of frying liver. the name of this cave was the help yourself buffet. its habitués, mostly clerks like croly, pronounced "buffet" to rhyme with "rough it," which was incorrect but apt. the place was, as its patrons never tired of reminding one another as they tried with practiced eye and hand to capture the largest sandwiches, a conscience beanery. as a matter of fact, one's conscience had a string tied to it by a cynical management. the system is simple. there are piles of food everywhere, with prominent price tags. the hungry patron seizes and devours what he wishes. he then passes down a runway and reports, to the best of his mathematical and ethical ability, the amount his meal has cost--usually, for reasons unknown, forty-five cents. the report is made to a small automaton of a boy, with a blasé eye and a brassy voice. he hands the patron a ticket marked and at the same instant screams in a sirenic and incredulous voice, "fawty-fi'." then the patron passes on down the alley and pays the cashier at the exit. the purpose of the boy's violent outcry is to signal the spotter, who roves among the foods, a derby hat cocked over one eye and an untasted sandwich in his hand, so that persons deficient in conscience may not basely report their total as forty-five when actually they have eaten ninety cents' worth. on this day, when croly addicks had finished his modest lunch, the spotter was lurking near the exit. several husky-looking young men passed him, and brazenly reported totals of twenty cents, when it was obvious that persons of their brawn would not be content with a lunch costing less than seventy-five; but the spotter noting their bull necks and bellicose air let them pass. but when croly approached the desk and reported forty-five the spotter pounced on him. experience had taught the spotter the type of man one may pounce on without fear of sharp words or resentful blows. "pahdun me a minute, frien'," said the spotter. "ain't you made a little mistake?" "me?" quavered croly. he was startled and he looked guilty, as only the innocent can look. "yes, you," said the spotter, scowling at the weak outlines of croly's countenance. "no," jerked out croly. "forty-five's correct." he tried to move along toward the cashier, but the spotter's bulk blocked the exit alley. "ain't you the guy i seen layin' away a double portion of strawb'ry shortcake wit' cream?" asked the spotter sternly. croly hoped that it was not apparent that his upper lip was trembling; his hands went up to his polka-dot tie and fidgeted with it. he had paused yearningly over the strawberry shortcake; but he had decided he couldn't afford it. "didn't have shortcake," he said huskily. "oh, no!" rejoined the spotter sarcastically, appealing to the ring of interested faces that had now crowded about. "i s'pose that white stuff on your upper lip ain't whipped cream?" "it's milk," mumbled croly. "all i had was milk and oatmeal crackers and apple pie. honest." the spotter snorted dubiously. "some guy," he declared loudly, "tucked away a double order of strawb'ry shortcake and a hamboiger steak, and it wasn't me. so come awn, young feller, you owe the house ninety cents, so cut out the arggament." "i--i----" began croly, incoherently rebellious; but it was clear that the crowd believed him guilty of the conscienceless swindle; so he quailed before the spotter's accusing eye, and said, "oh, well, have it your own way. you got me wrong, but i guess you have to pick on little fellows to keep your job." he handed over ninety cents to the cashier. "you'll never see my face in this dump again," muttered croly savagely over his shoulder. "that won't make me bust out cryin', chinless," called the spotter derisively. croly stumbled up the steps, his eyes moist, his heart pumping fast. chinless! the old epithet. the old curse. it blistered his soul. moodily he sought out a bench in madison square, hunched himself down and considered his case. to-day, he felt, was the critical day of his life; it was his thirtieth birthday. his mind flashed back, as you've seen it done in the movies, to a scene the night before, in which he had had a leading rôle. "emily," he had said to the loveliest girl in the world, "will you marry me?" plainly emily mackie had expected something of the sort, and after the fashion of the modern business girl had given the question calm and clear-visioned consideration. "croly," she said softly, "i like you. you are a true friend. you are kind and honest and you work hard. but oh, croly dear, we couldn't live on twenty-two dollars and fifty cents a week; now could we?" that was croly's present salary after eleven years with the pierian piano company, and he had to admit that emily was right; they could not live on it. "but, dearest emily," he argued, "to-morrow they appoint a new assistant purchasing agent, and i'm in line for the job. it pays fifty a week." "but are you sure you'll get it?" his face fell. "n-no," he admitted, "but i deserve it. i know the job about ten times better than any of the others, and i've been there