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20633	----	WINSOME WINNIE AND OTHER NEW NONSENSE NOVELS _BY THE SAME AUTHOR_ THE HOHENZOLLERNS IN AMERICA AND OTHER IMPOSSIBILITIES LITERARY LAPSES NONSENSE NOVELS SUNSHINE SKETCHES OF A LITTLE TOWN. With a Frontispiece by Cyrus Cuneo BEHIND THE BEYOND AND OTHER CONTRIBUTIONS TO HUMAN KNOWLEDGE. With 17 Illustrations by "FISH" ARCADIAN ADVENTURES WITH THE IDLE RICH MOONBEAMS FROM THE LARGER LUNACY ESSAYS AND LITERARY STUDIES FURTHER FOOLISHNESS: SKETCHES AND SATIRES ON THE FOLLIES OF THE DAY. With coloured Frontispiece by "FISH" and 5 other Plates by M. BLOOD. FRENZIED FICTION THE UNSOLVED RIDDLE OF SOCIAL JUSTICE. THE BODLEY HEAD _WINSOME WINNIE AND OTHER NEW NONSENSE NOVELS_ _BY STEPHEN LEACOCK_ _LONDON: JOHN LANE, THE BODLEY HEAD NEW YORK: JOHN LANE COMPANY MCMXXI_ _Printed in Great Britain by R. Clay & Sons, Ltd., London and Bungay_ _CONTENTS_ CHAP. I. WINSOME WINNIE; OR, TRIAL AND TEMPTATION I. THROWN ON THE WORLD II. A RENCOUNTER III. FRIENDS IN DISTRESS IV. A GAMBLING PARTY IN ST. JAMES'S CLOSE V. THE ABDUCTION VI. THE UNKNOWN VII. THE PROPOSAL VIII. WEDDED AT LAST II. JOHN AND I; OR, HOW I NEARLY LOST MY HUSBAND III. THE SPLIT IN THE CABINET; OR, THE FATE OF ENGLAND IV. WHO DO YOU THINK DID IT? OR, THE MIXED-UP MURDER MYSTERY I. HE DINED WITH ME LAST NIGHT II. I MUST SAVE HER LIFE III. I MUST BUY A BOOK ON BILLIARDS IV. THAT IS NOT BILLIARD CHALK V. HAS ANYBODY HERE SEEN KELLY? VI. SHOW ME THE MAN WHO WORE THOSE BOOTS VII. OH, MR. KENT, SAVE ME! VIII. YOU ARE PETER KELLY IX. LET ME TELL YOU THE STORY OF MY LIFE X. SO DO I V. BROKEN BARRIERS; OR, RED LOVE ON A BLUE ISLAND VI. THE KIDNAPPED PLUMBER: A TALE OF THE NEW TIME VII. THE BLUE AND THE GREY: A PRE-WAR WAR STORY VIII. BUGGAM GRANGE: A GOOD OLD GHOST STORY I WINSOME WINNIE OR, TRIAL AND TEMPTATION (_Narrated after the best models of 1875_) _I.--Winsome Winnie; or, Trial and Temptation._ CHAPTER I THROWN ON THE WORLD "Miss Winnifred," said the Old Lawyer, looking keenly over and through his shaggy eyebrows at the fair young creature seated before him, "you are this morning twenty-one." Winnifred Clair raised her deep mourning veil, lowered her eyes and folded her hands. "This morning," continued Mr. Bonehead, "my guardianship is at an end." There was a tone of something like emotion in the voice of the stern old lawyer, while for a moment his eye glistened with something like a tear which he hastened to remove with something like a handkerchief. "I have therefore sent for you," he went on, "to render you an account of my trust." He heaved a sigh at her, and then, reaching out his hand, he pulled the woollen bell-rope up and down several times. An aged clerk appeared. "Did the bell ring?" he asked. "I think it did," said the Lawyer. "Be good enough, Atkinson, to fetch me the papers of the estate of the late Major Clair defunct." "I have them here," said the clerk, and he laid upon the table a bundle of faded blue papers, and withdrew. "Miss Winnifred," resumed the Old Lawyer, "I will now proceed to give you an account of the disposition that has been made of your property. This first document refers to the sum of two thousand pounds left to you by your great uncle. It is lost." Winnifred bowed. "Pray give me your best attention and I will endeavour to explain to you how I lost it." "Oh, sir," cried Winnifred, "I am only a poor girl unskilled in the ways of the world, and knowing nothing but music and French; I fear that the details of business are beyond my grasp. But if it is lost, I gather that it is gone." "It is," said Mr. Bonehead. "I lost it in a marginal option in an undeveloped oil company. I suppose that means nothing to you." "Alas," sighed Winnifred, "nothing." "Very good," resumed the Lawyer. "Here next we have a statement in regard to the thousand pounds left you under the will of your maternal grandmother. I lost it at Monte Carlo. But I need not fatigue you with the details." "Pray spare them," cried the girl. "This final item relates to the sum of fifteen hundred pounds placed in trust for you by your uncle. I lost it on a horse race. That horse," added the Old Lawyer with rising excitement, "ought to have won. He was coming down the stretch like blue--but there, there, my dear, you must forgive me if the recollection of it still stirs me to anger. Suffice it to say the horse fell. I have kept for your inspection the score card of the race, and the betting tickets. You will find everything in order." "Sir," said Winnifred, as Mr. Bonehead proceeded to fold up his papers, "I am but a poor inadequate girl, a mere child in business, but tell me, I pray, what is left to me of the money that you have managed?" "Nothing," said the Lawyer. "Everything is gone. And I regret to say, Miss Clair, that it is my painful duty to convey to you a further disclosure of a distressing nature. It concerns your birth." "Just Heaven!" cried Winnifred, with a woman's quick intuition. "Does it concern my father?" "It does, Miss Clair. Your father was not your father." "Oh, sir," exclaimed Winnifred. "My poor mother! How she must have suffered!" "Your mother was not your mother," said the Old Lawyer gravely. "Nay, nay, do not question me. There is a dark secret about your birth." "Alas," said Winnifred, wringing her hands, "I am, then, alone in the world and penniless." "You are," said Mr. Bonehead, deeply moved. "You are, unfortunately, thrown upon the world. But, if you ever find yourself in a position where you need help and advice, do not scruple to come to me. Especially," he added, "for advice. And meantime let me ask you in what way do you propose to earn your livelihood?" "I have my needle," said Winnifred. "Let me see it," said the Lawyer. Winnifred showed it to him. "I fear," said Mr. Bonehead, shaking his head, "you will not do much with that." Then he rang the bell again. "Atkinson," he said, "take Miss Clair out and throw her on the world." CHAPTER II A RENCOUNTER As Winnifred Clair passed down the stairway leading from the Lawyer's office, a figure appeared before her in the corridor, blocking the way. It was that of a tall, aristocratic-looking man, whose features wore that peculiarly saturnine appearance seen only in the English nobility. The face, while entirely gentlemanly in its general aspect, was stamped with all the worst passions of mankind. Had the innocent girl but known it, the face was that of Lord Wynchgate, one of the most contemptible of the greater nobility of Britain, and the figure was his too. "Ha!" exclaimed the dissolute Aristocrat, "whom have we here? Stay, pretty one, and let me see the fair countenance that I divine behind your veil." "Sir," said Winnifred, drawing herself up proudly, "let me pass, I pray." "Not so," cried Wynchgate, reaching out and seizing his intended victim by the wrist, "not till I have at least seen the colour of those eyes and imprinted a kiss upon those fair lips." With a brutal laugh, he drew the struggling girl towards him. In another moment the aristocratic villain would have succeeded in lifting the veil of the unhappy girl, when suddenly a ringing voice cried, "Hold! stop! desist! begone! lay to! cut it out!" With these words a tall, athletic young man, attracted doubtless by the girl's cries, leapt into the corridor from the street without. His figure was that, more or less, of a Greek god, while his face, although at the moment inflamed with anger, was of an entirely moral and permissible configuration. "Save me! save me!" cried Winnifred. "I will," cried the Stranger, rushing towards Lord Wynchgate with uplifted cane. But the cowardly Aristocrat did not await the onslaught of the unknown. "You shall yet be mine!" he hissed in Winnifred's ear, and, releasing his grasp, he rushed with a bound past the rescuer into the street. "Oh, sir," said Winnifred, clasping her hands and falling on her knees in gratitude. "I am only a poor inadequate girl, but if the prayers of one who can offer naught but her prayers to her benefactor can avail to the advantage of one who appears to have every conceivable advantage already, let him know that they are his." "Nay," said the stranger, as he aided the blushing girl to rise, "kneel not to me, I beseech. If I have done aught to deserve the gratitude of one who, whoever she is, will remain for ever present as a bright memory in the breast of one in whose breast such memories are all too few, he is all too richly repaid. If she does that, he is blessed indeed." "She does. He is!" cried Winnifred, deeply moved. "Here on her knees she blesses him. And now," she added, "we must part. Seek not to follow me. One who has aided a poor girl in the hour of need will respect her wish when she tells him that, alone and buffeted by the world, her one prayer is that he will leave her." "He will!" cried the Unknown. "He will. He does." "Leave me, yes, leave me," exclaimed Winnifred. "I will," said the Unknown. "Do, do," sobbed the distraught girl. "Yet stay, one moment more. Let she, who has received so much from her benefactor, at least know his name." "He cannot! He must not!" exclaimed the Indistinguishable. "His birth is such--but enough!" He tore his hand from the girl's detaining clasp and rushed forth from the place. Winnifred Clair was alone. CHAPTER III FRIENDS IN DISTRESS Winnifred was now in the humblest lodgings in the humblest part of London. A simple bedroom and sitting-room sufficed for her wants. Here she sat on her trunk, bravely planning for the future. "Miss Clair," said the Landlady, knocking at the door, "do try to eat something. You must keep up your health. See, I've brought you a kippered herring." Winnifred ate the herring, her heart filled with gratitude. With renewed strength she sallied forth on the street to resume her vain search for employment. For two weeks now Winnifred Clair had sought employment even of the humblest character. At various dress-making establishments she had offered, to no purpose, the services of her needle. They had looked at it and refused it. In vain she had offered to various editors and publishers the use of her pen. They had examined it coldly and refused it. She had tried fruitlessly to obtain a position of trust. The various banks and trust companies to which she had applied declined her services. In vain she had advertised in the newspapers offering to take sole charge of a little girl. No one would give her one. Her slender stock of money which she had in her purse on leaving Mr. Bonehead's office was almost consumed. Each night the unhappy girl returned to her lodging exhausted with disappointment and fatigue. Yet even in her adversity she was not altogether friendless. Each evening, on her return home, a soft tap was heard at the door. "Miss Clair," said the voice of the Landlady, "I have brought you a fried egg. Eat it. You must keep up your strength." Then one morning a terrible temptation had risen before her. "Miss Clair," said the manager of an agency to which she had applied, "I am glad to be able at last to make you a definite offer of employment. Are you prepared to go upon the stage?" The stage! A flush of shame and indignation swept over the girl. Had it come to this? Little versed in the world as Winnifred was, she knew but too well the horror, the iniquity, the depth of degradation implied in the word. "Yes," continued the agent, "I have a letter here asking me to recommend a young lady of suitable refinement to play the part of Eliza in _Uncle Tom's Cabin._ Will you accept?" "Sir," said Winnifred proudly, "answer me first this question fairly. If I go upon the stage, can I, as Eliza, remain as innocent, as simple as I am now?" "You can not," said the manager. "Then, sir," said Winnifred, rising from her chair, "let me say this. Your offer is doubtless intended to be kind. Coming from the class you do, and inspired by the ideas you are, you no doubt mean well. But let a poor girl, friendless and alone, tell you that rather than accept such a degradation she will die." "Very good," said the manager. "I go forth," cried Winnifred, "to perish." "All right," said the manager. The door closed behind her. Winnifred Clair, once more upon the street, sank down upon the steps of the building in a swoon. But at this very juncture Providence, which always watches over the innocent and defenceless, was keeping its eye direct upon Winnifred. At that very moment when our heroine sank fainting upon the doorstep, a handsome equipage, drawn by two superb black steeds, happened to pass along the street. Its appearance and character proclaimed it at once to be one of those vehicles in which only the superior classes of the exclusive aristocracy are privileged to ride. Its sides were emblazoned with escutcheons, insignia and other paraphernalia. The large gilt coronet that appeared up its panelling, surmounted by a bunch of huckleberries, quartered in a field of potatoes, indicated that its possessor was, at least, of the rank of marquis. A coachman and two grooms rode in front, while two footmen, seated in the boot, or box at the rear, contrived, by the immobility of their attitude and the melancholy of their faces, to inspire the scene with an exclusive and aristocratic grandeur. The occupants of the equipage--for we refuse to count the menials as being such--were two in number, a lady and gentleman, both of advanced years. Their snow-white hair and benign countenances indicated that they belonged to that rare class of beings to whom rank and wealth are but an incentive to nobler things. A gentle philanthropy played all over their faces, and their eyes sought eagerly in the passing scene of the humble street for new objects of benefaction. Those acquainted with the countenances of the aristocracy would have recognized at once in the occupants of the equipage the Marquis of Muddlenut and his spouse, the Marchioness. It was the eye of the Marchioness which first detected the form of Winnifred Clair upon the doorstep. "Hold! pause! stop!" she cried, in lively agitation. The horses were at once pulled in, the brakes applied to the wheels, and with the aid of a powerful lever, operated by three of the menials, the carriage was brought to a standstill. "See! Look!" cried the Marchioness. "She has fainted. Quick, William, your flask. Let us hasten to her aid." In another moment the noble lady was bending over the prostrate form of Winnifred Clair, and pouring brandy between her lips. Winnifred opened her eyes. "Where am I?" she asked feebly. "She speaks!" cried the Marchioness. "Give her another flaskful." After the second flask the girl sat up. "Tell me," she cried, clasping her hands, "what has happened? Where am I?" "With friends!" answered the Marchioness. "But do not essay to speak. Drink this. You must husband your strength. Meantime, let us drive you to your home." Winnifred was lifted tenderly by the menservants into the aristocratic equipage. The brake was unset, the lever reversed, and the carriage thrown again into motion. On the way Winnifred, at the solicitation of the Marchioness, related her story. "My poor child!" exclaimed the lady, "how you must have suffered. Thank Heaven it is over now. To-morrow we shall call for you and bring you away with us to Muddlenut Chase." Alas, could she but have known it, before the morrow should dawn, worse dangers still were in store for our heroine. But what these dangers were, we must reserve for another chapter. CHAPTER IV A GAMBLING PARTY IN ST. JAMES'S CLOSE We must now ask our readers to shift the scene--if they don't mind doing this for us--to the apartments of the Earl of Wynchgate in St. James's Close. The hour is nine o'clock in the evening, and the picture before us is one of revelry and dissipation so characteristic of the nobility of England. The atmosphere of the room is thick with blue Havana smoke such as is used by the nobility, while on the green baize table a litter of counters and cards, in which aces, kings, and even two spots are heaped in confusion, proclaim the reckless nature of the play. Seated about the table are six men, dressed in the height of fashion, each with collar and white necktie and broad white shirt, their faces stamped with all, or nearly all, of the baser passions of mankind. Lord Wynchgate--for he it was who sat at the head of the table--rose with an oath, and flung his cards upon the table. All turned and looked at him, with an oath. "Curse it, Dogwood," he exclaimed, with another oath, to the man who sat beside him. "Take the money. I play no more to-night. My luck is out." "Ha! ha!" laughed Lord Dogwood, with a third oath, "your mind is not on the cards. Who is the latest young beauty, pray, who so absorbs you? I hear a whisper in town of a certain misadventure of yours----" "Dogwood," said Wynchgate, clenching his fist, "have a care, man, or you shall measure the length of my sword." Both noblemen faced each other, their hands upon their swords. "My lords, my lords!" pleaded a distinguished-looking man of more advanced years, who sat at one side of the table, and in whose features the habitués of diplomatic circles would have recognized the handsome lineaments of the Marquis of Frogwater, British Ambassador to Siam, "let us have no quarrelling. Come, Wynchgate, come, Dogwood," he continued, with a mild oath, "put up your swords. It were a shame to waste time in private quarrelling. They may be needed all too soon in Cochin China, or, for the matter of that," he added sadly, "in Cambodia or in Dutch Guinea." "Frogwater," said young Lord Dogwood, with a generous flush, "I was wrong. Wynchgate, your hand." The two noblemen shook hands. "My friends," said Lord Wynchgate, "in asking you to abandon our game, I had an end in view. I ask your help in an affair of the heart." "Ha! excellent!" exclaimed the five noblemen. "We are with you heart and soul." "I propose this night," continued Wynchgate, "with your help, to carry off a young girl, a female!" "An abduction!" exclaimed the Ambassador somewhat sternly. "Wynchgate, I cannot countenance this." "Mistake me not," said the Earl, "I intend to abduct her. But I propose nothing dishonourable. It is my firm resolve to offer her marriage." "Then," said Lord Frogwater, "I am with you." "Gentlemen," concluded Wynchgate, "all is ready. The coach is below. I have provided masks, pistols, and black cloaks. Follow me." A few moments later, a coach, with the blinds drawn, in which were six noblemen armed to the teeth, might have been seen, were it not for the darkness, approaching the humble lodging in which Winnifred Clair was sheltered. But what it did when it got there, we must leave to another chapter. CHAPTER V THE ABDUCTION The hour was twenty minutes to ten on the evening described in our last chapter. Winnifred Clair was seated, still fully dressed, at the window of the bedroom, looking out over the great city. A light tap came at the door. "If it's a fried egg," called Winnifred softly, "I do not need it. I ate yesterday." "No," said the voice of the Landlady. "You are wanted below." "I!" exclaimed Winnifred, "below!" "You," said the Landlady, "below. A party of gentlemen have called for you." "Gentlemen," exclaimed Winnifred, putting her hand to her brow in perplexity, "for me! at this late hour! Here! This evening! In this house?" "Yes," repeated the Landlady, "six gentlemen. They arrived in a closed coach. They are all closely masked and heavily armed. They beg you will descend at once." "Just Heaven!" cried the Unhappy Girl. "Is it possible that they mean to abduct me?" "They do," said the Landlady. "They said so!" "Alas!" cried Winnifred, "I am powerless. Tell them"--she hesitated--"tell them I will be down immediately. Let them not come up. Keep them below on any pretext. Show them an album. Let them look at the goldfish. Anything, but not here! I shall be ready in a moment." Feverishly she made herself ready. As hastily as possible she removed all traces of tears from her face. She threw about her shoulders an opera cloak, and with a light Venetian scarf half concealed the beauty of her hair and features. "Abducted!" she murmured, "and by six of them! I think she said six. Oh, the horror of it!" A touch of powder to her cheeks and a slight blackening of her eyebrows, and the courageous girl was ready. Lord Wynchgate and his companions--for they it was, that is to say, they were it--sat below in the sitting-room looking at the albums. "Woman," said Lord Wynchgate to the Landlady, with an oath, "let her hurry up. We have seen enough of these. We can wait no longer." "I am here," cried a clear voice upon the threshold, and Winnifred stood before them. "My lords, for I divine who you are and wherefore you have come, take me, do your worst with me, but spare, oh, spare this humble companion of my sorrow." "Right-oh!" said Lord Dogwood, with a brutal laugh. "Enough," exclaimed Wynchgate, and seizing Winnifred by the waist, he dragged her forth out of the house and out upon the street. But something in the brutal violence of his behaviour seemed to kindle for the moment a spark of manly feeling, if such there were, in the breasts of his companions. "Wynchgate," cried young Lord Dogwood, "my mind misgives me. I doubt if this is a gentlemanly thing to do. I'll have no further hand in it." A chorus of approval from his companions endorsed his utterance. For a moment they hesitated. "Nay," cried Winnifred, turning to confront the masked faces that stood about her, "go forward with your fell design. I am here. I am helpless. Let no prayers stay your hand. Go to it." "Have done with this!" cried Wynchgate, with a brutal oath. "Shove her in the coach." But at the very moment the sound of hurrying footsteps was heard, and a clear, ringing, manly, well-toned, vibrating voice cried, "Hold! Stop! Desist! Have a care, titled villain, or I will strike you to the earth." A tall aristocratic form bounded out of the darkness. "Gentlemen," cried Wynchgate, releasing his hold upon the frightened girl, "we are betrayed. Save yourselves. To the coach." In another instant the six noblemen had leaped into the coach and disappeared down the street. Winnifred, still half inanimate with fright, turned to her rescuer, and saw before her the form and lineaments of the Unknown Stranger, who had thus twice stood between her and disaster. Half fainting, she fell swooning into his arms. "Dear lady," he exclaimed, "rouse yourself. You are safe. Let me restore you to your home!" "That voice!" cried Winnifred, resuming consciousness. "It is my benefactor." She would have swooned again, but the Unknown lifted her bodily up the steps of her home and leant her against the door. "Farewell," he said, in a voice resonant with gloom. "Oh, sir!" cried the unhappy girl, "let one who owes so much to one who has saved her in her hour of need at least know his name." But the stranger, with a mournful gesture of farewell, had disappeared as rapidly as he had come. But, as to why he had disappeared, we must ask our reader's patience for another chapter. CHAPTER VI THE UNKNOWN The scene is now shifted, sideways and forwards, so as to put it at Muddlenut Chase, and to make it a fortnight later than the events related in the last chapter. Winnifred is now at the Chase as the guest of the Marquis and Marchioness. There her bruised soul finds peace. The Chase itself was one of those typical country homes which are, or were till yesterday, the glory of England. The approach to the Chase lay through twenty miles of glorious forest, filled with fallow deer and wild bulls. The house itself, dating from the time of the Plantagenets, was surrounded by a moat covered with broad lilies and floating green scum. Magnificent peacocks sunned themselves on the terraces, while from the surrounding shrubberies there rose the soft murmur of doves, pigeons, bats, owls and partridges. Here sat Winnifred Clair day after day upon the terrace recovering her strength, under the tender solicitude of the Marchioness. Each day the girl urged upon her noble hostess the necessity of her departure. "Nay," said the Marchioness, with gentle insistence, "stay where you are. Your soul is bruised. You must rest." "Alas," cried Winnifred, "who am I that I should rest? Alone, despised, buffeted by fate, what right have I to your kindness?" "Miss Clair," replied the noble lady, "wait till you are stronger. There is something that I wish to say to you." Then at last, one morning when Winnifred's temperature had fallen to ninety-eight point three, the Marchioness spoke. "Miss Clair," she said, in a voice which throbbed with emotion, "Winnifred, if I may so call you, Lord Muddlenut and I have formed a plan for your future. It is our dearest wish that you should marry our son." "Alas," cried Winnifred, while tears rose in her eyes, "it cannot be!" "Say not so," cried the Marchioness. "Our son, Lord Mordaunt Muddlenut, is young, handsome, all that a girl could desire. After months of wandering he returns to us this morning. It is our dearest wish to see him married and established. We offer you his hand." "Indeed," replied Winnifred, while her tears fell even more freely, "I seem to requite but ill the kindness that you show. Alas, my heart is no longer in my keeping." "Where is it?" cried the Marchioness. "It is another's. One whose very name I do not know holds it in his keeping." But at this moment a blithe, gladsome step was heard upon the flagstones of the terrace. A manly, ringing voice, which sent a thrill to Winnifred's heart, cried "Mother!" and in another instant Lord Mordaunt Muddlenut, for he it was, had folded the Marchioness to his heart. Winnifred rose, her heart beating wildly. One glance was enough. The newcomer, Lord Mordaunt, was none other than the Unknown, the Unaccountable, to whose protection she had twice owed her life. With a wild cry Winnifred Clair leaped across the flagstones of the terrace and fled into the park. CHAPTER VII THE PROPOSAL They stood beneath the great trees of the ancestral park, into which Lord Mordaunt had followed Winnifred at a single bound. All about them was the radiance of early June. Lord Mordaunt knelt on one knee on the greensward, and with a touch in which respect and reverence were mingled with the deepest and manliest emotion, he took between his finger and thumb the tip of the girl's gloved hand. "Miss Clair," he uttered, in a voice suffused with the deepest yearning, yet vibrating with the most profound respect, "Miss Clair--Winnifred--hear me, I implore!" "Alas," cried Winnifred, struggling in vain to disengage the tip of her glove from the impetuous clasp of the young nobleman, "alas, whither can I fly? I do not know my way through the wood, and there are bulls in all directions. I am not used to them! Lord Mordaunt, I implore you, let the tears of one but little skilled in the art of dissimulation----" "Nay, Winnifred," said the Young Earl, "fly not. Hear me out!" "Let me fly," begged the unhappy girl. "You must not fly," pleaded Mordaunt. "Let me first, here upon bended knee, convey to you the expression of a devotion, a love, as ardent and as deep as ever burned in a human heart. Winnifred, be my bride!" "Oh, sir," sobbed Winnifred, "if the knowledge of a gratitude, a thankfulness from one whose heart will ever treasure as its proudest memory the recollection of one who did for one all that one could have wanted done for one--if this be some poor guerdon, let it suffice. But, alas, my birth, the dark secret of my birth forbids----" "Nay," cried Mordaunt, leaping now to his feet, "your birth is all right. I have looked into it myself. It is as good--or nearly as good--as my own. Till I knew this, my lips were sealed by duty. While I supposed that you had a lower birth and I an upper, I was bound to silence. But come with me to the house. There is one arrived with me who will explain all." Hand in hand the lovers, for such they now were, returned to the Chase. There in the great hall the Marquis and the Marchioness were standing ready to greet them. "My child!" exclaimed the noble lady, as she folded Winnifred to her heart. Then she turned to her son. "Let her know all!" she cried. Lord Mordaunt stepped across the room to a curtain. He drew it aside, and there stepped forth Mr. Bonehead, the old lawyer who had cast Winnifred upon the world. "Miss Clair," said the Lawyer, advancing and taking the girl's hand for a moment in a kindly clasp, "the time has come for me to explain all. You are not, you never were, the penniless girl that you suppose. Under the terms of your father's will, I was called upon to act a part and to throw you upon the world. It was my client's wish, and I followed it. I told you, quite truthfully, that I had put part of your money into options in an oil-well. Miss Clair, that well is now producing a million gallons of gasolene a month!' "A million gallons!" cried Winnifred. "I can never use it." "Wait till you own a motor-car, Miss Winnifred," said the Lawyer. "Then I am rich!" exclaimed the bewildered girl. "Rich beyond your dreams," answered the Lawyer. "Miss Clair, you own in your own right about half of the State of Texas--I think it is in Texas, at any rate either Texas or Rhode Island, or one of those big states in America. More than this, I have invested your property since your father's death so wisely that even after paying the income tax and the property tax, the inheritance tax, the dog tax and the tax on amusements, you will still have one half of one per cent to spend." Winnifred clasped her hands. "I knew it all the time," said Lord Mordaunt, drawing the girl to his embrace, "I found it out through this good man." "We knew it too," said the Marchioness. "Can you forgive us, darling, our little plot for your welfare? Had we not done this Mordaunt might have had to follow you over to America and chase you all around Newport and Narragansett at a fearful expense." "How can I thank you enough?" cried Winnifred. Then she added eagerly, "And my birth, my descent?" "It is all right," interjected the Old Lawyer. "It is A 1. Your father, who died before you were born, quite a little time before, belonged to the very highest peerage of Wales. You are descended directly from Claer-ap-Claer, who murdered Owen Glendower. Your mother we are still tracing up. But we have already connected her with Floyd-ap-Floyd, who murdered Prince Llewellyn." "Oh, sir," cried the grateful girl. "I only hope I may prove worthy of them!" "One thing more," said Lord Mordaunt, and stepping over to another curtain he drew it aside and there emerged Lord Wynchgate. He stood before Winnifred, a manly contrition struggling upon features which, but for the evil courses of he who wore them, might have been almost presentable. "Miss Clair," he said, "I ask your pardon. I tried to carry you off. I never will again. But before we part let me say that my acquaintance with you has made me a better man, broader, bigger and, I hope, deeper." With a profound bow, Lord Wynchgate took his leave. CHAPTER VIII WEDDED AT LAST Lord Mordaunt and his bride were married forthwith in the parish church of Muddlenut Chase. With Winnifred's money they have drained the moat, rebuilt the Chase, and chased the bulls out of the park. They have six children, so far, and are respected, honoured and revered in the countryside far and wide, over a radius of twenty miles in circumference. II JOHN AND I OR, HOW I NEARLY LOST MY HUSBAND (_Narrated after the approved fashion of the best Heart and Home Magazines_) _II.--John and I; or, How I Nearly Lost My Husband._ It was after we had been married about two years that I began to feel that I needed more air. Every time I looked at John across the breakfast-table, I felt as if I must have more air, more space. I seemed to feel as if I had no room to expand. I had begun to ask myself whether I had been wise in marrying John, whether John was really sufficient for my development. I felt cramped and shut in. In spite of myself the question would arise in my mind whether John really understood my nature. He had a way of reading the newspaper, propped up against the sugar-bowl, at breakfast, that somehow made me feel as if things had gone all wrong. It was bitter to realize that the time had come when John could prefer the newspaper to his wife's society. But perhaps I had better go back and tell the whole miserable story from the beginning. I shall never forget--I suppose no woman ever does--the evening when John first spoke out his love for me. I had felt for some time past that it was there. Again and again, he seemed about to speak. But somehow his words seemed to fail him. Twice I took him into the very heart of the little wood beside Mother's house, but it was only a small wood, and somehow he slipped out on the other side. "Oh, John," I had said, "how lonely and still it seems in the wood with no one here but ourselves! Do you think," I said, "that the birds have souls?" "I don't know," John answered, "let's get out of this." I was sure that his emotion was too strong for him. "I never feel a bit lonesome where you are, John," I said, as we made our way among the underbrush. "I think we can get out down that little gully," he answered. Then one evening in June after tea I led John down a path beside the house to a little corner behind the garden where there was a stone wall on one side and a high fence right in front of us, and thorn bushes on the other side. There was a little bench in the angle of the wall and the fence, and we sat down on it. "Minnie," John said, "there's something I meant to say----" "Oh, John," I cried, and I flung my arms round his neck. It all came with such a flood of surprise. "All I meant, Minn----" John went on, but I checked him. "Oh, don't, John, don't say anything more," I said. "It's just too perfect." Then I rose and seized him by the wrist. "Come," I said, "come to Mother," and I rushed him along the path. As soon as Mother saw us come in hand in hand in this way, she guessed everything. She threw both her arms round John's neck and fairly pinned him against the wall. John tried to speak, but Mother wouldn't let him. "I saw it all along, John," she said. "Don't speak. Don't say a word. I guessed your love for Minn from the very start. I don't know what I shall do without her, John, but she's yours now; take her." Then Mother began to cry and I couldn't help crying too. "Take him to Father," Mother said, and we each took one of John's wrists and took him to Father on the back verandah. As soon as John saw Father he tried to speak again--"I think I ought to say," he began, but Mother stopped him. "Father," she said, "he wants to take our little girl away. He loves her very dearly, Alfred," she said, "and I think it our duty to let her go, no matter how hard it is, and oh, please Heaven, Alfred, he'll treat her well and not misuse her, or beat her," and she began to sob again. Father got up and took John by the hand and shook it warmly. "Take her, boy," he said. "She's all yours now, take her." So John and I were engaged, and in due time our wedding day came and we were married. I remember that for days and days before the wedding day John seemed very nervous and depressed; I think he was worrying, poor boy, as to whether he could really make me happy and whether he could fill my life as it should be filled. But I told him that he was not to worry, because I _meant_ to be happy, and was determined just to make the best of everything. Father stayed with John a good deal before the wedding day, and on the wedding morning he went and fetched him to the church in a closed carriage and had him there all ready when we came. It was a beautiful day in September, and the church looked just lovely. I had a beautiful gown of white organdie with _tulle_ at the throat, and I carried a great bunch of white roses, and Father led John up the aisle after me. I remember that Mother cried a good deal at the wedding, and told John that he had stolen her darling and that he must never misuse me or beat me. And I remember that the clergyman spoke very severely to John, and told him he hoped he realized the responsibility he was taking and that it was his duty to make me happy. A lot of our old friends were there, and they all spoke quite sharply to John, and all the women kissed me and said they hoped I would never regret what I had done, and I just kept up my spirits by sheer determination, and told them that I had made up my mind to be happy and that I was going to be so. So presently it was all over and we were driven to the station and got the afternoon train for New York, and when we sat down in the compartment among all our bandboxes and flowers, John said, "Well, thank God, that's over." And I said, "Oh, John, an oath! on our wedding day, an oath!" John said, "I'm sorry, Minn, I didn't mean----" but I said, "Don't, John, don't make it worse. Swear at me if you must, but don't make it harder to bear." * * * * * We spent our honeymoon in New York. At first I had thought of going somewhere to the great lonely woods, where I could have walked under the great trees and felt the silence of nature, and where John should have been my Viking and captured me with his spear, and where I should be his and his alone and no other man should share me; and John had said all right. Or else I had planned to go away somewhere to the seashore, where I could have watched the great waves dashing themselves against the rocks. I had told John that he should be my cave man, and should seize me in his arms and carry me whither he would. I felt somehow that for my development I wanted to get as close to nature as ever I could--that my mind seemed to be reaching out for a great emptiness. But I looked over all the hotel and steamship folders I could find and it seemed impossible to get good accommodation, so we came to New York. I had a great deal of shopping to do for our new house, so I could not be much with John, but I felt it was not right to neglect him, so I drove him somewhere in a taxi each morning and called for him again in the evening. One day I took him to the Metropolitan Museum, and another day I left him at the Zoo, and another day at the aquarium. John seemed very happy and quiet among the fishes. So presently we came back home, and I spent many busy days in fixing and arranging our new house. I had the drawing-room done in blue, and the dining-room all in dark panelled wood, and a boudoir upstairs done in pink and white enamel to match my bedroom and dressing-room. There was a very nice little room in the basement next to the coal cellar that I turned into a "den" for John, so that when he wanted to smoke he could go down there and do it. John seemed to appreciate his den at once, and often would stay down there so long that I had to call to him to come up. When I look back on those days they seem very bright and happy. But it was not very long before a change came. I began to realize that John was neglecting me. I noticed it at first in small things. I don't know just how long it was after our marriage that John began to read the newspaper at breakfast. At first he would only pick it up and read it in little bits, and only on the front page. I tried not to be hurt at it, and would go on talking just as brightly as I could, without seeming to notice anything. But presently he went on to reading the inside part of the paper, and then one day he opened up the financial page and folded the paper right back and leant it against the sugar-bowl. I could not but wonder whether John's love for me was what it had been. Was it cooling? I asked myself. And what was cooling it? It hardly seemed possible, when I looked back to the wild passion with which he had proposed to me on the garden bench, that John's love was waning. But I kept noticing different little things. One day in the spring-time I saw John getting out a lot of fishing tackle from a box and fitting it