longest." "you thought they'd promote you last year, you know," she reminded him. "and so they should have," he replied, flushing. "if it hadn't been for old grizzly cowdin! he thinks i couldn't make good because i haven't one of those underslung jaws like his." "he's a brute!" cried emily. "you know more about the piano business than he does." "i think i do," said croly, "but he doesn't. and he's the boss." "oh, croly, if you'd only assert yourself----" "i guess i never learned how," said croly sadly. as he sat there on the park bench, plagued by the demon of introspection, he had to admit that he was not the pugnacious type, the go-getter sort that cowdin spoke of often and admiringly. he knew his job; he could say that of himself in all fairness, for he had spent many a night studying it; some day, he told himself, they'd be surprised, the big chiefs and all of them, to find out how much he did know about the piano business. but would they ever find out? nobody, reflected croly, ever listened when he talked. there was nothing about him that carried conviction. it had always been like that since his very first day in school when the boys had jeeringly noted his rather marked resemblance to a haddock, and had called out, "chinless, chinless, stop tryin' to swallow your face." around his chinlessness his character had developed; no one had ever taken him seriously, so quite naturally he found it hard to take himself seriously. it was inevitable that his character should become as chinless as his face. his apprenticeship under the thumb and chin of the domineering cowdin had not tended to decrease his youthful timidity. cowdin, with a jut of jaw like a paving block, had bullied croly for years. more than once croly had yearned burningly to plant his fist squarely on that blue-black prong of chin, and he had even practiced up on a secondhand punching bag with this end in view. but always he weakened at the crucial instant. he let his resentment escape through the safety valve of intense application to the business of his firm. it comforted him somewhat to think that even the big-jawed president, mr. flagstead, probably didn't have a better grasp of the business as a whole than he, chinless croly addicks, assistant to the assistant purchasing agent. but--and he groaned aloud at the thought--his light was hidden under a bushel of chinlessness. someone had left a crumpled morning edition of an evening paper on the bench, and croly glanced idly at it. from out the pages stared the determined incisive features of a young man very liberally endowed with jaw. enviously croly read the caption beneath the picture, "the fighting face of kid mcnulty, the chelsea bearcat, who boxes leonard." with a sigh croly tossed the paper away. he glanced up at the metropolitan tower clock and decided that he had just time enough for a cooling beaker of soda. he reached the soda fountain just ahead of three other thirsty men. by every right he should have been served first. but the clerk, a lofty youth with the air of a grand duke, after one swift appraising glance at the place where croly's chin should have been, disregarded the murmured "pineapple phosphate, please," and turned to serve the others. of them he inquired solicitously enough, "what's yourn?" but when he came to croly he shot him an impatient look and asked sharply, "well, speak up, can't yuh?" the cool drink turned to galling acid as croly drank it. he sprinted for his office, trying to cling to a glimmering hope that cowdin, despite his waspishness of the morning, had given him the promotion. he reached his desk a minute late. cowdin prowled past and remarked with a cutting geniality, harder to bear than a curse, "well, mr. addicks, you dallied too long over your lobster and quail, didn't you?" under his desk croly's fists knotted tightly. he made no reply. to-morrow, probably, he'd have an office of his own, and be almost free from cowdin's ill-natured raillery. at this thought he bent almost cheerfully over his stack of work. a girl rustled by and thumb-tacked a small notice on the bulletin board. croly's heart ascended to a point immediately below his adam's apple and stuck there, for the girl was cowdin's secretary, and croly knew what announcement that notice contained. he knew it was against the spartan code of office etiquette to consult the board during working hours, but he thought of emily, and what the announcement meant to him, and he rose and with quick steps crossed the room and read the notice. ellis g. baldwin has this day been promoted to assistant purchasing agent. (signed) samuel cowdin c. p. a. croly addicks had to steady himself against the board; the black letters on the white card jigged before his eyes; his stomach felt cold and empty. baldwin promoted over his head! blatant baldwin, who was never sure of his facts, but was always sure of himself. cocksure incompetent baldwin! but--but--he had a bulldog jaw. croly addicks, feeling old and broken, turned around slowly, to find cowdin standing behind him, a wry smile on his lips, his