together. I asked him what he was going to do, and he said that he was going to fish. I went to my room and had a good cry. It seemed dreadful that he could neglect his wife for a few worthless fish. So I decided to put John to the test. It had been my habit every morning after he put his coat on to go to the office to let John have one kiss, just one weeny kiss, to keep him happy all day. So this day when he was getting ready I bent my head over a big bowl of flowers and pretended not to notice. I think John must have been hurt, as I heard him steal out on tiptoe. Well, I realized that things had come to a dreadful state, and so I sent over to Mother, and Mother came, and we had a good cry together. I made up my mind to force myself to face things and just to be as bright as ever I could. Mother and I both thought that things would be better if I tried all I could to make something out of John. I have always felt that every woman should make all that she can out of her husband. So I did my best first of all to straighten up John's appearance. I shifted the style of collar he was wearing to a tighter kind that I liked better, and I brushed his hair straight backward instead of forward, which gave him a much more alert look. Mother said that John needed waking up, and so we did all we could to wake him up. Mother came over to stay with me a good deal, and in the evenings we generally had a little music or a game of cards. About this time another difficulty began to come into my married life, which I suppose I ought to have foreseen--I mean the attentions of other gentlemen. I have always called forth a great deal of admiration in gentlemen, but I have always done my best to act like a lady and to discourage it in every possible way. I had been innocent enough to suppose that this would end with married life, and it gave me a dreadful shock to realize that such was not the case. The first one I noticed was a young man who came to the house, at an hour when John was out, for the purpose, so he said at least, of reading the gas meter. He looked at me in just the boldest way and asked me to show him the way to the cellar. I don't know whether it was a pretext or not, but I just summoned all the courage I had and showed him to the head of the cellar stairs. I had determined that if he tried to carry me down with him I would scream for the servants, but I suppose something in my manner made him desist, and he went alone. When he came up he professed to have read the meter and he left the house quite quietly. But I thought it wiser to say nothing to John of what had happened. There were others too. There was a young man with large brown eyes who came and said he had been sent to tune the piano. He came on three separate days, and he bent his ear over the keys in such a mournful way that I knew he must have fallen in love with me. On the last day he offered to tune my harp for a dollar extra, but I refused, and when I asked him instead to tune Mother's mandoline he said he didn't know how. Of course I told John nothing of all this. Then there was Mr. McQueen, who came to the house several times to play cribbage with John. He had been desperately in love with me years before--at least I remember his taking me home from a hockey match once, and what a struggle it was for him not to come into the parlour and see Mother for a few minutes when I asked him; and, though he was married now and with three children, I felt sure when he came to play cribbage with John that it _meant_ something. He was very discreet and honourable, and never betrayed himself for a moment, and I acted my part as if there was nothing at all behind. But one night, when he came over to play and John had had to go out, he refused to stay even for an instant. He had got his overshoes off before I told him that John was out, and asked him if he wouldn't come into the parlour and hear Mother play the mandoline, but he just made one dive for his overshoes and was gone. I knew that he didn't dare to trust himself. Then presently a new trouble came. I began to suspect that John was drinking. I don't mean for a moment that he was drunk, or that he was openly cruel to me. But at times he seemed to act so queerly, and I noticed that one night when by accident I left a bottle of raspberry vinegar on the sideboard overnight, it was all gone in the morning. Two or three times when McQueen and John were to play cribbage, John would fetch home two or three bottles of bevo with him and they would sit sipping all evening. I think he was drinking bevo by himself, too, though I could never be sure of it. At any rate he often seemed queer and restless in the evenings, and instead of staying in his den he would wander all over the house. Once we heard him--I mean Mother and I and two lady friends who were with us that evening--quite late (after ten o'clock) apparently moving about in the pantry. "John," I called, "is that you?" "Yes, Minn," he answered, quietly enough, I admit. "What are you doing there?" I asked. "Looking for something to eat," he said. "John," I said, "you are forgetting what is due to me as your wife. You were fed at six. Go back." He went. But yet I felt more and more that his love must be dwindling to make him act as he did. I thought it all over wearily enough and asked myself whether I had done everything I should to hold my husband's love. I had kept him in at nights. I had cut down his smoking. I had stopped his playing cards. What more was there that I could do? * * * * * So at last the conviction came to me that I must go away. I felt that I must get away somewhere and think things out. At first I thought of Palm Beach, but the season had not opened and I felt somehow that I couldn't wait. I wanted to get away somewhere by myself and just face things as they were. So one morning I said to John, "John, I think I'd like to go off somewhere for a little time, just to be by myself, dear, and I don't want you to ask to come with me or to follow me, but just let me go." John said, "All right, Minn. When are you going to start?" The cold brutality of it cut me to the heart, and I went upstairs and had a good cry and looked over steamship and railroad folders. I thought of Havana for a while, because the pictures of the harbour and the castle and the queer Spanish streets looked so attractive, but then I was afraid that at Havana a woman alone by herself might be simply persecuted by attentions from gentlemen. They say the Spanish temperament is something fearful. So I decided on Bermuda instead. I felt that in a beautiful, quiet place like Bermuda I could think everything all over and face things, and it said on the folder that there were always at least two English regiments in garrison there, and the English officers, whatever their faults, always treat a woman with the deepest respect. So I said nothing more to John, but in the next few days I got all my arrangements made and my things packed. And when the last afternoon came I sat down and wrote John a long letter, to leave on my boudoir table, telling him that I had gone to Bermuda. I told him that I wanted to be alone: I said that I couldn't tell when I would be back--that it might be months, or it might be years, and I hoped that he would try to be as happy as he could and forget me entirely, and to send me money on the first of every month. * * * * * Well, it was just at that moment that one of those strange coincidences happen, little things in themselves, but which seem to alter the whole course of a person's life. I had nearly finished the letter to John that I was to leave on the writing-desk, when just then the maid came up to my room with a telegram. It was for John, but I thought it my duty to open it and read it for him before I left. And I nearly fainted when I saw that it was from a lawyer in Bermuda--of all places--and it said that a legacy of two hundred thousand dollars had been left to John by an uncle of his who had died there, and asking for instructions about the disposition of it. A great wave seemed to sweep over me, and all the wicked thoughts that had been in my mind--for I saw now that they _were_ wicked--were driven clean away. I thought how completely lost poor old John would feel if all this money came to him and he didn't have to work any more and had no one at his side to help and guide him in using it. I tore up the wicked letter I had written, and I hurried as fast as I could to pack up a valise with John's things (my own were packed already, as I said). Then presently John came in, and I broke the news to him as gently and as tenderly as I could about his uncle having left him the money and having died. I told him that I had found out all about the trains and the Bermuda steamer, and had everything all packed and ready for us to leave at once. John seemed a little dazed about it all, and kept saying that his uncle had taught him to play tennis when he was a little boy, and he was very grateful and thankful to me for having everything arranged, and thought it wonderful. I had time to telephone to a few of my women friends, and they just managed to rush round for a few minutes to say good-bye. I couldn't help crying a little when I told them about John's uncle dying so far away with none of us near him, and I told them about the legacy, and they cried a little to hear of it all; and when I told them that John and I might not come back direct from Bermuda, but might take a run over to Europe first, they all cried some more. We left for New York that evening, and after we had been to Bermuda and arranged about a suitable monument for John's uncle and collected the money, we sailed for Europe. All through the happy time that has followed, I like to think that through all our trials and difficulties affliction brought us safely together at last. III THE SPLIT IN THE CABINET OR, THE FATE OF ENGLAND (_A political novel of the Days that Were_) _III.--The Split in the Cabinet; or, The Fate of England._ CHAPTER I "The fate of England hangs upon it," murmured Sir John Elphinspoon, as he sank wearily into an armchair. For a moment, as he said "England," the baronet's eye glistened and his ears lifted as if in defiance, but as soon as he stopped saying it his eye lost its brilliance and his ears dropped wearily at the sides of his head. Lady Elphinspoon looked at her husband anxiously. She could not conceal from herself that his face, as he sank into his chair, seemed somehow ten years older than it had been ten years ago. "You are home early, John?" she queried. "The House rose early, my dear," said the baronet. "For the All England Ping-Pong match?" "No, for the Dog Show. The Prime Minister felt that the Cabinet ought to attend. He said that their presence there would help to bind the colonies to us. I understand also that he has a pup in the show himself. He took the Cabinet with him." "And why not you?" asked Lady Elphinspoon. "You forget, my dear," said the baronet, "as Foreign Secretary my presence at a Dog Show might be offensive to the Shah of Persia. Had it been a Cat Show----" The baronet paused and shook his head in deep gloom. "John," said his wife, "I feel that there is something more. Did anything happen at the House?" Sir John nodded. "A bad business," he said. "The Wazuchistan Boundary Bill was read this afternoon for the third time." No woman in England, so it was generally said, had a keener political insight than Lady Elphinspoon. "The third time," she repeated thoughtfully, "and how many more will it have to go?" Sir John turned his head aside and groaned. "You are faint," exclaimed Lady Elphinspoon, "let me ring for tea." The baronet shook his head. "An egg, John--let me beat you up an egg." "Yes, yes," murmured Sir John, still abstracted, "beat it, yes, do beat it." Lady Elphinspoon, in spite of her elevated position as the wife of the Foreign Secretary of Great Britain, held it not beneath her to perform for her husband the plainest household service. She rang for an egg. The butler broke it for her into a tall goblet filled with old sherry, and the noble lady, with her own hands, beat the stuff out of it. For the veteran politician, whose official duties rarely allowed him to eat, an egg was a sovereign remedy. Taken either in a goblet of sherry or in a mug of rum, or in half a pint of whisky, it never failed to revive his energies. The effect of the egg was at once visible in the brightening of his eye and the lengthening of his ears. "And now explain to me," said his wife, "what has happened. What _is_ this Boundary Bill?" "We never meant it to pass," said Sir John. "It was introduced only as a sop to public opinion. It delimits our frontier in such a way as to extend our suzerainty over the entire desert of El Skrub. The Wazoos have claimed that this is their desert. The hill tribes are restless. If we attempt to advance the Wazoos will rise. If we retire it deals a blow at our prestige." Lady Elphinspoon shuddered. Her long political training had taught her that nothing was so fatal to England as to be hit in the prestige. "And on the other hand," continued Sir John, "if we move sideways, the Ohulîs, the mortal enemies of the Wazoos, will strike us in our rear." "In our rear!" exclaimed Lady Elphinspoon in a tone of pain. "Oh, John, we must go forward. Take another egg." "We cannot," groaned the Foreign Secretary. "There are reasons which I cannot explain even to you, Caroline, reasons of State, which absolutely prevent us from advancing into Wazuchistan. Our hands are tied. Meantime if the Wazoos rise, it is all over with us. It will split the Cabinet." "Split the Cabinet!" repeated Lady Elphinspoon in alarm. She well knew that next to a blow in the prestige the splitting of the Cabinet was about the worst thing that could happen to Great Britain. "Oh, John, they _must_ be held together at all costs. Can nothing be done?" "Everything is being done that can be. The Prime Minister has them at the Dog Show at this moment. To-night the Chancellor is taking them to moving pictures. And to-morrow--it is a State secret, my dear, but it will be very generally known in the morning--we have seats for them all at the circus. If we can hold them together all is well, but if they split we are undone. Meantime our difficulties increase. At the very passage of the Bill itself a question was asked by one of the new labour members, a miner, my dear, a quite uneducated man----" "Yes?" queried Lady Elphinspoon. "He asked the Colonial Secretary"--Sir John shuddered--"to tell him where Wazuchistan is. Worse than that, my dear," added Sir John, "he defied him to tell him where it is." "What did you do? Surely he has no right to information of that sort?" "It was a close shave. Luckily the Whips saved us. They got the Secretary out of the House and rushed him to the British Museum. When he got back he said that he would answer the question a month from Friday. We got a great burst of cheers, but it was a close thing. But stop, I must speak at once with Powers. My despatch box, yes, here it is. Now where is young Powers? There is work for him to do at once." "Mr. Powers is in the conservatory with Angela," said Lady Elphinspoon. "With Angela!" exclaimed Sir John, while a slight shade of displeasure appeared upon his brow. "With Angela again! Do you think it quite proper, my dear, that Powers should be so constantly with Angela?" "John," said his wife, "you forget, I think, who Mr. Powers is. I am sure that Angela knows too well what is due to her rank, and to herself, to consider Mr. Powers anything more than an instructive companion. And I notice that, since Mr. Powers has been your secretary, Angela's mind is much keener. Already the girl has a wonderful grasp on foreign policy. Only yesterday I heard her asking the Prime Minister at luncheon whether we intend to extend our Senegambian protectorate over the Fusees. He was delighted." "Oh, very well, very well," said Sir John. Then he rang a bell for a manservant. "Ask Mr. Powers," he said, "to be good enough to attend me in the library." CHAPTER II Angela Elphinspoon stood with Perriton Powers among the begonias of the conservatory. The same news which had so agitated Sir John lay heavy on both their hearts. "Will the Wazoo rise?" asked Angela, clasping her hands before her, while her great eyes sought the young man's face and found it. "Oh, Mr. Powers! Tell me, will they rise? It seems too dreadful to contemplate. Do you think the Wazoo will rise?" "It is only too likely," said Powers. They stood looking into one another's eyes, their thoughts all on the Wazoo. Angelina Elphinspoon, as she stood there against the background of the begonias, made a picture that a painter, or even a plumber, would have loved. Tall and typically English in her fair beauty, her features, in repose, had something of the hauteur and distinction of her mother, and when in motion they recalled her father. Perriton Powers was even taller than Angela. The splendid frame and stern features of Sir John's secretary made him a striking figure. Yet he was, quite frankly, sprung from the people, and made no secret of it. His father had been simply a well-to-do London surgeon, who had been knighted for some mere discoveries in science. His grandfather, so it was whispered, had been nothing more than a successful banker who had amassed a fortune simply by successful banking. Yet at Oxford young Powers had carried all before him. He had occupied a seat, a front seat, in one of the boats, had got his blue and his pink, and had taken a double final in Sanscrit and Arithmetic. He had already travelled widely in the East, spoke Urdu and Hoodoo with facility, while as secretary to Sir John Elphinspoon, with a seat in the House in prospect, he had his foot upon the ladder of success. "Yes," repeated Powers thoughtfully, "they may rise. Our confidential despatches tell us that for some time they have been secretly passing round packets of yeast. The whole tribe is in a ferment." "But our sphere of influence is at stake," exclaimed Angela. "It is," said Powers. "As a matter of fact, for over a year we have been living on a mere _modus vivendi_." "Oh, Mr. Powers," cried Angela, "what a way to live." "We have tried everything," said the secretary. "We offered the Wazoo a condominium over the desert of El Skrub. They refused it." "But it's our desert," said Angela proudly. "It is. But what can we do? The best we can hope is that El Boob will acquiesce in the _status quo_." At that moment a manservant appeared in the doorway of the conservatory. "Mr. Powers, sir," he said, "Sir John desires your attendance, sir, in the library, sir." Powers turned to Angela, a new seriousness upon his face. "Miss Elphinspoon," he said, "I think I know what is coming. Will you wait for me here? I shall be back in half an hour." "I will wait," said the girl. She sat down and waited among the begonias, her mind still on the Wazoo, her whole intense nature strung to the highest pitch. "Can the _modus vivendi_ hold?" she murmured. In half an hour Powers returned. He was wearing now his hat and light overcoat, and carried on a strap round his neck a tin box with a white painted label, "_British Foreign Office. Confidential Despatches. This Side Up With Care._" "Miss Elphinspoon," he said, and there was a new note in his voice, "Angela, I leave England to-night----" "To-night!" gasped Angela. "On a confidential mission." "To Wazuchistan!" exclaimed the girl. Powers paused a moment. "To Wazuchistan," he said, "yes. But it must not be known. I shall return in a month--or never. If I fail"--he spoke with an assumed lightness--"it is only one more grave among the hills. If I succeed, the Cabinet is saved, and with it the destiny of England." "Oh, Mr. Powers," cried Angela, rising and advancing towards him, "how splendid! How noble! No reward will be too great for you." "My reward," said Powers, and as he spoke he reached out and clasped both of the girl's hands in his own, "yes, my reward. May I come and claim it here?" For a moment he looked straight into her eyes. In the next he was gone, and Angela was alone. "His reward!" she murmured. "What could he have meant? His reward that he is to claim. What can it be?" But she could not divine it. She admitted to herself that she had not the faintest idea. CHAPTER III In the days that followed all England was thrilled to its base as the news spread that the Wazoo might rise at any moment. "Will the Wazoos rise?" was the question upon every lip. In London men went to their offices with a sense of gloom. At lunch they could hardly eat. A feeling of impending disaster pervaded all ranks. Sir John as he passed to and fro to the House was freely accosted in the streets. "Will the Wazoos rise, sir?" asked an honest labourer. "Lord help us all, sir, if they do." Sir John, deeply touched, dropped a shilling in the honest fellow's hat, by accident. At No. 10 Downing Street, women of the working class, with children in their arms, stood waiting for news. On the Exchange all was excitement. Consols fell two points in twenty-four hours. Even raising the Bank rate and shutting the door brought only a temporary relief. Lord Glump, the greatest financial expert in London, was reported as saying that if the Wazoos rose England would be bankrupt in forty-eight hours. Meanwhile, to the consternation of the whole nation, the Government did nothing. The Cabinet seemed to be paralysed. On the other hand the Press became all the more clamorous. The London _Times_ urged that an expedition should be sent at once. Twenty-five thousand household troops, it argued, should be sent up the Euphrates or up the Ganges or up something without delay. If they were taken in flat boats, carried over the mountains on mules, and lifted across the rivers in slings, they could then be carried over the desert on jackasses. They could reach Wazuchistan in two years. Other papers counselled moderation. The _Manchester Guardian_ recalled the fact that the Wazoos were a Christian people. Their leader, El Boob, so it was said, had accepted Christianity with childlike simplicity and had asked if there was any more of it. The _Spectator_ claimed that the Wazoos, or more properly the Wazi, were probably the descendants of an Iranic or perhaps Urgumic stock. It suggested the award of a Rhodes Scholarship. It looked forward to the days when there would be Wazoos at Oxford. Even the presence of a single Wazoo, or, more accurately, a single Wooz, would help. With each day the news became more ominous. It was reported in the Press that a Wazoo, inflamed apparently with _ghee_, or perhaps with _bhong_, had rushed up to the hills and refused to come down. It was said that the Shriek-el-Foozlum, the religious head of the tribe, had torn off his suspenders and sent them to Mecca. That same day the _Illustrated London News_ published a drawing "Wazoo Warriors Crossing a River and Shouting, Ho!" and the general consternation reached its height. Meantime, for Sir John and his colleagues, the question of the hour became, "Could the Cabinet be held together?" Every effort was made. The news that the Cabinet had all been seen together at the circus, for a moment reassured the nation. But the rumour spread that the First Lord of the Admiralty had said that the clowns were a bum lot. The Radical Press claimed that if he thought so he ought to resign. On the fatal Friday the question already referred to was scheduled for its answer. The friends of the Government counted on the answer to restore confidence. To the consternation of all, the expected answer was not forthcoming. The Colonial Secretary rose in his place, visibly nervous. Ministers, he said, had been asked where Wazuchistan was. They were not prepared, at the present delicate stage of negotiations, to say. More hung upon the answer than Ministers were entitled to divulge. They could only appeal to the patriotism of the nation. He could only say this, that _wherever_ it was, and he used the word _wherever_ with all the emphasis of which he was capable, the Government would accept the full responsibility for its being where it was. The House adjourned in something like confusion. Among those seated behind the grating of the Ladies' Gallery was Lady Elphinspoon. Her quick instinct told her the truth. Driving home, she found her husband seated, crushed, in his library. "John," she said, falling on her knees and taking her husband's hands in hers, "is this true? Is this the dreadful truth?" "I see you have divined it, Caroline," said the statesman sadly. "It is the truth. We don't know where Wazuchistan is." For a moment there was silence. "But, John, how could it have happened?" "We thought the Colonial Office knew. We were confident that they knew. The Colonial Secretary had stated that he had been there. Later on it turned out that he meant Saskatchewan. Of course they thought _we_ knew. And we both thought that the Exchequer must know. We understood that they had collected a hut tax for ten years." "And hadn't they?" "Not a penny. The Wazoos live in tents." "But, surely," pleaded Lady Elphinspoon, "you could find out. Had you no maps?" Sir John shook his head. "We thought of that at once, my dear. We've looked all through the British Museum. Once we thought we had succeeded. But it turned out to be Wisconsin." "But the map in the _Times_? Everybody saw it." Again the baronet shook his head. "Lord Southcliff had it made in the office," he said. "It appears that he always does. Otherwise the physical features might not suit him." "But could you not send some one to see?" "We did. We sent Perriton Powers to find out where it was. We had a month to the good. It was barely time, just time. Powers has failed and we are lost. To-morrow all England will guess the truth and the Government falls." CHAPTER IV The crowd outside of No. 10 Downing Street that evening was so dense that all traffic was at a standstill. But within the historic room where the Cabinet were seated about the long table all was calm. Few could have guessed from the quiet demeanour of the group of statesmen that the fate of an Empire hung by a thread. Seated at the head of the table, the Prime Minister was quietly looking over a book of butterflies, while waiting for the conference to begin. Beside him the Secretary for Ireland was fixing trout flies, while the Chancellor of the Exchequer kept his serene face bent over upon his needlework. At the Prime Minister's right, Sir John Elphinspoon, no longer agitated, but sustained and dignified by the responsibility of his office, was playing spillikins. The little clock on the mantel chimed eight. The Premier closed his book of butterflies. "Well, gentlemen," he said, "I fear our meeting will not be a protracted one. It seems we are hopelessly at variance. You, Sir Charles," he continued, turning to the First Sea Lord, who was in attendance, "are still in favour of a naval expedition?" "Send it up at once," said Sir Charles. "Up where?" asked the Premier. "Up anything," answered the Old Sea Dog, "it will get there." Voices of dissent were raised in undertones around the table. "I strongly deprecate any expedition," said the Chancellor of the Exchequer, "I favour a convention with the Shriek. Let the Shriek sign a convention recognizing the existence of a supreme being and receiving from us a million sterling in acknowledgment." "And where will you _find_ the Shriek?" said the Prime Minister. "Come, come, gentlemen, I fear that we can play this comedy no longer. The truth is," he added with characteristic nonchalance, "we don't know where the bally place is. We can't meet the House to-morrow. We are hopelessly split. Our existence as a Government is at an end." But, at that very moment, a great noise of shouting and clamour rose from the street without. The Prime Minister lifted his hand for silence. "Listen," he said. One of the Ministers went to a window and opened it, and the cries outside became audible. "A King's Messenger! Make way for the King's Messenger!" The Premier turned quietly to Sir John. "Perriton Powers," he said. In another moment Perriton Powers stood before the Ministers. Bronzed by the tropic sun, his face was recognizable only by the assured glance of his eye. An Afghan _bernous_ was thrown back from his head and shoulders, while his commanding figure was draped in a long _chibuok_. A pair of pistols and a curved _yasmak_ were in his belt. "So you got to Wazuchistan all right," said the Premier quietly. "I went in by way of the Barooda," said Powers. "For many days I was unable to cross it. The waters of the river were wild and swollen with rains. To cross it seemed certain death----" "But at last you got over," said the Premier, "and then----" "I struck out over the Fahuri desert. For days and days, blinded by the sun, and almost buried in sand, I despaired." "But you got through it all right. And after that?" "My first care was to disguise myself. Staining myself from head to foot with betel nut----" "To look like a beetle," said the Premier. "Exactly. And so you got to Wazuchistan. Where is it and what is it?" "My lord," said Powers, drawing himself up and speaking with emphasis, "I got to where it was thought to be. There is no such place!" The whole Cabinet gave a start of astonishment. "No such place!" they repeated. "What about El Boob?" asked the Chancellor. "There is no such person." "And the Shriek-el-Foozlum?" Powers shook his head. "But do you mean to say," said the Premier in astonishment, "that there are no Wazoos? There you _must_ be wrong. True we don't just know where they are. But our despatches have shown too many signs of active trouble traced directly to the Wazoos to disbelieve in them. There are Wazoos somewhere, there--there _must_ be." "The Wazoos," said Powers, "are there. But they are Irish. So are the Ohulîs. They are both Irish." "But how the devil did they get out there?" questioned the Premier. "And why did they make the trouble?" "The Irish, my lord," interrupted the Chief Secretary for Ireland, "are everywhere, and it is their business to make trouble." "Some years ago," continued Powers, "a few Irish families settled out there. The Ohulîs should be properly called the O'Hooleys. The word Wazoo is simply the Urdu for McGinnis. El Boob is the Urdu for the Arabic El Papa, the Pope. It was my knowledge of Urdu, itself an agglutinative language----" "Precisely," said the Premier. Then he turned to his Cabinet. "Well, gentlemen, our task is now simplified. If they are Irish, I think we know exactly what to do. I suppose," he continued, turning to Powers, "that they want some kind of Home Rule." "They do," said Powers. "Separating, of course, the Ohulî counties from the Wazoo?" "Yes," said Powers. "Precisely; the thing is simplicity itself. And what contribution will they make to the Imperial Exchequer?" "None." "And will they pay their own expenses?" "They refuse to." "Exactly. All this is plain sailing. Of course they must have a constabulary. Lord Edward," continued the Premier, turning now to the Secretary of War, "how long will it take to send in a couple of hundred constabulary? I think they'll expect it, you know. It's their right." "Let me see," said Lord Edward, calculating quickly, with military precision, "sending them over the Barooda in buckets and then over the mountains in baskets--I think in about two weeks." "Good," said the Premier. "Gentlemen, we shall meet the House to-morrow. Sir John, will you meantime draft us an annexation bill? And you, young man, what you have done is really not half bad. His Majesty will see you to-morrow. I am glad that you are safe." "On my way home," said Powers, with quiet modesty, "I was attacked by a lion----" "But you beat it off," said the Premier. "Exactly. Good night." CHAPTER V It was on the following afternoon that Sir John Elphinspoon presented the Wazoo Annexation Bill to a crowded and breathless House. Those who know the House of Commons know that it has its moods. At times it is grave, earnest, thoughtful. At other times it is swept with emotion which comes at it in waves. Or at times, again, it just seems to sit there as if it were stuffed. But all agreed that they had never seen the House so hushed as when Sir John Elphinspoon presented his Bill for the Annexation of Wazuchistan. And when at the close of a splendid peroration he turned to pay a graceful compliment to the man who had saved the nation, and thundered forth to the delighted ears of his listeners-- _Arma virumque cano Wazoo qui primus ab oris_, and then, with the words "England, England," still on his lips, fell over backwards and was carried out on a stretcher, the House broke into wild and unrestrained applause. CHAPTER VI The next day Sir Perriton Powers--for the King had knighted him after breakfast--stood again in the conservatory of the house in Carlton Terrace. "I have come for my reward," he said. "Do I get it?" "You do," said Angela. Sir Perriton clasped her in his arms. "On my way home," he said, "I was attacked by a lion. I tried to beat it----" "Hush, dearest," she whispered, "let me take you to father." IV WHO DO YOU THINK DID IT? OR, THE MIXED-UP MURDER MYSTERY (_Done after the very latest fashion in this sort of thing_) _IV.--Who Do You Think Did It? or, The Mixed-Up Murder Mystery._ _NOTE.--Any reader who guesses correctly who did it is entitled (in all fairness) to a beautiful gold watch and chain._ CHAPTER I HE DINED WITH ME LAST NIGHT The afternoon edition of the _Metropolitan Planet_ was going to press. Five thousand copies a minute were reeling off its giant cylinders. A square acre of paper was passing through its presses every hour. In the huge _Planet_ building, which dominated Broadway, employés, compositors, reporters, advertisers, surged to and fro. Placed in a single line (only, of course, they wouldn't be likely to consent to it) they would have reached across Manhattan Island. Placed in two lines, they would probably have reached twice as far. Arranged in a procession they would have taken an hour in passing a saloon: easily that. In the whole vast building all was uproar. Telephones, megaphones and gramophones were ringing throughout the building. Elevators flew up and down, stopping nowhere. Only in one place was quiet--namely, in the room where sat the big man on whose capacious intellect the whole organization depended. Masterman Throgton, the general manager of the _Planet_, was a man in middle life. There was something in his massive frame which suggested massiveness, and a certain quality in the poise of his great head which indicated a balanced intellect. His face was impenetrable and his expression imponderable. The big chief was sitting in his swivel chair with ink all round him. Through this man's great brain passed all the threads and filaments that held the news of a continent. Snap one, and the whole continent would stop. At the moment when our story opens (there was no sense in opening it sooner), a written message had just been handed in. The Chief read it. He seemed to grasp its contents in a flash. "Good God!" he exclaimed. It was the strongest expression that this solid, self-contained, semi-detached man ever allowed himself. Anything stronger would have seemed too near to profanity. "Good God!" he repeated, "Kivas Kelly murdered! In his own home! Why, he dined with me last night! I drove him home!" For a brief moment the big man remained plunged in thought. But with Throgton the moment of musing was short. His instinct was to act. "You may go," he said to the messenger. Then he seized the telephone that stood beside him (this man could telephone almost without stopping thinking) and spoke into it in quiet, measured tones, without wasting a word. "Hullo, operator! Put me through to two, two, two, two, two. Is that two, two, two, two, two? Hullo, two, two, two, two, two; I want Transome Kent. Kent speaking? Kent, this is Throgton speaking. Kent, a murder has been committed at the Kelly residence, Riverside Drive. I want you to go and cover it. Get it all. Don't spare expense. The _Planet_ is behind you. Have you got car-fare? Right." In another moment the big chief had turned round in his swivel chair (at least forty degrees) and was reading telegraphic despatches from Jerusalem. That was the way he did things. CHAPTER II I MUST SAVE HER LIFE Within a few minutes Transome Kent had leapt into a car (a surface car) and was speeding north towards Riverside Drive with the full power of the car. As he passed uptown a newsboy was already calling, "Club Man Murdered! Another Club Man Murdered!" Carelessly throwing a cent to the boy, Kent purchased a paper and read the brief notice of the tragedy. Kivas Kelly, a well-known club man and _bon vivant_, had been found dead in his residence on Riverside Drive, with every indication--or, at least, with a whole lot of indications--of murder. The unhappy club man had been found, fully dressed in his evening clothes, lying on his back on the floor of the billiard-room, with his feet stuck up on the edge of the table. A narrow black scarf, presumably his evening tie, was twisted tightly about his neck by means of a billiard cue inserted in it. There was a quiet smile upon his face. He had apparently died from strangulation. A couple of bullet-holes passed through his body, one on each side, but they went out again. His suspenders were burst at the back. His hands were folded across his chest. One of them still held a white billiard ball. There was no sign of a struggle or of any disturbance in the room. A square piece of cloth was missing from the victim's dinner jacket. In its editorial columns the same paper discussed the more general aspects of the murder. This, it said, was the third club man murdered in the last fortnight. While not taking an alarmist view, the paper felt that the killing of club men had got to stop. There was a limit, a reasonable limit, to everything. Why should a club man be killed? It might be asked, why should a club man live? But this was hardly to the point. They do live. After all, to be fair, what does a club man ask of society? Not much. Merely wine, women and singing. Why not let him have them? Is it fair to kill him? Does the gain to literature outweigh the social wrong? The writer estimated that at the rate of killing now going on the club men would be all destroyed in another generation. Something should be done to conserve them. Transome Kent was not a detective. He was a reporter. After sweeping everything at Harvard in front of him, and then behind him, he had joined the staff of the _Planet_ two months before. His rise had been phenomenal. In his first week of work he had unravelled a mystery, in his second he had unearthed a packing scandal which had poisoned the food of the entire nation for ten years, and in his third he had pitilessly exposed some of the best and most respectable people in the metropolis. Kent's work on the _Planet_ consisted now almost exclusively of unravelling and unearthing, and it was natural that the manager should turn to him. The mansion was a handsome sandstone residence, standing in its own grounds. On Kent's arrival he found that the police had already drawn a cordon around it with cords. Groups of morbid curiosity-seekers hung about it in twos and threes, some of them in fours and fives. Policemen were leaning against the fence in all directions. They wore that baffled look so common to the detective force of the metropolis. "It seems to me," remarked one of them to the man beside him, "that there is an inexorable chain of logic about this that I am unable to follow." "So do I," said the other. The Chief Inspector of the Detective Department, a large, heavy-looking man, was standing beside a gate-post. He nodded gloomily to Transome Kent. "Are you baffled, Edwards?" asked Kent. "Baffled again, Mr. Kent," said the Inspector, with a sob in his