pin-point eyes fastened on croly's stricken face. "well, mr. addicks," purred the chief purchasing agent, "are you thinking of going out for a spin in your limousine or do you intend to favor us with a little work to-day?" he tilted his jaw toward croly. "i--i thought i was to get that job," began croly addicks, fingering his necktie. cowdin produced a rasping sound by rubbing his chin with his finger. "oh, did you, indeed?" he asked. "and what made you think that, mr. addicks?" "i've been here longest," faltered croly, "and i want to get married, and i know the job best, and i've been doing the work ever since sebring quit, mr. cowdin." for a long time cowdin did not reply, but stood rubbing his chin and smiling pityingly at croly addicks, until croly, his nerves tense, wanted to scream. then cowdin measuring his words spoke loud enough for the others in the room to hear. "mr. addicks," he said, "that job needs a man with a punch. and you haven't a punch, mr. addicks. mr. addicks, that job requires a fighter. and you're not a fighter, mr. addicks. mr. addicks, that job requires a man with a jaw on him. and you haven't any jaw on you, mr. addicks. get me?" he thrust out his own peninsula of chin. it was then that croly addicks erupted like a long suppressed volcano. all the hate of eleven bullied years was concentrated in his knotted hand as he swung it swishingly from his hip and landed it flush on the outpointing chin. an ox might have withstood that punch, but cowdin was no ox. he rolled among the waste-paper baskets. snorting furiously he scrambled to his feet and made a bull-like rush at croly. trembling in every nerve croly addicks swung at the blue-black mark again, and cowdin reeled against a desk. as he fell his thick fingers closed on a cast-iron paperweight that lay on the desk. croly addicks had a blurred split-second vision of something black shooting straight at his face; then he felt a sharp brain-jarring shock; then utter darkness. when the light came back to him again it was in bellevue hospital. his face felt queer, numb and enormous; he raised his hand feebly to it; it appeared to be covered with concrete bandages. "don't touch it," cautioned the nurse. "it's in a cast, and is setting." * * * * * it took long weeks for it to set; they were black weeks for croly, brightened only by a visit or two from emily mackie. at last the nurse removed the final bandage and he was discharged from the hospital. outside the hospital gate croly paused in the sunlight. not many blocks away he saw the shimmer of the east river, and he faced toward it. he could bury his catastrophe there, and forget his smashed-up life, his lost job and his shattered chances of ever marrying. who would have him now? at best it meant the long weary climb up from the very bottom, and he was past thirty. he took a half step in the direction of the river. he stopped; he felt a hand plucking timidly at his coat sleeve. the person who plucked at his sleeve was a limp youth with a limp cigarette and vociferous checked clothes and cap. there was no mistaking the awe in his tone as he spoke. "say," said the limp youth, "ain't you kid mcnulty, de chelsea bearcat?" he? croly addicks? taken for kid mcnulty, the prize fighter? a wave of pleasure swept over the despondent croly. life seemed suddenly worth living. he had been mistaken for a prize fighter! he hardened his voice. "that's me," he said. "gee," said the limp youth, "i seen yuh box leonard. gee, that was a battle! say, next time yuh meet him you'll knock him for a row of circus tents, won't yuh?" "i'll knock him for a row of aquariums," promised croly. and he jauntily faced about and strolled away from the river and toward madison square, followed by the admiring glances of the limp youth. he felt the need of refreshment and pushed into a familiar soda shop. the same lofty grand duke was on duty behind the marble counter, and was taking advantage of a lull by imparting a high polish to his finger nails, and consequently he did not observe the unobtrusive entrance of croly addicks. croly tapped timidly with his dime on the counter; the grand duke looked up. "pineapple phosphate, please," said croly in a voice still weak from his hospital days. the grand duke shot from his reclining position as if attached to a spring. "yessir, yessir, right away," he smiled, and hustled about his task. shortly he placed the beverage before the surprised croly. "is it all right? want a little more sirup?" inquired the grand duke anxiously. croly, almost bewildered by this change of demeanor, raised the glass to his lips. as he did so he saw the reflection of a face in the glistening mirror opposite. he winced, and set down the glass, untasted. he stared, fascinated, overwhelmed; it must surely be his face, since his body was attached to it, but how could it be? the eyes were the mild blue eyes of croly addicks, but the face was the face of a stranger--and a startling-looking stranger, at that! croly knew of course that it had been necessary to rebuild his face, shattered by the