voice. "I thought I could have solved this one, but I can't." He passed a handkerchief across his eyes. "Have a cigar, Chief," said Kent, "and let me hear what the trouble is." The Inspector brightened. Like all policemen, he was simply crazy over cigars. "All right, Mr. Kent," he said, "wait till I chase away the morbid curiosity-seekers." He threw a stick at them. "Now, then," continued Kent, "what about tracks, footmarks? Had you thought of them?" "Yes, first thing. The whole lawn is covered with them, all stamped down. Look at these, for instance. These are the tracks of a man with a wooden leg"--Kent nodded--"in all probability a sailor, newly landed from Java, carrying a Singapore walking-stick, and with a tin-whistle tied round his belt." "Yes, I see that," said Kent thoughtfully. "The weight of the whistle weighs him down a little on the right side." "Do you think, Mr. Kent, a sailor from Java with a wooden leg would commit a murder like this?" asked the Inspector eagerly. "Would he do it?" "He would," said the Investigator. "They generally do--as soon as they land." The Inspector nodded. "And look at these marks here, Mr. Kent. You recognize them, surely--those are the footsteps of a bar-keeper out of employment, waiting for the eighteenth amendment to pass away. See how deeply they sink in----" "Yes," said Kent, "he'd commit murder." "There are lots more," continued the Inspector, "but they're no good. The morbid curiosity-seekers were walking all over this place while we were drawing the cordon round it." "Stop a bit," said Kent, pausing to think a moment. "What about thumb-prints?" "Thumb-prints," said the Inspector. "Don't mention them. The house is full of them." "Any thumb-prints of Italians with that peculiar incurvature of the ball of the thumb that denotes a Sicilian brigand?" "There were three of those," said Inspector Edwards gloomily. "No, Mr. Kent, the thumb stuff is no good." Kent thought again. "Inspector," he said, "what about mysterious women? Have you seen any around?" "Four went by this morning," said the Inspector, "one at eleven-thirty, one at twelve-thirty, and two together at one-thirty. At least," he added sadly, "I think they were mysterious. All women look mysterious to me." "I must try in another direction," said Kent. "Let me reconstruct the whole thing. I must weave a chain of analysis. Kivas Kelly was a bachelor, was he not?" "He was. He lived alone here." "Very good, I suppose he had in his employ a butler who had been with him for twenty years----" Edwards nodded. "I suppose you've arrested him?" "At once," said the Inspector. "We always arrest the butler, Mr. Kent. They expect it. In fact, this man, Williams, gave himself up at once." "And let me see," continued the Investigator. "I presume there was a housekeeper who lived on the top floor, and who had been stone deaf for ten years?" "Precisely." "She had heard nothing during the murder?" "Not a thing. But this may have been on account of her deafness." "True, true," murmured Kent. "And I suppose there was a coachman, a thoroughly reliable man, who lived with his wife at the back of the house----" "But who had taken his wife over to see a relation on the night of the murder, and who did not return until an advanced hour. Mr. Kent, we've been all over that. There's nothing in it." "Were there any other persons belonging to the establishment?" "There was Mr. Kelly's stenographer, Alice Delary, but she only came in the mornings." "Have you seen her?" asked Kent eagerly. "What is she like?" "I have seen her," said the Inspector. "She's a looloo." "Ha," said Kent, "a looloo!" The two men looked into one another's eyes. "Yes," repeated Edwards thoughtfully, "a peach." A sudden swift flash of intuition, an inspiration, leapt into the young reporter's brain. This girl, this peach, at all hazards he must save her life. CHAPTER III I MUST BUY A BOOK ON BILLIARDS Kent turned to the Inspector. "Take me into the house," he said. Edwards led the way. The interior of the handsome mansion seemed undisturbed. "I see no sign of a struggle here," said Kent. "No," answered the Inspector gloomily. "We can find no sign of a struggle anywhere. But, then, we never do." He opened for the moment the door of the stately drawing-room. "No sign of a struggle there," he said. The closed blinds, the draped furniture, the covered piano, the muffled chandelier, showed absolutely no sign of a struggle. "Come upstairs to the billiard-room," said Edwards. "The body has been removed for the inquest, but nothing else is disturbed." They went upstairs. On the second floor was the billiard-room, with a great English table in the centre of it. But Kent had at once dashed across to the window, an exclamation on his lips. "Ha! ha!" he said, "what have we here?" The Inspector shook his head quietly. "The window," he said in a monotonous, almost sing-song tone, "has apparently been opened from the outside, the sash being lifted with some kind of a sharp instrument. The dust on the sill outside has been disturbed as if by a man of extraordinary agility lying on his stomach----Don't bother about that, Mr. Kent. It's _always_ there." "True," said Kent. Then he cast his eyes upward, and again an involuntary exclamation broke from him. "Did you see that trap-door?" he asked. "We did," said Edwards. "The dust around the rim has been disturbed. The trap opens into the hollow of the roof. A man of extraordinary dexterity might open the trap with a billiard cue, throw up a fine manila rope, climb up the rope and lie there on his stomach. "No use," continued the Inspector. "For the matter of that, look at this huge old-fashioned fireplace. A man of extraordinary precocity could climb up the chimney. Or this dumb-waiter on a pulley, for serving drinks, leading down into the maids' quarters. A man of extreme indelicacy might ride up and down in it." "Stop a minute," said Kent. "What is the meaning of that hat?" A light gossamer hat, gay with flowers, hung on a peg at the side of the room. "We thought of that," said Edwards, "and we have left it there. Whoever comes for that hat has had a hand in the mystery. We think----" But Transome Kent was no longer listening. He had seized the edge of the billiard table. "Look, look!" he cried eagerly. "The clue to the mystery! The positions of the billiard balls! The white ball in the very centre of the table, and the red just standing on the verge of the end pocket! What does it mean, Edwards, what does it mean?" He had grasped Edwards by the arm and was peering into his face. "I don't know," said the Inspector. "I don't play billiards." "Neither do I," said Kent, "but I can find out. Quick! The nearest book-store. I must buy a book on billiards." With a wave of the arm, Kent vanished. The Inspector stood for a moment in thought. "Gone!" he murmured to himself (it was his habit to murmur all really important speeches aloud to himself). "Now, why did Throgton telephone to me to put a watch on Kent? Ten dollars a day to shadow him! Why?" CHAPTER IV THAT IS NOT BILLIARD CHALK Meantime at the _Planet_ office Masterman Throgton was putting on his coat to go home. "Excuse me, sir," said an employé, "there's a lot of green billiard chalk on your sleeve." Throgton turned and looked the man full in the eye. "That is not billiard chalk," he said, "it is face powder." Saying which this big, imperturbable, self-contained man stepped into the elevator and went to the ground floor in one drop. CHAPTER V HAS ANYBODY HERE SEEN KELLY? The inquest upon the body of Kivas Kelly was held upon the following day. Far from offering any solution of what had now become an unfathomable mystery, it only made it deeper still. The medical testimony, though given by the most distinguished consulting expert of the city, was entirely inconclusive. The body, the expert testified, showed evident marks of violence. There was a distinct lesion of the oesophagus and a decided excoriation of the fibula. The mesodenum was gibbous. There was a certain quantity of flab in the binomium and the proscenium was wide open. One striking fact, however, was decided from the testimony of the expert, namely, that the stomach of the deceased was found to contain half a pint of arsenic. On this point the questioning of the district attorney was close and technical. Was it unusual, he asked, to find arsenic in the stomach? In the stomach of a club man, no. Was not half a pint a large quantity? He would not say that. Was it a small quantity? He should not care to say that it was. Would half a pint of arsenic cause death? Of a club man, no, not necessarily. That was all. The other testimony submitted to the inquest jury brought out various facts of a substantive character, but calculated rather to complicate than to unravel the mystery. The butler swore that on the very day of the murder he had served his master a half-pint of arsenic at lunch. But he claimed that this was quite a usual happening with his master. On cross-examination it appeared that he meant apollinaris. He was certain, however, that it was half a pint. The butler, it was shown, had been in Kivas Kelly's employ for twenty years. The coachman, an Irishman, was closely questioned. He had been in Mr. Kelly's employ for three years--ever since his arrival from the old country. Was it true that he had had, on the day of the murder, a violent quarrel with his master? It was. Had he threatened to kill him? No. He had threatened to knock his block off, but not to kill him. The coroner looked at his notes. "Call Alice Delary," he commanded. There was a deep sensation in the court as Miss Delary quietly stepped forward to her place in the witness-box. Tall, graceful and willowy, Alice Delary was in her first burst of womanhood. Those who looked at the beautiful girl realized that if her first burst was like this, what would the second, or the third be like? The girl was trembling, and evidently distressed, but she gave her evidence in a clear, sweet, low voice. She had been in Mr. Kelly's employ three years. She was his stenographer. But she came only in the mornings and always left at lunch-time. The question immediately asked by the jury--"Where did she generally have lunch?"--was disallowed by the coroner. Asked by a member of the jury what system of shorthand she used, she answered, "Pitman's." Asked by another juryman whether she ever cared to go to moving pictures, she said that she went occasionally. This created a favourable impression. "Miss Delary," said the district attorney, "I want to ask if it is your hat that was found hanging in the billiard-room after the crime?" "Don't you dare ask that girl that," interrupted the magistrate. "Miss Delary, you may step down." But the principal sensation of the day arose out of the evidence offered by Masterman Throgton, general manager of the _Planet_. Kivas Kelly, he testified, had dined with him at his club on the fateful evening. He had afterwards driven him to his home. "When you went into the house with the deceased," asked the district attorney, "how long did you remain there with him?" "That," said Throgton quietly, "I must refuse to answer." "Would it incriminate you?" asked the coroner, leaning forward. "It might," said Throgton. "Then you're perfectly right not to answer it," said the coroner. "Don't ask him that any more. Ask something else." "Then did you," questioned the attorney, turning to Throgton again, "play a game of billiards with the deceased?" "Stop, stop," said the coroner, "that question I can't allow. It's too direct, too brutal; there's something about that question, something mean, dirty. Ask another." "Very good," said the attorney. "Then tell me, Mr. Throgton, if you ever saw this blue envelope before?" He held up in his hand a long blue envelope. "Never in my life," said Throgton. "Of course he didn't," said the coroner. "Let's have a look at it. What is it?" "This envelope, your Honour, was found sticking out of the waistcoat pocket of the deceased." "You don't say," said the coroner. "And what's in it?" Amid breathless silence, the attorney drew forth a sheet of blue paper, bearing a stamp, and read: "This is the last will and testament of me, Kivas Kelly of New York. I leave everything of which I die possessed to my nephew, Peter Kelly." The entire room gasped. No one spoke. The coroner looked all around. "Has anybody here seen Kelly?" he asked. There was no answer. The coroner repeated the question. No one moved. "Mr. Coroner," said the attorney, "it is my opinion that if Peter Kelly is found the mystery is fathomed." Ten minutes later the jury returned a verdict of murder against a person or persons unknown, adding that they would bet a dollar that Kelly did it. The coroner ordered the butler to be released, and directed the issue of a warrant for the arrest of Peter Kelly. CHAPTER VI SHOW ME THE MAN WHO WORE THOSE BOOTS The remains of the unhappy club man were buried on the following day as reverently as those of a club man can be. None followed him to the grave except a few morbid curiosity-seekers, who rode on top of the hearse. The great city turned again to its usual avocations. The unfathomable mystery was dismissed from the public mind. Meantime Transome Kent was on the trail. Sleepless, almost foodless, and absolutely drinkless, he was everywhere. He was looking for Peter Kelly. Wherever crowds were gathered, the Investigator was there, searching for Kelly. In the great concourse of the Grand Central Station, Kent moved to and fro, peering into everybody's face. An official touched him on the shoulder. "Stop peering into the people's faces," he said. "I am unravelling a mystery," Kent answered. "I beg your pardon, sir," said the man, "I didn't know." Kent was here, and everywhere, moving ceaselessly, pro and con, watching for Kelly. For hours he stood beside the soda-water fountains examining every drinker as he drank. For three days he sat on the steps of Masterman Throgton's home, disguised as a plumber waiting for a wrench. But still no trace of Peter Kelly. Young Kelly, it appeared, had lived with his uncle until a little less than three years ago. Then suddenly he had disappeared. He had vanished, as a brilliant writer for the New York Press framed it, as if the earth had swallowed him up. Transome Kent, however, was not a man to be baffled by initial defeat. A week later, the Investigator called in at the office of Inspector Edwards. "Inspector," he said, "I must have some more clues. Take me again to the Kelly residence. I must re-analyse my first diæresis." Together the two friends went to the house. "It is inevitable," said Kent, as they entered again the fateful billiard-room, "that we have overlooked something." "We always do," said Edwards gloomily. "Now tell me," said Kent, as they stood beside the billiard table, "what is your own theory, the police theory, of this murder? Give me your first theory first, and then go on with the others." "Our first theory, Mr. Kent, was that the murder was committed by a sailor with a wooden leg, newly landed from Java." "Quite so, quite proper," nodded Kent. "We knew that he was a sailor," the Inspector went on, dropping again into his sing-song monotone, "by the extraordinary agility needed to climb up the thirty feet of bare brick wall to the window--a landsman could not have climbed more than twenty; the fact that he was from the East Indies we knew from the peculiar knot about his victim's neck. We knew that he had a wooden leg----" The Inspector paused and looked troubled. "We knew it." He paused again. "I'm afraid I can't remember that one." "Tut, tut," said Kent gently, "you knew it, Edwards, because when he leaned against the billiard table the impress of his hand on the mahogany was deeper on one side than the other. The man was obviously top heavy. But you abandoned this first theory." "Certainly, Mr. Kent, we always do. Our second theory was----" But Kent had ceased to listen. He had suddenly stooped down and picked up something off the floor. "Ha ha!" he exclaimed. "What do you make of this?" He held up a square fragment of black cloth. "We never saw it," said Edwards. "Cloth," muttered Kent, "the missing piece of Kivas Kelly's dinner jacket." He whipped out a magnifying glass. "Look," he said, "it's been stamped upon--by a man wearing hob-nailed boots--made in Ireland--a man of five feet nine and a half inches high----" "One minute, Mr. Kent," interrupted the Inspector, greatly excited, "I don't quite get it." "The depth of the dint proves the lift of his foot," said Kent impatiently, "and the lift of the foot indicates at once the man's height. Edwards, find me the man who wore these boots and the mystery is solved!" At that very moment a heavy step, unmistakably to the trained ear that of a man in hob-nailed boots, was heard upon the stair. The door opened and a man stood hesitating in the doorway. Both Kent and Edwards gave a start, two starts, of surprise. The man was exactly five feet nine and a half inches high. He was dressed in coachman's dress. His face was saturnine and evil. It was Dennis, the coachman of the murdered man. "If you're Mr. Kent," he said, "there's a lady here asking for you." CHAPTER VII OH, MR. KENT, SAVE ME! In another moment an absolutely noiseless step was heard upon the stair. A young girl entered, a girl, tall, willowy and beautiful, in the first burst, or just about the first burst, of womanhood. It was Alice Delary. She was dressed with extreme taste, but Kent's quick eye noted at once that she wore no hat. "Mr. Kent," she cried, "you are Mr. Kent, are you not? They told me that you were here. Oh, Mr. Kent, help me, save me!" She seemed to shudder into herself a moment. Her breath came and went quickly. She reached out her two hands. "Calm yourself, my dear young lady," said Kent, taking them. "Don't let your breath come and go so much. Trust me. Tell me all." "Mr. Kent," said Delary, regaining her control, but still trembling, "I want my hat." Kent let go the beautiful girl's hands. "Sit down," he said. Then he went across the room and fetched the hat, the light gossamer hat, with flowers in it, that still hung on a peg. "Oh, I am so glad to get it back," cried the girl. "I can never thank you enough. I was afraid to come for it." "It is all right," said the Inspector. "The police theory was that it was the housekeeper's hat. You are welcome to it." Kent had been looking closely at the girl before him. "You have more to say than that," he said. "Tell me all." "Oh, I will, I will, Mr. Kent. That dreadful night! I was here. I saw, at least I heard it all." She shuddered. "Oh, Mr. Kent, it was dreadful! I had come back that evening to the library to finish some work. I knew that Mr. Kelly was to dine out and that I would be alone. I had been working quietly for some time when I became aware of voices in the billiard-room. I tried not to listen, but they seemed to be quarrelling, and I couldn't help hearing. Oh, Mr. Kent, was I wrong?" "No," said Kent, taking her hand a moment, "you were not." "I heard one say, 'Get your foot off the table, you've no right to put your foot on the table.' Then the other said, 'Well, you keep your stomach off the cushion then.'" The girl shivered. "Then presently one said, quite fiercely, 'Get back into balk there, get back fifteen inches,' and the other voice said, 'By God! I'll shoot from here.' Then there was a dead stillness, and then a voice almost screamed, 'You've potted me. You've potted me. That ends it.' And then I heard the other say in a low tone, 'Forgive me, I didn't mean it. I never meant it to end that way.' "I was so frightened, Mr. Kent, I couldn't stay any longer. I rushed downstairs and ran all the way home. Then next day I read what had happened, and I knew that I had left my hat there, and was afraid. Oh, Mr. Kent, save me!" "Miss Delary," said the Investigator, taking again the girl's hands and looking into her eyes, "you are safe. Tell me only one thing. The man who played against Kivas Kelly--did you see him?" "Only for one moment"--the girl paused--"through the keyhole." "What was he like?" asked Kent. "Had he an impenetrable face?" "He had." "Was there anything massive about his face?" "Oh, yes, yes, it was all massive." "Miss Delary," said Kent, "this mystery is now on the brink of solution. When I have joined the last links of the chain, may I come and tell you all?" She looked full in his face. "At any hour of the day or night," she said, "you may come." Then she was gone. CHAPTER VIII YOU ARE PETER KELLY Within a few moments Kent was at the phone. "I want four, four, four, four. Is that four, four, four, four? Mr. Throgton's house? I want Mr. Throgton. Mr. Throgton speaking? Mr. Throgton, Kent speaking. The Riverside mystery is solved." Kent waited in silence a moment. Then he heard Throgton's voice--not a note in it disturbed: "Has anybody found Kelly?" "Mr. Throgton," said Kent, and he spoke with a strange meaning in his tone, "the story is a long one. Suppose I relate it to you"--he paused, and laid a peculiar emphasis on what followed--"_over a game of billiards_." "What the devil do you mean?" answered Throgton. "Let me come round to your house and tell the story. There are points in it that I can best illustrate over a billiard table. Suppose I challenge you to a fifty point game before I tell my story." It required no little hardihood to challenge Masterman Throgton at billiards. His reputation at his club as a cool, determined player was surpassed by few. Throgton had been known to run nine, ten, and even twelve at a break. It was not unusual for him to drive his ball clear off the table. His keen eye told him infallibly where each of the three balls was; instinctively he knew which to shoot with. In Kent, however, he had no mean adversary. The young reporter, though he had never played before, had studied his book to some purpose. His strategy was admirable. Keeping his ball well under the shelter of the cushion, he eluded every stroke of his adversary, and in his turn caused his ball to leap or dart across the table with such speed as to bury itself in the pocket at the side. The score advanced rapidly, both players standing precisely equal. At the end of the first half-hour it stood at ten all. Throgton, a grim look upon his face, had settled down to work, playing with one knee on the table. Kent, calm but alive with excitement, leaned well forward to his stroke, his eye held within an inch of the ball. At fifteen they were still even. Throgton with a sudden effort forced a break of three; but Kent rallied and in another twenty minutes they were even again at nineteen all. But it was soon clear that Transome Kent had something else in mind than to win the game. Presently his opportunity came. With a masterly stroke, such as few trained players could use, he had potted his adversary's ball. The red ball was left over the very jaws of the pocket. The white was in the centre. Kent looked into Throgton's face. The balls were standing in the very same position on the table as on the night of the murder. "I did that on purpose," said Kent quietly. "What do you mean?" asked Throgton. "The position of those balls," said Kent. "Mr. Throgton, come into the library. I have something to say to you. You know already what it is." They went into the library. Throgton, his hand unsteady, lighted a cigar. "Well," he said, "what is it?" "Mr. Throgton," said Kent, "two weeks ago you gave me a mystery to solve. To-night I can give you the solution. Do you want it?" Throgton's face never moved. "Well," he said. "A man's life," Kent went on, "may be played out on a billiard table. A man's soul, Throgton, may be pocketed." "What devil's foolery is this?" said Throgton. "What do you mean?" "I mean that your crime is known--plotter, schemer that you are, you are found out--hypocrite, traitor; yes, Masterman Throgton, or rather--let me give you your true name-_Peter Kelly_, murderer, I denounce you!" Throgton never flinched. He walked across to where Kent stood, and with his open palm he slapped him over the mouth. "Transome Kent," he said, "you're a liar." Then he walked back to his chair and sat down. "Kent," he continued, "from the first moment of your mock investigation, I knew who you were. Your every step was shadowed, your every movement dogged. Transome Kent--by your true name, _Peter Kelly_, murderer, I denounce you." Kent walked quietly across to Throgton and dealt him a fearful blow behind the ear. "You're a liar," he said, "I am not Peter Kelly." They sat looking at one another. At that moment Throgton's servant appeared at the door. "A gentleman to see you, sir." "Who?" said Throgton. "I don't know, sir, he gave his card." Masterman Throgton took the card. On it was printed: _PETER KELLY_ CHAPTER IX LET ME TELL YOU THE STORY OF MY LIFE For a moment Throgton and Kent sat looking at one another. "Show the man up," said Throgton. A minute later the door opened and a man entered. Kent's keen eye analysed him as he stood. His blue clothes, his tanned face, and the extraordinary dexterity of his fingers left no doubt of his calling. He was a sailor. "Sit down," said Throgton. "Thank you," said the sailor, "it rests my wooden leg." The two men looked again. One of the sailor's legs was made of wood. With a start Kent noticed that it was made of East Indian sandalwood. "I've just come from Java," said Kelly quietly, as he sat down. Kent nodded. "I see it all now," he said. "Throgton, I wronged you. We should have known it was a sailor with a wooden leg from Java. There is no other way." "Gentlemen," said Peter Kelly, "I've come to make my confession. It is the usual and right thing to do, gentlemen, and I want to go through with it while I can." "One moment," said Kent, "do you mind interrupting yourself with a hacking cough?" "Thank you, sir," said Kelly, "I'll get to that a little later. Let me begin by telling you the story of my life." "No, no," urged Throgton and Kent, "don't do that!" Kelly frowned. "I think I have a right to," he said. "You've got to hear it. As a boy I had a wild, impulsive nature. Had it been curbed----" "But it wasn't," said Throgton. "What next?" "I was the sole relative of my uncle, and heir to great wealth. Pampered with every luxury, I was on a footing of----" "One minute," interrupted Kent, rapidly analysing as he listened. "How many legs had you then?" "Two--on a footing of ease and indolence. I soon lost----" "Your leg," said Throgton. "Mr. Kelly, pray come to the essential things." "I will," said the sailor. "Gentlemen, bad as I was, I was not altogether bad." "Of course not," said Kent and Throgton soothingly. "Probably not more than ninety per cent." "Even into my life, gentlemen, love entered. If you had seen her you would have known that she is as innocent as the driven snow. Three years ago she came to my uncle's house. I loved her. One day, hardly knowing what I was doing, I took her----" he paused. "Yes, yes," said Throgton and Kent, "you took her?" "To the Aquarium. My uncle heard of it. There was a violent quarrel. He disinherited me and drove me from the house. I had a liking for the sea from a boy." "Excuse me," said Kent, "from what boy?" Kelly went right on. "I ran away as a sailor before the mast." "Pardon me," interrupted Kent, "I am not used to sea terms. Why didn't you run _behind_ the mast?" "Hear me out," said Kelly, "I am nearly done. We sailed for the East Indies--for Java. There a Malay pirate bit off my leg. I returned home, bitter, disillusioned, the mere wreck that you see. I had but one thought. I meant to kill my uncle." For a moment a hacking cough interrupted Kelly. Kent and Throgton nodded quietly to one another. "I came to his house at night. With the aid of my wooden leg I scaled the wall, lifted the window and entered the billiard-room. There was murder in my heart. Thank God I was spared from that. At the very moment when I got in, a light was turned on in the room and I saw before me--but no, I will not name her--my better angel. 'Peter!' she cried, then with a woman's intuition she exclaimed, 'You have come to murder your uncle. Don't do it.' My whole mood changed. I broke down and cried like a--like a----" Kelly paused a moment. "Like a boob," said Kent softly. "Go on." "When I had done crying, we heard voices. 'Quick,' she exclaimed, 'flee, hide, he must not see you.' She rushed into the adjoining room, closing the door. My eye had noticed already the trap above. I climbed up to it. Shall I explain how?" "Don't," said Kent, "I can analyse it afterwards." "There I saw what passed. I saw Mr. Throgton and Kivas Kelly come in. I watched their game. They were greatly excited and quarrelled over it. Throgton lost." The big man nodded with a scowl. "By his potting the white," he said. "Precisely," said Kelly, "he missed the red. Your analysis was wrong, Mr. Kent. The game ended. You started your reasoning from a false diæresis. In billiards people never mark the last point. The board still showed ninety-nine all. Throgton left and my uncle, as often happens, kept trying over the last shot--a half-ball shot, sir, with the red over the pocket. He tried again and again. He couldn't make it. He tried various ways. His rest was too unsteady. Finally he made his tie into a long loop round his neck and put his cue through it. 'Now, by gad!' he said, 'I can do it.'" "Ha!" said Kent. "Fool that I was." "Exactly," continued Kelly. "In the excitement of watching my uncle I forgot where I was, I leaned too far over and fell out of the trap. I landed on uncle, just as he was sitting on the table to shoot. He fell." "I see it all!" said Kent. "He hit his head, the loop tightened, the cue spun round and he was dead." "That's it," said Kelly. "I saw that he was dead, and I did not dare to remain. I straightened the knot in his tie, laid his hands reverently across his chest, and departed as I had come." "Mr. Kelly," said Throgton thoughtfully, "the logic of your story is wonderful. It exceeds anything in its line that I have seen published for months. But there is just one point that I fail to grasp. The two bullet holes?" "They were old ones," answered the sailor quietly. "My uncle in his youth had led a wild life in the west; he was full of them." There was silence for a moment. Then Kelly spoke again: "My time, gentlemen, is short." (A hacking cough interrupted him.) "I feel that I am withering. It rests with you, gentlemen, whether or not I walk out of this room a free man." Transome Kent rose and walked over to the sailor. "Mr. Kelly," he said, "here is my hand." CHAPTER X SO DO I A few days after the events last narrated, Transome Kent called at the boarding-house of Miss Alice Delary. The young Investigator wore a light grey tweed suit, with a salmon-coloured geranium in his buttonhole. There was something exultant yet at the same time grave in his expression, as of one who has taken a momentous decision, affecting his future life. "I wonder," he murmured, "whether I am acting for my happiness." He sat down for a moment on the stone steps and analysed himself. Then he rose. "I am," he said, and rang the bell. "Miss Delary?" said a maid, "she left here two days ago. If you are Mr. Kent, the note on the mantelpiece is for you." Without a word (Kent never wasted them) the Investigator opened the note and read: "Dear Mr. Kent, "Peter and I were married yesterday morning, and have taken an apartment in Java, New Jersey. You will be glad to hear that Peter's cough is ever so much better. The lawyers have given Peter his money without the least demur. "We both feel that your analysis was simply wonderful. Peter says he doesn't know where he would be without it. "Very sincerely, "Alice Kelly. "P.S.--I forgot to mention to you that I saw Peter in the billiard-room. But your analysis was marvellous just the same." That evening Kent sat with Throgton talking over the details of the tragedy. "Throgton," he said, "it has occurred to me that there were points about that solution that we didn't get exactly straight somehow." "So do I," said Throgton. V BROKEN BARRIERS OR, RED LOVE ON A BLUE ISLAND (_The kind of thing that has replaced the good Old Sea Story_) _V.--Broken Barriers; or, Red Love on a Blue Island._ It was on a bright August afternoon that I stepped on board the steamer _Patagonia_ at Southampton outward bound for the West Indies and the Port of New Orleans. I had at the time no presentiment of disaster. I remember remarking to the ship's purser, as my things were being carried to my state-room, that I had never in all my travels entered upon any voyage with so little premonition of accident. "Very good, Mr. Borus," he answered. "You will find your state-room in the starboard aisle on the right." I distinctly recall remarking to the Captain that I had never, in any of my numerous seafarings, seen the sea of a more limpid blue. He agreed with me so entirely, as I recollect it, that he did not even trouble to answer. Had anyone told me on that bright summer afternoon that our ship would within a week be wrecked among the Dry Tortugas, I should have laughed. Had anyone informed me that I should find myself alone on a raft in the Caribbean Sea, I should have gone into hysterics. We had hardly entered the waters of the Caribbean when a storm of unprecedented violence broke upon us. Even the Captain had never, so he said, seen anything to compare with it. For two days and nights we encountered and endured the full fury of the sea. Our soup plates were secured with racks and covered with lids. In the smoking-room our glasses had to be set in brackets, and as our steward came and went, we were from moment to moment in imminent danger of seeing him washed overboard. On the third morning just after daybreak the ship collided with something, probably either a floating rock or one of the dry Tortugas. She blew out her four funnels, the bowsprit dropped out of its place, and the propeller came right off. The Captain, after a brief consultation, decided to abandon her. The boats were lowered, and, the sea being now quite calm, the passengers were emptied into them. By what accident I was left behind I cannot tell. I had been talking to the second mate and telling him of a rather similar experience of mine in the China Sea, and holding him by the coat as I did so, when quite suddenly he took me by the shoulders, and rushing me into the deserted smoking-room said, "Sit there, Mr. Borus, till I come back for you." The fellow spoke in such a menacing way that I thought it wiser to comply. When I came out they were all gone. By good fortune I found one of the ship's rafts still lying on the deck. I gathered together such articles as might be of use and contrived, though how I do not know, to launch it into the sea. On my second morning on my raft I was sitting quietly polishing my boots and talking to myself when I became aware of an object floating in the sea close beside the raft. Judge of my feelings when I realized it to be the inanimate body of a girl. Hastily finishing my boots and stopping talking to myself, I made shift as best I could to draw the unhappy girl towards me with a hook. After several ineffectual attempts I at last managed to obtain a hold of the girl's clothing and drew her on to the raft. She was still unconscious. The heavy lifebelt round her person must (so I divined) have kept her afloat after the wreck. Her clothes were sodden, so I reasoned, with the sea-water. On a handkerchief which was still sticking into the belt of her dress, I could see letters embroidered. Realizing that this was no time for hesitation, and that the girl's life might depend on my reading her name, I plucked it forth. It was Edith Croyden. As vigorously as I could I now set to work to rub her hands. My idea was (partly) to restore her circulation. I next removed her boots, which were now rendered useless, as I argued, by the sea-water, and began to rub her feet. I was just considering what to remove next, when the girl opened her eyes. "Stop rubbing my feet," she said. "Miss Croyden," I said, "you mistake me." I rose, with a sense of pique which I did not trouble to conceal, and walked to the other end of the raft. I turned my back upon the girl and stood looking out upon the leaden waters of the Caribbean Sea. The ocean was now calm. There was nothing in sight. I was still searching the horizon when I heard a soft footstep on the raft behind me, and a light hand was laid upon my shoulder. "Forgive me," said the girl's voice. I turned about. Miss Croyden was standing behind me. She had, so I argued, removed her stockings and was standing in her bare feet. There is something, I am free to confess, about a woman in her bare feet which hits me where I live. With instinctive feminine taste the girl had twined a piece of seaweed in her hair. Seaweed, as a rule, gets me every time. But I checked myself. "Miss Croyden," I said, "there is nothing to forgive." At the mention of her name the girl blushed for a moment and seemed about to say something, but stopped. "Where are we?" she queried presently. "I don't know," I answered, as cheerily as I could, "but I am going to find out." "How brave you are!" Miss Croyden exclaimed. "Not at all," I said, putting as much heartiness into my voice as I was able to. The girl watched my preparations with interest. With the aid of a bent pin hoisted on a long pole I had no difficulty in ascertaining our latitude. "Miss Croydon," I said, "I am now about to ascertain our longitude. To do this I must lower myself down into the sea. Pray do not be alarmed or anxious. I shall soon be back." With the help of a long line I lowered myself deep down into the sea until I was enabled to ascertain, approximately at any rate, our longitude. A fierce thrill went through me at the thought that this longitude was our longitude, hers and mine. On the way up, hand over hand, I observed a long shark looking at me. Realizing that the fellow if voracious might prove dangerous, I lost but little time--indeed, I may say I lost absolutely no time--in coming up the rope. The girl was waiting for me. "Oh, I am so glad you have come back," she exclaimed, clasping her hands. "It was nothing," I said, wiping the water from my ears, and speaking as melodiously as I could. "Have you found our whereabouts?" she asked. "Yes," I answered. "Our latitude is normal, but our longitude is, I fear, at least three degrees out of the plumb. I am afraid, Miss Croyden," I added, speaking as mournfully as I knew how, "that you must reconcile your mind to spending a few days with me on this raft." "Is it as bad as that?" she murmured, her eyes upon the sea. In the long day that followed, I busied myself as much as I could with my work upon the raft, so as to leave the girl as far as possible to herself. It was, so I argued, absolutely necessary to let her feel that she was safe in my keeping. Otherwise she might jump off the raft and I should lose her. I sorted out my various cans and tins, tested the oil in my chronometer, arranged in neat order my various ropes and apparatus, and got my frying-pan into readiness for any emergency. Of food we had for the present no lack. With the approach of night I realized that it was necessary to make arrangements for the girl's comfort. With the aid of a couple of upright poles I stretched a grey blanket across the raft so as to make a complete partition. "Miss Croyden," I said, "this end of the raft is yours. Here you may sleep in peace." "How kind you are," the girl murmured. "You will be quite safe from interference," I added. "I give you my word that I will not obtrude upon you in any way." "How chivalrous you are," she said. "Not at all," I answered, as musically as I could. "Understand me, I am now putting my head over this partition for the last time. If there is anything you want, say so now." "Nothing," she answered. "There is a candle and