missile hurled by cowdin, but in the hospital they had kept mirrors from him, and he had discovered, but only by sense of touch, that his countenance had been considerably altered. but he had never dreamed that the transformation would be so radical. in the clear light he contemplated himself, and understood why he had been mistaken for the chelsea bearcat. kid mcnulty had a large amount of jaw, but he never had a jaw like the stranger with croly addicks' eyes who stared back, horrified, at croly from the soda-fountain mirror. the plastic surgeons had done their work well; there was scarcely any scar. but they had built from croly's crushed bones a chin that protruded like the prow of a battleship. the mariners of mythology whom the sorceress changed into pigs could hardly have been more perplexed and alarmed than croly addicks. he had, in his thirty years, grown accustomed to his meek apologetic face. the face that looked back at him was not meek or apologetic. it was distinctly a hard face; it was a determined, forbidding face; it was almost sinister. croly had the uncanny sensation of having had his soul slipped into the body of another man, an utter stranger. inside he was the same timorous young assistant to the assistant purchasing agent--out of work; outside he was a fearsome being, a dangerous-looking man, who made autocratic soda dispensers jump. to him came a sinking, lost feeling; a cold emptiness; the feeling of a gentle doctor jekyll who wakes to find himself in the shell of a fierce mr. hyde. for a second or two croly addicks regretted that he had not gone on to the river. the voice of the soda clerk brought him back to the world. "if your drink isn't the way you like it, sir," said the grand duke amiably, "just say the word and i'll mix you up another." croly started up. "'sall right," he murmured, and fumbled his way out to madison square. he decided to live a while longer, face and all. it was something to be deferred to by soda clerks. he sank down on a bench and considered what he should do. at the twitter of familiar voices he looked up and saw the blond stenographer and the brunette stenographer from his former company passing on the way to lunch. he rose, advanced a step toward them, tipped his hat and said, "hello." the blond stenographer drew herself up regally, as she had seen some one do in the movies, and chilled croly with an icy stare. "don't get so fresh!" she said coldly. "to whom do you think you're speaking to?" "you gotta crust," observed the brunette, outdoing her companion in crushing hauteur. "just take yourself and your baby scarer away, mister masher, and get yourself a job posing for animal crackers." they swept on as majestically as tight skirts and french heels would permit, and croly, confused, subsided back on his bench again. into his brain, buzzing now from the impact of so many new sensations, came a still stronger impression that he was not croly addicks at all, but an entirely different and fresh-born being, unrecognized by his old associates. he pondered on the trick fate had played on him until hunger beckoned him to the help yourself buffet. he was inside before he realized what he was doing, and before he recalled his vow never to enter there again. the same spotter was moving in and out among the patrons, the same derby cocked over one eye, and an untasted sandwich, doubtless the same one, in his hand. he paid no special heed to the renovated croly addicks. croly was hungry and under the spotter's very nose he helped himself to hamburger steak and a double order of strawberry shortcake with thick cream. satisfied, he started toward the blasé check boy with the brassy voice; as he went his hand felt casually in his change pocket, and he stopped short, gripped by horror. the coins he counted there amounted to exactly forty-five cents and his meal totaled a dollar at least. furthermore, that was his last cent in the world. he cast a quick frightened glance around him. the spotter was lounging against the check desk, and his beady eye seemed focused on croly addicks. croly knew that his only chance lay in bluffing; he drew in a deep breath, thrust forward his new chin, and said to the boy, "forty-five." "fawty-fi'," screamed the boy. the spotter pricked up his ears. "pahdun me a minute, frien'," said the spotter. "ain't you made a little mistake?" summoning every ounce of nerve he could croly looked straight back into the spotter's eyes. "no," said croly loudly. for the briefest part of a second the spotter wavered between duty and discretion. then the beady eyes dropped and he murmured, "oh, i beg pahdun. i thought you was the guy that just got outside of a raft of strawb'ry shortcake and hamboiger. guess i made a little mistake myself." with the brisk firm step of a conqueror croly addicks strode into the air, away from the scene he had once left so humiliated. again, for many reflective minutes he occupied one of those chairs of philosophy, a park bench, and revolved in his mind the problem, "where do i go from here?" the vacuum in his