matches beside you. If there is anything that you want in the night, call me instantly. Remember, at any hour I shall be here. I promise it." "Good night," she murmured. In a few minutes her soft regular breathing told me that she was asleep. I went forward and seated myself in a tar-bucket, with my head against the mast, to get what sleep I could. But for some time--why, I do not know--sleep would not come. The image of Edith Croyden filled my mind. In vain I told myself that she was a stranger to me: that--beyond her longitude--I knew nothing of her. In some strange way this girl had seized hold of me and dominated my senses. The night was very calm and still, with great stars in a velvet sky. In the darkness I could hear the water lapping the edge of the raft. I remained thus in deep thought, sinking further and further into the tar-bucket. By the time I reached the bottom of it I realized that I was in love with Edith Croyden. Then the thought of my wife occurred to me and perplexed me. Our unhappy marriage had taken place three years before. We brought to one another youth, wealth and position. Yet our marriage was a failure. My wife--for what reason I cannot guess--seemed to find my society irksome. In vain I tried to interest her with narratives of my travels. They seemed--in some way that I could not divine--to fatigue her. "Leave me for a little, Harold," she would say (I forgot to mention that my name is Harold Borus), "I have a pain in my neck." At her own suggestion I had taken a trip around the world. On my return she urged me to go round again. I was going round for the third time when the wrecking of the steamer had interrupted my trip. On my own part, too, I am free to confess that my wife's attitude had aroused in me a sense of pique, not to say injustice. I am not in any way a vain man. Yet her attitude wounded me. I would no sooner begin, "When I was in the Himalayas hunting the humpo or humped buffalo," than she would interrupt and say, "Oh, Harold, would you mind going down to the billiard-room and seeing if I left my cigarettes under the billiard-table?" When I returned, she was gone. By agreement we had arranged for a divorce. On my completion of my third voyage we were to meet in New Orleans. Clara was to go there on a separate ship, giving me the choice of oceans. Had I met Edith Croyden three months later I should have been a man free to woo and win her. As it was I was bound. I must put a clasp of iron on my feelings. I must wear a mask. Cheerful, helpful, and full of narrative, I must yet let fall no word of love to this defenceless girl. After a great struggle I rose at last from the tar-bucket, feeling, if not a brighter, at least a cleaner man. Dawn was already breaking. I looked about me. As the sudden beams of the tropic sun illumined the placid sea, I saw immediately before me, only a hundred yards away, an island. A sandy beach sloped back to a rocky eminence, broken with scrub and jungle. I could see a little stream leaping among the rocks. With eager haste I paddled the raft close to the shore till it ground in about ten inches of water. I leaped into the water. With the aid of a stout line, I soon made the raft fast to a rock. Then as I turned I saw that Miss Croyden was standing upon the raft, fully dressed, and gazing at me. The morning sunlight played in her hair, and her deep blue eyes were as soft as the Caribbean Sea itself. "Don't attempt to wade ashore, Miss Croyden," I cried in agitation. "Pray do nothing rash. The waters are simply infested with bacilli." "But how can I get ashore?" she asked, with a smile which showed all, or nearly all, of her pearl-like teeth. "Miss Croyden," I said, "there is only one way. I must carry you." In another moment I had walked back to the raft and lifted her as tenderly and reverently as if she had been my sister--indeed more so--in my arms. Her weight seemed nothing. When I get a girl like that in my arms I simply don't feel it. Just for one moment as I clasped her thus in my arms, a fierce thrill ran through me. But I let it run. When I had carried her well up the sand close to the little stream, I set her down. To my surprise, she sank down in a limp heap. The girl had fainted. I knew that it was no time for hesitation. Running to the stream, I filled my hat with water and dashed it in her face. Then I took up a handful of mud and threw it at her with all my force. After that I beat her with my hat. At length she opened her eyes and sat up. "I must have fainted," she said, with a little shiver. "I am cold. Oh, if we could only have a fire." "I will do my best to make one, Miss Croyden," I replied, speaking as gymnastically as I could. "I will see what I can do with two dry sticks." "With dry sticks?" queried the girl. "Can you light a fire with that? How wonderful you are!" "I have often seen it done," I replied thoughtfully; "when I was hunting the humpo, or humped buffalo, in the Himalayas, it was our usual method." "Have you really hunted the humpo?" she asked, her eyes large with interest. "I have indeed," I said, "but you must rest; later on I will tell you about it." "I wish you could tell me now," she said with a little moan. Meantime I had managed to select from the driftwood on the beach two sticks that seemed absolutely dry. Placing them carefully together, in Indian fashion, I then struck a match and found no difficulty in setting them on fire. In a few moments the girl was warming herself beside a generous fire. Together we breakfasted upon the beach beside the fire, discussing our plans like comrades. Our meal over, I rose. "I will leave you here a little," I said, "while I explore." With no great difficulty I made my way through the scrub and climbed the eminence of tumbled rocks that shut in the view. On my return Miss Croyden was still seated by the fire, her head in her hands. "Miss Croyden," I said, "we are on an island." "Is it inhabited?" she asked. "Once, perhaps, but not now. It is one of the many keys of the West Indies. Here, in old buccaneering days, the pirates landed and careened their ships." "How did they do that?" she asked, fascinated. "I am not sure," I answered. "I think with white-wash. At any rate, they gave them a good careening. But since then these solitudes are only the home of the sea-gull, the sea-mew, and the albatross." The girl shuddered. "How lonely!" she said. "Lonely or not," I said with a laugh (luckily I can speak with a laugh when I want to), "I must get to work." I set myself to work to haul up and arrange our effects. With a few stones I made a rude table and seats. I took care to laugh and sing as much as possible while at my work. The close of the day found me still busy with my labours. "Miss Croyden," I said, "I must now arrange a place for you to sleep." With the aid of four stakes driven deeply into the ground and with blankets strung upon them, I managed to fashion a sort of rude tent, roofless, but otherwise quite sheltered. "Miss Croyden," I said when all was done, "go in there." Then, with little straps which I had fastened to the blankets, I buckled her in reverently. "Good night, Miss Croyden," I said. "But you," she exclaimed, "where will you sleep?" "Oh, I?" I answered, speaking as exuberantly as I could, "I shall do very well on the ground. But be sure to call me at the slightest sound." Then I went out and lay down in a patch of cactus plants. I need not dwell in detail upon the busy and arduous days that followed our landing upon the island. I had much to do. Each morning I took our latitude and longitude. By this I then set my watch, cooked porridge, and picked flowers till Miss Croyden appeared. With every day the girl came forth from her habitation as a new surprise in her radiant beauty. One morning she had bound a cluster of wild arbutus about her brow. Another day she had twisted a band of convolvulus around her waist. On a third she had wound herself up in a mat of bulrushes. With her bare feet and wild bulrushes all around her, she looked as a cave woman might have looked, her eyes radiant with the Caribbean dawn. My whole frame thrilled at the sight of her. At times it was all I could do not to tear the bulrushes off her and beat her with the heads of them. But I schooled myself to restraint, and handed her a rock to sit upon, and passed her her porridge on the end of a shovel with the calm politeness of a friend. Our breakfast over, my more serious labours of the day began. I busied myself with hauling rocks or boulders along the sand to build us a house against the rainy season. With some tackle from the raft I had made myself a set of harness, by means of which I hitched myself to a boulder. By getting Miss Croyden to beat me over the back with a stick, I found that I made fair progress. But even as I worked thus for our common comfort, my mind was fiercely filled with the thought of Edith Croyden. I knew that if once the barriers broke everything would be swept away. Heaven alone knows the effort that it cost me. At times nothing but the sternest resolution could hold my fierce impulses in check. Once I came upon the girl writing in the sand with a stick. I looked to see what she had written. I read my own name "Harold." With a wild cry I leapt into the sea and dived to the bottom of it. When I came up I was calmer. Edith came towards me; all dripping as I was, she placed her hands upon my shoulders. "How grand you are!" she said. "I am," I answered; then I added, "Miss Croyden, for Heaven's sake don't touch me on the ear. I can't stand it." I turned from her and looked out over the sea. Presently I heard something like a groan behind me. The girl had thrown herself on the sand and was coiled up in a hoop. "Miss Croyden," I said, "for God's sake don't coil up in a hoop." I rushed to the beach and rubbed gravel on my face. With such activities, alternated with wild bursts of restraint, our life on the island passed as rapidly as in a dream. Had I not taken care to notch the days upon a stick and then cover the stick with tar, I could not have known the passage of the time. The wearing out of our clothing had threatened a serious difficulty. But by good fortune I had seen a large black and white goat wandering among the rocks and had chased it to a standstill. From its skin, leaving the fur still on, Edith had fashioned us clothes. Our boots we had replaced with alligator hide. I had, by a lucky chance, found an alligator upon the beach, and attaching a string to the fellow's neck I had led him to our camp. I had then poisoned the fellow with tinned salmon and removed his hide. Our costume was now brought into harmony with our surroundings. For myself, garbed in goatskin with the hair outside, with alligator sandals on my feet and with whiskers at least six inches long, I have no doubt that I resembled the beau ideal of a cave man. With the open-air life a new agility seemed to have come into my limbs. With a single leap in my alligator sandals I was enabled to spring into a coco-nut tree. As for Edith Croyden, I can only say that as she stood beside me on the beach in her suit of black goatskin (she had chosen the black spots) there were times when I felt like seizing her in the frenzy of my passion and hurling her into the sea. Fur always acts on me just like that. It was at the opening of the fifth week of our life upon the island that a new and more surprising turn was given to our adventure. It arose out of a certain curiosity, harmless enough, on Edith Croyden's part. "Mr. Borus," she said one morning, "I should like so much to see the rest of our island. Can we?" "Alas, Miss Croyden," I said, "I fear that there is but little to see. Our island, so far as I can judge, is merely one of the uninhabited keys of the West Indies. It is nothing but rock and sand and scrub. There is no life upon it. I fear," I added, speaking as jauntily as I could, "that unless we are taken off it we are destined to stay on it." "Still I should like to see it," she persisted. "Come on, then," I answered, "if you are good for a climb we can take a look over the ridge of rocks where I went up on the first day." We made our way across the sand of the beach, among the rocks and through the close matted scrub, beyond which an eminence of rugged boulders shut out the further view. Making our way to the top of this we obtained a wide look over the sea. The island stretched away to a considerable distance to the eastward, widening as it went, the complete view of it being shut off by similar and higher ridges of rock. But it was the nearer view, the foreground, that at once arrested our attention. Edith seized my arm. "Look, oh, look!" she said. Down just below us on the right hand was a similar beach to the one that we had left. A rude hut had been erected on it and various articles lay strewn about. Seated on a rock with their backs towards us were a man and a woman. The man was dressed in goatskins, and his whiskers, so I inferred from what I could see of them from the side, were at least as exuberant as mine. The woman was in white fur with a fillet of seaweed round her head. They were sitting close together as if in earnest colloquy. "Cave people," whispered Edith, "aborigines of the island." But I answered nothing. Something in the tall outline of the seated woman held my eye. A cruel presentiment stabbed me to the heart. In my agitation my foot overset a stone, which rolled noisily down the rocks. The noise attracted the attention of the two seated below us. They turned and looked searchingly towards the place where we were concealed. Their faces were in plain sight. As I looked at that of the woman I felt my heart cease beating and the colour leave my face. I looked into Edith's face. It was as pale as mine. "What does it mean?" she whispered. "Miss Croyden," I answered, "Edith--it means this. I have never found the courage to tell you. I am a married man. The woman seated there is my wife. And I love you." Edith put out her arms with a low cry and clasped me about the neck. "Harold," she murmured, "my Harold." "Have I done wrong?" I whispered. "Only what I have done too," she answered. "I, too, am married, Harold, and the man sitting there below, John Croyden, is my husband." With a wild cry such as a cave man might have uttered, I had leapt to my feet. "Your husband!" I shouted. "Then, by the living God, he or I shall never leave this place alive." He saw me coming as I bounded down the rocks. In an instant he had sprung to his feet. He gave no cry. He asked no question. He stood erect as a cave man would, waiting for his enemy. And there upon the sands beside the sea we fought, barehanded and weaponless. We fought as cave men fight. For a while we circled round one another, growling. We circled four times, each watching for an opportunity. Then I picked up a great handful of sand and threw it flap into his face. He grabbed a coco-nut and hit me with it in the stomach. Then I seized a twisted strand of wet seaweed and landed him with it behind the ear. For a moment he staggered. Before he could recover I jumped forward, seized him by the hair, slapped his face twice and then leaped behind a rock. Looking from the side I could see that Croyden, though half dazed, was feeling round for something to throw. To my horror I saw a great stone lying ready to his hand. Beside me was nothing. I gave myself up for lost, when at that very moment I heard Edith's voice behind me saying, "The shovel, quick, the shovel!" The noble girl had rushed back to our encampment and had fetched me the shovel. "Swat him with that," she cried. I seized the shovel, and with the roar of a wounded bull--or as near as I could make it--I rushed out from the rock, the shovel swung over my head. But the fight was all out of Croyden. "Don't strike," he said, "I'm all in. I couldn't stand a crack with that kind of thing." He sat down upon the sand, limp. Seen thus, he somehow seemed to be quite a small man, not a cave man at all. His goatskin suit shrunk in on him. I could hear his pants as he sat. "I surrender," he said. "Take both the women. They are yours." I stood over him leaning upon the shovel. The two women had closed in near to us. "I suppose you are _her_ husband, are you?" Croyden went on. I nodded. "I thought you were. Take her." Meantime Clara had drawn nearer to me. She looked somehow very beautiful with her golden hair in the sunlight, and the white furs draped about her. "Harold!" she exclaimed. "Harold, is it you? How strange and masterful you look. I didn't know you were so strong." I turned sternly towards her. "When I was alone," I said, "on the Himalayas hunting the humpo or humped buffalo----" Clara clasped her hands, looking into my face. "Yes," she said, "tell me about it." Meantime I could see that Edith had gone over to John Croyden. "John," she said, "you shouldn't sit on the wet sand like that. You will get a chill. Let me help you to get up." I looked at Clara and at Croyden. "How has this happened?" I asked. "Tell me." "We were on the same ship," Croyden said. "There came a great storm. Even the Captain had never seen----" "I know," I interrupted, "so had ours." "The ship struck a rock, and blew out her four funnels----" "Ours did too," I nodded. "The bowsprit was broken, and the steward's pantry was carried away. The Captain gave orders to leave the ship----" "It is enough, Croyden," I said, "I see it all now. You were left behind when the boats cleared, by what accident you don't know----" "I don't," said Croyden. "As best you could, you constructed a raft, and with such haste as you might you placed on it such few things----" "Exactly," he said, "a chronometer, a sextant----" "I know," I continued, "two quadrants, a bucket of water, and a lightning rod. I presume you picked up Clara floating in the sea." "I did," Croyden said; "she was unconscious when I got her, but by rubbing----" "Croyden," I said, raising the shovel again, "cut that out." "I'm sorry," he said. "It's all right. But you needn't go on. I see all the rest of your adventures plainly enough." "Well, I'm done with it all anyway," said Croyden gloomily. "You can do what you like. As for me, I've got a decent suit back there at our camp, and I've got it dried and pressed and I'm going to put it on." He rose wearily, Edith standing beside him. "What's more, Borus," he said, "I'll tell you something. This island is not uninhabited at all." "Not uninhabited!" exclaimed Clara and Edith together. I saw each of them give a rapid look at her goatskin suit. "Nonsense, Croyden," I said, "this island is one of the West Indian keys. On such a key as this the pirates used to land. Here they careened their ships----" "Did what to them?" asked Croyden. "Careened them all over from one end to the other," I said. "Here they got water and buried treasure; but beyond that the island was, and remained, only the home of the wild gull and the sea-mews----" "All right," said Croyden, "only it doesn't happen to be that kind of key. It's a West Indian island all right, but there's a summer hotel on the other end of it not two miles away." "A summer hotel!" we exclaimed. "Yes, a hotel. I suspected it all along. I picked up a tennis racket on the beach the first day; and after that I walked over the ridge and through the jungle and I could see the roof of the hotel. Only," he added rather shamefacedly, "I didn't like to tell her." "Oh, you coward!" cried Clara. "I could slap you." "Don't you dare," said Edith. "I'm sure you knew it as well as he did. And anyway, I was certain of it myself. I picked up a copy of last week's paper in a lunch-basket on the beach, and hid it from Mr. Borus. I didn't want to hurt his feelings." At that moment Croyden pointed with a cry towards the sea. "Look," he said, "for Heaven's sake, look!" He turned. Less than a quarter of a mile away we could see a large white motor launch coming round the corner. The deck was gay with awnings and bright dresses and parasols. "Great Heavens!" said Croyden. "I know that launch. It's the Appin-Joneses'." "The Appin-Joneses'!" cried Clara. "Why, we know them too. Don't you remember, Harold, the Sunday we spent with them on the Hudson?" Instinctively we had all jumped for cover, behind the rocks. "Whatever shall we do?" I exclaimed. "We must get our things," said Edith Croyden. "Jack, if your suit is ready run and get it and stop the launch. Mrs. Borus and Mr. Borus and I can get our things straightened up while you keep them talking. My suit is nearly ready anyway; I thought some one might come. Mr. Borus, would you mind running and fetching me my things, they're all in a parcel together? And perhaps if you have a looking-glass and some pins, Mrs. Borus, I could come over and dress with you." That same evening we found ourselves all comfortably gathered on the piazza of the Hotel Christopher Columbus. Appin-Jones insisted on making himself our host, and the story of our adventures was related again and again to an admiring audience, with the accompaniment of cigars and iced champagne. Only one detail was suppressed, by common instinct. Both Clara and I felt that it would only raise needless comment to explain that Mr. and Mrs. Croyden had occupied separate encampments. Nor is it necessary to relate our safe and easy return to New York. Both Clara and I found Mr. and Mrs. Croyden delightful travelling companions, though perhaps we were not sorry when the moment came to say good-bye. "The word 'good-bye,'" I remarked to Clara, as we drove away, "is always a painful one. Oddly enough when I was hunting the humpo, or humped buffalo, of the Himalayas----" "Do tell me about it, darling," whispered Clara, as she nestled beside me in the cab. VI THE KIDNAPPED PLUMBER A TALE OF THE NEW TIME (_Being one chapter--and quite enough---from the Reminiscences of an Operating Plumber_) _VI.