pockets warned him that his need of a job was imperative. suddenly he released his thoughtful clutch on his new jaw, and his eyes brightened and his spine straightened with a startling idea that at once fascinated and frightened him. he would try to get his old job back again. inside him the old shrinking croly fought it out with the new croly. "don't be foolish!" bleated the old croly. "you haven't the nerve to face cowdin again." "buck up!" argued back the new croly. "you made that soda clerk hop, and that spotter quail. the worst cowdin can say is 'no!'" "you haven't a chance in the piano company, anyhow," demurred the old croly. "they know you too well; your old reputation is against you. the spineless jellyfish class at twenty-two-fifty per is your limit there." "nonsense," declared the new croly masterfully. "it's the one job you know. ten to one they need you this minute. you've invested eleven years of training in it. make that experience count." "but--but cowdin may take a wallop at me," protested the old croly. "not while you have a face like kid mcnulty, the chelsea bearcat," flashed back the new croly. the new croly won. ten minutes later samuel cowdin swiveled round in his chair to face a young man with a pale, grim face and an oversized jaw. "well?" demanded cowdin. "mr. cowdin," said croly addicks, holding his tremors in check by a great effort of will, "i understand you need a man in the purchasing department. i want the job." cowdin shot him a puzzled look. the chief purchasing agent's countenance wore the expression of one who says "where have i seen that face before?" "we do need a man," cowdin admitted, staring hard at croly, "though i don't know how you knew it. who are you?" "i'm addicks," said croly, thrusting out his new chin. cowdin started. his brow wrinkled in perplexity; he stared even more intently at the firm-visaged man, and then shook his head as if giving up a problem. "that's odd," he muttered, reminiscently stroking his chin. "there was a young fellow by that name here. croly was his first name. you're not related to him, i suppose?" croly, the unrecognized, straightened up in his chair as if he had sat on a hornet. with difficulty he gained control over his breathing, and managed to growl, "no, i'm not related to him." cowdin obviously was relieved. "didn't think you were," he remarked, almost amiably. "you're not the same type of man at all." "do i get that job?" asked croly. in his own ears his voice sounded hard. "what experience have you had?" questioned cowdin briskly. "eleven years," replied croly. "with what company?" "with this company," answered croly evenly. "with this company?" cowdin's voice jumped a full octave higher to an incredulous treble. "yes," said croly. "you asked me if i was related to croly addicks. i said 'no.' that's true. i'm not related to him--because i am croly addicks." with a gasp of alarm cowdin jumped to his feet and prepared to defend himself from instant onslaught. "the devil you are!" he cried. "sit down, please," said croly, quietly. cowdin in a daze sank back into his chair and sat staring, hypnotized, at the man opposite him as one might stare who found a young pink elephant in his bed. "i'll forget what happened if you will," said croly. "let's talk about the future. do i get the job?" "eh? what's that?" cowdin began to realize that he was not dreaming. "do i get the job?" croly repeated. a measure of his accustomed self-possession had returned to the chief purchasing agent and he answered with as much of his old manner as he could muster, "i'll give you another chance if you think you can behave yourself." "thanks," said croly, and inside his new self sniggered at his old self. the chief purchasing agent was master of himself by now, and he rapped out in the voice that croly knew only too well, "get right to work. same desk. same salary. and remember, no more monkey business, mr. addicks, because if----" he stopped short. there was something in the face of croly addicks that told him to stop. the big new jaw was pointing straight at him as if it were a pistol. "you said, just now," said croly, and his voice was hoarse, "that i wasn't the same type of man as the croly addicks who worked here before. i'm not. i'm no longer the sort of man it's safe to ride. please don't call me mister unless you mean it." cowdin's eyes strayed from the snapping eyes of croly addicks to the taut jaw; he shrugged his shoulders. "report to baldwin," was all he said. as croly turned away, his back hid from cowdin the smile that had come to his new face. the reincarnated croly had been back at his old job for ten days, or, more accurately, ten days and nights, for it had taken that long to straighten out the snarl in which baldwin, not quite so sure of himself now, had been immersed to the eyebrows. baldwin was watching, a species of awe in his eye, while croly swiftly and expertly checked off a complicated price list. croly looked up. "baldwin," he said, laying down the work, "i'm going to make a suggestion to you. it's for your own good." "shoot!" said the assistant purchasing agent warily. "you're not cut out for this game," said croly addicks. "wha-a-at?" sputtered baldwin. croly leveled his chin at him. baldwin listened as the new addicks continued: "you're not the buying type, baldwin. you're the selling type. take my advice and get transferred to the selling end. you'll be happier--and you'll get farther." "say," began baldwin truculently, "you've got a nerve. i've a good notion to----" abruptly he stopped. croly's chin was set at an ominous angle. "better think it over," said croly addicks, taking up the price list again. baldwin gazed for a full minute or more at the remade jaw of his assistant. then he conceded, "maybe i will." a week later baldwin announced that he had taken croly's advice. the old addicks would have waited, with anxious nerves on edge, for the announcement of baldwin's successor; the new addicks went straight to the chief purchasing agent. "mr. cowdin," said croly, as calmly as a bumping heart would permit, "shall i take over baldwin's work?" the chief purchasing agent crinkled his brow petulantly. "i had heaton in mind for the job," he said shortly without looking up. "i want it," said croly addicks, and his jaw snapped. his tone made cowdin look up. "heaton isn't ripe for the work," said croly. "i am." cowdin could not see that inside croly was quivering; he could not see that the new croly was struggling with the old and was exerting every ounce of will power he possessed to wring out the words. all cowdin could see was the big jaw, bulging and threatening. he cautiously poked back his office chair so that it rolled on its casters out of range of the man with the dangerous face. "i told you once before, addicks," began the chief purchasing agent---- "you told me once before," interrupted croly addicks sternly, "that the job required a man with a jaw. what do you call this?" he tapped his own remodeled prow. cowdin found it impossible not to rest his gaze on the spot indicated by croly's forefinger. unconsciously, perhaps, his beads of eyes roved over his desk in search of a convenient paperweight or other weapon. finding none the chief purchasing agent affected to consider the merits of croly's demand. "well," he said with a judicial air, "i've a notion to give you a month's trial at the job." "good," said croly; and inside he buzzed and tingled warmly. cowdin wheeled his office chair back within range again. a month after croly addicks had taken up his duties as assistant purchasing agent he was sitting late one afternoon in serious conference with the chief purchasing agent. the day was an anxious one for all the employees of the great piano company. it was the day when the directors met in solemn and awful conclave, and the ancient and acidulous chairman of the board, cephas langdon, who owned most of the stock, emerged, woodchucklike, from his hole, to conduct his annual much-dreaded inquisition into the corporation's affairs, and to demand, with many searching queries, why in blue thunder the company was not making more money. on this day dignified and confident executives wriggled and wilted like tardy schoolboys under his grilling, and official heads were lopped off with a few sharp words. as frightened secretaries slipped in and out of the mahogany-doored board room information seeped out, and breaths were held and tiptoes walked on as the reports flashed about from office to office. "old langdon's on a rampage." "he's raking the sales manager over the coals." "he's fired sherman, the advertising manager." "he's fired the whole advertising department too." "he's asking what in blue thunder is the matter with the purchasing department." when this last ringside bulletin reached cowdin he scowled, muttered, and reached for his hat. "if anybody should come looking for me," he said to croly, "tell 'em i went home sick." "but," protested croly, who knew well the habits of the exigent chairman of the board, "mr. langdon may send down here any minute for an explanation of the purchasing department's report." cowdin smiled sardonically. "so he may, so he may," he said, clapping his hat firmly on his head. "perhaps you'd be so good as to tell him what he wants to know." and still smiling the chief purchasing agent hurried to the freight elevator and made his timely and prudent exit. "gawsh," said the blond stenographer, "grizzly cowdin's ducked again this year." "gee," said the brunette stenographer, "here's where poor mr. addicks gets it where nellie wore the beads." croly knew what they were saying; he knew that he had been left to be a scapegoat. he looked around for his own hat. but as he did so he caught the reflection of his new face in the plate-glass top of his desk. the image of his big impressive jaw heartened him. he smiled grimly and waited. he did not have long to wait. the door was thrust open and president flagstead's head was thrust in. "where's cowdin?" he demanded nervously. tiny worried pearls of dew on the presidential brow bore evidence that even he had not escaped the grill. "home," said croly. "sick." mr. flagstead frowned. the furrows of worry in his face deepened. "mr. langdon is furious at the purchasing department," he said. "he wants some things in the report explained, and he won't wait. confound cowdin!" croly's eyes rested for a moment on the reflection of his chin in the glass on his desk; then he raised them to the president's. "mr. cowdin left me in charge," he said, hoping that his voice wouldn't break. "i'll see if i can answer mr. langdon's questions." the president fired a swift look at croly; at first it was dubious; then, as it appraised croly's set face, it grew relieved. "who are you?" asked the president. "addicks, assistant purchasing agent," said croly. "oh, the new man. i've noticed you around," said the president. "meant to introduce myself. how long have you been here?" "eleven years," said croly. "eleven years?" the president was unbelieving. "you couldn't have been. i certainly would have noticed your face." he paused a bit awkwardly. just then they reached the mahogany door of the board room. croly addicks, outwardly a picture of determination, inwardly quaking, followed the president. old cephas langdon was squatting in his chair, his face red from his efforts, his eyes, beneath their tufts of brow, irate. when he spoke, his words exploded in bunches like packs of firecrackers. "well, well?" he snapped. "where's cowdin? why didn't cowdin come? i sent for cowdin, didn't i? i wanted to see the chief purchasing agent. where's cowdin anyhow? who are you?" "cowdin's sick. i'm addicks," said croly. his voice trembled, and his hands went up to play with his necktie. they came in contact with the point of his new chin, and fresh courage came back to him. he plunged his hands into his coat pockets, pushed the chin forward. he felt the eyes under the bushy brows surveying his chin. "cowdin sick, eh?" inquired cephas langdon acidly. "seems to me he's always sick when i want to find out what in blue thunder ails his department." he held up a report. "i installed a purchasing system in ," he said, slapping the report angrily, "and look here how it has been foozled." he slammed the report down on the table. "what i want to know, young man," he exploded, "is why material in the syracuse factories cost per cent more for the past three months than for the same period last year. why? why? why?" he glared at croly addicks as if he held him personally responsible. croly did not drop his eyes before the glare; instead he stuck his chin out another notch. his jaw muscles knotted. his breathing was difficult. the chance he'd been working for, praying for, had come. "your purchasing system is all wrong, mr. langdon," he said, in a voice so loud that it made them all jump. for a second it seemed as if cephas langdon would uncoil and leap at the presumptuous underling with the big chin. but he didn't. instead, with a smile in which there was a lot of irony, and some interest, he asked, "oh, indeed? perhaps, young man, you'll be so good as to tell me what's wrong with it? you appear to think you know a thing or two." croly told him. eleven years of work and study were behind what he said, and he emphasized each point with a thrust of his jaw that would have carried conviction even had his analysis of the system been less logical and concise than it was. old cephas langdon leaning on the directors' table turned up his ear trumpet so that he wouldn't miss a word. "well? well? and what would you suggest instead of the old way?" he interjected frequently. croly had the answer ready every time. darkness and dinnertime had come before croly had finished. "flagstead," said old cephas langdon, turning to the president, "haven't i always told you that what we needed in the purchasing department was a man with a chin on him? just drop a note to cowdin to-morrow, will you, and tell him he needn't come back?" he turned toward croly and twisted his leathery old face into what passed for a smile. "young man," he said, "don't let anything happen to that jaw of yours. one of these bright days it's going to be worth twenty-five thousand dollars a year to you." that night a young man with a prodigious jaw sat very near a young woman named emily mackie, who from time to time looked from his face to the ring finger of her left hand. "oh, croly dear," she said softly, "how did you do it?" "oh, i don't know," he said. "guess i just tried to live up to my jaw." the end transcriber's notes: punctuation and formatting markup have been normalized. apparent printer's errors have been retained, unless stated below. page , "this" changed to "his". (horace tried to do his work, but he couldn't remember when he had had such a poor day) page , "gaging" changed to "gauging". (chester paused at the greek candy kitchen on main street to buy a box of candy, richly bedight with purple silk, and by carefully gauging his saunter, contrived to arrive at the wrigley residence at fourteen minutes after eight.) page , "much" changed to "must". (at twenty paces they must each discharge two horse-pistols;)