--The Kidnapped Plumber: A Tale of the New Time._ "Personally," said Thornton, speaking for the first time, "I never care to take a case that involves cellar work." We were sitting--a little group of us--round about the fire in a comfortable corner of the Steam and Air Club. Our talk had turned, as always happens with a group of professional men, into more or less technical channels. I will not say that we were talking shop; the word has an offensive sound and might be misunderstood. But we were talking as only a group of practising plumbers--including some of the biggest men in the profession--would talk. With the exception of Everett, who had a national reputation as a Consulting Barber, and Thomas, who was a vacuum cleaner expert, I think we all belonged to the same profession. We had been holding a convention, and Fortescue, who had one of the biggest furnace practices in the country, had read us a paper that afternoon--a most revolutionary thing--on External Diagnosis of Defective Feed Pipes, and naturally the thing had bred discussion. Fortescue, who is one of the most brilliant men in the profession, had stoutly maintained his thesis that the only method of diagnosis for trouble in a furnace is to sit down in front of it and look at it for three days; others held out for unscrewing it and carrying it home for consideration; others of us, again, claimed that by tapping the affected spot with a wrench the pipe might be fractured in such a way as to prove that it was breakable. It was at this point that Thornton interrupted with his remark about never being willing to accept a cellar case. Naturally all the men turned to look at the speaker. Henry Thornton, at the time of which I relate, was at the height of his reputation. Beginning, quite literally, at the bottom of the ladder, he had in twenty years of practice as an operating plumber raised himself to the top of his profession. There was much in his appearance to suggest the underlying reasons of his success. His face, as is usual with men of our calling, had something of the dreamer in it, but the bold set of the jaw indicated determination of an uncommon kind. Three times President of the Plumbers' Association, Henry Thornton had enjoyed the highest honours of his chosen profession. His book on _Nut Coal_ was recognized as the last word on the subject, and had been crowned by the French Academy of Nuts. I suppose that one of the principal reasons for his success was his singular coolness and resource. I have seen Thornton enter a kitchen, with that quiet reassuring step of his, and lay out his instruments on the table, while a kitchen tap with a broken washer was sprizzling within a few feet of him, as calmly and as quietly as if he were in his lecture-room of the Plumbers' College. "You never go into a cellar?" asked Fortescue. "But hang it, man, I don't see how one can avoid it!" "Well, I do avoid it," answered Thornton, "at least as far as I possibly can. I send down my solderist, of course, but personally, unless it is absolutely necessary, I never go down." "That's all very well, my dear fellow," Fortescue cut in, "but you know as well as I do that you get case after case where the cellar diagnosis is simply vital. I had a case last week, a most interesting thing--" he turned to the group of us as he spoke--"a double lesion of a gas-pipe under a cement floor--half a dozen of my colleagues had been absolutely baffled. They had made an entirely false diagnosis, operated on the dining-room floor, which they removed and carried home, and when I was called in they had just obtained permission from the Stone Mason's Protective Association to knock down one side of the house." "Excuse me interrupting just a minute," interjected a member of the group who hailed from a distant city, "have you much trouble about that? I mean about knocking the sides out of houses?" "No trouble now," said Fortescue. "We did have. But the public is getting educated up to it. Our law now allows us to knock the side out of a house when we feel that we would really like to see what is in it. We are not allowed, of course, to build it up again." "No, of course not," said the other speaker. "But I suppose you can throw the bricks out on the lawn." "Yes," said Fortescue, "and sit on them to eat lunch. We had a big fight in the legislature over that, but we got it through." "Thank you, but I feel I am interrupting." "Well, I was only saying that, as soon as I had made up my mind that the trouble was in the cellar, the whole case was simple. I took my colleagues down at once, and we sat on the floor of the cellar and held a consultation till the overpowering smell of gas convinced me that there was nothing for it but an operation on the floor. The whole thing was most successful. I was very glad, as it happened that the proprietor of the house was a very decent fellow, employed, I think, as a manager of a bank, or something of the sort. He was most grateful. It was he who gave me the engraved monkey wrench that some of you were admiring before dinner. After we had finished the whole operation--I forgot to say that we had thrown the coal out on the lawn to avoid any complication--he quite broke down. He offered us to take his whole house and keep it." "You don't do that, do you?" asked the outsider. "Oh no, never," said Fortescue. "We've made a very strict professional rule against it. We found that some of the younger men were apt to take a house when they were given it, and we had to frown down on it. But, gentlemen, I feel that when Mr. Thornton says that he never goes down into a cellar there must be a story behind it. I think we should invite him to relate it to us." A murmur of assent greeted the speaker's suggestion. For myself I was particularly pleased, inasmuch as I have long felt that Thornton as a _raconteur_ was almost as interesting as in the rôle of an operating plumber. I have often told him that, if he had not happened to meet success in his chosen profession, he could have earned a living as a day writer: a suggestion which he has always taken in good part and without offence. Those of my readers who have looked through the little volume of Reminiscences which I have put together, will recall the narrative of _The Missing Nut_ and the little tale entitled _The Blue Blow Torch_ as instances in point. "Not much of a story, perhaps," said Thornton, "but such as it is you are welcome to it. So, if you will just fill up your glasses with raspberry vinegar, you may have the tale for what it is worth." We gladly complied with the suggestion and Thornton continued: "It happened a good many years ago at a time when I was only a young fellow fresh from college, very proud of my Plumb. B., and inclined to think that I knew it all. I had done a little monograph on _Choked Feed in the Blow Torch_, which had attracted attention, and I suppose that altogether I was about as conceited a young puppy as one would find in the profession. I should mention that at this time I was not married, but had set up a modest apartment of my own with a consulting-room and a single manservant. Naturally I could not afford the services of a solderist or a gassist and did everything for myself, though Simmons, my man, could at a pinch be utilized to tear down plaster and break furniture." Thornton paused to take a sip of raspberry vinegar and went on: "Well, then. I had come home to dinner particularly tired after a long day. I had sat in an attic the greater part of the afternoon (a case of top story valvular trouble) and had had to sit in a cramped position which practically forbade sleep. I was feeling, therefore, none too well pleased, when a little while after dinner the bell rang and Simmons brought word to the library that there was a client in the consulting-room. I reminded the fellow that I could not possibly consider a case at such an advanced hour unless I were paid emergency overtime wages with time and a half during the day of recovery." "One moment," interrupted the outside member. "You don't mention compensation for mental shock. Do you not draw that here?" "We do _now_" explained Thornton, "but the time of which I speak is some years ago and we still got nothing for mental shock, nor disturbance of equilibrium. Nowadays, of course, one would insist on a substantial retainer in advance. "Well, to continue. Simmons, to my surprise, told me that he had already informed the client of this fact, and that the answer had only been a plea that the case was too urgent to admit of delay. He also supplied the further information that the client was a young lady. I am afraid," added Thornton, looking round his audience with a sympathetic smile, "that Simmons (I had got him from Harvard and he had not yet quite learned his place) even said something about her being strikingly handsome." A general laugh greeted Thornton's announcement. "After all," said Fortescue, "I never could see why an Ice Man should be supposed to have a monopoly on gallantry." "Oh, I don't know," said Thornton. "For my part--I say it without affectation--the moment I am called in professionally, women, as women, cease to exist for me. I can stand beside them in the kitchen and explain to them the feed tap of a kitchen range without feeling them to be anything other than simply clients. And for the most part, I think, they reciprocate that attention. There are women, of course, who will call a man in with motives--but that's another story. I must get back to what I was saying. "On entering the consulting-room I saw at once that Simmons had exaggerated nothing in describing my young client as beautiful. I have seldom, even among our own class, seen a more strikingly handsome girl. She was dressed in a very plain and simple fashion which showed me at once that she belonged merely to the capitalist class. I am, as I think you know, something of an observer, and my eye at once noted the absence of heavy gold ear-rings and wrist-bangles. The blue feathers at the side of her hat were none of them more than six inches long, and the buttons on her jacket were so inconspicuous that one would hardly notice them. In short, while her dress was no doubt good and serviceable, there was an absence of _chic_, a lack of noise about it, that told at once the tale of narrow circumstances. "She was evidently in great distress. "'Oh, Mr. Thornton,' she exclaimed, advancing towards me, 'do come to our house at once. I simply don't know what to do.' "She spoke with great emotion, and seemed almost on the point of breaking into tears. "'Pray, calm yourself, my dear young lady,' I said, 'and try to tell me what is the trouble.' "'Oh, don't lose any time,' she said, 'do, do come at once.' "'We will lose no time' I said reassuringly, as I looked at my watch. 'It is now seven-thirty. We will reckon the time from now, with overtime at time and a half. But if I am to do anything for you I must have some idea of what has happened.' "'The cellar boiler,' she moaned, clasping her hands together, 'the cellar boiler won't work!' "'Ah!' I said soothingly. 'The cellar boiler won't work. Now tell me, is the feed choked, miss?' "'I don't know,' she exclaimed. "'Have you tried letting off the exhaust?' "She shook her head with a doleful look. "'I don't know what it is,' she said. "But already I was hastily gathering together a few instruments, questioning her rapidly as I did so. "'How's your pressure gauge?' I asked. 'How's your water? Do you draw from the mains or are you on the high level reservoir?' "It had occurred to me at once that it might be merely a case of stoppage of her main feed, complicated, perhaps, with a valvular trouble in her exhaust. On the other hand it was clear enough that, if her feed was full and her gauges working, her trouble was more likely a leak somewhere in her piping. "But all attempts to draw from the girl any clear idea of the symptoms were unavailing. All she could tell me was that the cellar boiler wouldn't work. Beyond that her answers were mere confusion. I gathered enough, however, to feel sure that her main feed was still working, and that her top story check valve was probably in order. With that I had to be content. "As a young practitioner, I had as yet no motor car. Simmons, however, summoned me a taxi, into which I hurriedly placed the girl and my basket of instruments, and was soon speeding in the direction she indicated. It was a dark, lowering night, with flecks of rain against the windows of the cab, and there was something in the lateness of the hour (it was now after half-past eight) and the nature of my mission which gave me a stimulating sense of adventure. The girl directed me, as I felt sure she would, towards the capitalist quarter of the town. We had soon sped away from the brightly lighted streets and tall apartment buildings among which my usual practice lay, and entered the gloomy and dilapidated section of the city where the unhappy capitalist class reside. I need not remind those of you who know it that it is scarcely a cheerful place to find oneself in after nightfall. The thick growth of trees, the silent gloom of the ill-lighted houses, and the rank undergrowth of shrubs give it an air of desolation, not to say danger. It is certainly not the place that a professional man would choose to be abroad in after dark. The inhabitants, living, so it is said, on their scanty dividends and on such parts of their income as our taxation is still unable to reach, are not people that one would care to fall in with after nightfall. "Since the time of which I speak we have done much to introduce a better state of things. The opening of day schools of carpentry, plumbing and calcimining for the children of the capitalist is already producing results. Strange though it may seem, one of the most brilliant of our boiler fitters of to-day was brought up haphazard in this very quarter of the town and educated only by a French governess and a university tutor. But at the time practically nothing had been done. The place was infested with consumers, and there were still, so it was said, servants living in some of the older houses. A butler had been caught one night in a thick shrubbery beside one of the gloomy streets. "We alighted at one of the most sombre of the houses, and our taxi-driver, with evident relief, made off in the darkness. "The girl admitted us into a dark hall, where she turned on an electric light. 'We have light,' she said, with that peculiar touch of pride that one sees so often in her class, 'we have four bulbs.' "Then she called down a flight of stairs that apparently led to the cellar: "'Father, the plumber has come. Do come up now, dear, and rest.' "A step sounded on the stairs, and there appeared beside us one of the most forbidding-looking men that I have ever beheld. I don't know whether any of you have ever seen an Anglican Bishop. Probably not. Outside of the bush, they are now never seen. But at the time of which I speak there were a few still here and there in the purlieus of the city. The man before us was tall and ferocious, and his native ferocity was further enhanced by the heavy black beard which he wore in open defiance of the compulsory shaving laws. His black shovel-shaped hat and his black clothes lent him a singularly sinister appearance, while his legs were bound in tight gaiters, as if ready for an instant spring. He carried in his hand an enormous monkey wrench, on which his fingers were clasped in a restless grip. "'Can you fix the accursed thing?' he asked. "I was not accustomed to being spoken to in this way, but I was willing for the girl's sake to strain professional courtesy to the limit. "'I don't know,' I answered, 'but if you will have the goodness first to fetch me a little light supper, I shall be glad to see what I can do afterwards.' "My firm manner had its effect. With obvious reluctance the fellow served me some biscuits and some not bad champagne in the dining-room. "The girl had meantime disappeared upstairs. "'If you're ready now,' said the Bishop, 'come on down.' "We went down to the cellar. It was a huge, gloomy place, with a cement floor, lighted by a dim electric bulb. I could see in the corner the outline of a large furnace (in those days the poorer classes had still no central heat) and near it a tall boiler. In front of this a man was kneeling, evidently trying to unscrew a nut, but twisting it the wrong way. He was an elderly man with a grey moustache, and was dressed, in open defiance of the law, in a military costume or uniform. "He turned round towards us and rose from his knees. "'I'm dashed if I can make the rotten thing go round,' he said. "'It's all right, General,' said the Bishop. 'I have brought a plumber.' "For the next few minutes my professional interest absorbed all my faculties. I laid out my instruments upon a board, tapped the boiler with a small hammer, tested the feed-tube, and in a few moments had made what I was convinced was a correct diagnosis of the trouble. "But here I encountered the greatest professional dilemma in which I have ever been placed. There was nothing wrong with the boiler at all. It connected, as I ascertained at once by a thermo-dynamic valvular test, with the furnace (in fact, I could see it did), and the furnace quite evidently had been allowed to go out. "What was I to do? If I told them this, I broke every professional rule of our union. If the thing became known I should probably be disbarred and lose my overalls for it. It was my plain professional duty to take a large hammer and knock holes in the boiler with it, smash up the furnace pipes, start a leak of gas, and then call in three or more of my colleagues. "But somehow I couldn't find it in my heart to do it. The thought of the girl's appealing face arose before me. "'How long has this trouble been going on?' I asked sternly. "'Quite a time,' answered the Bishop. 'It began, did it not, General, the same day that the confounded furnace went out? The General here and Admiral Hay and I have been working at it for three days.' "'Well, gentlemen,' I said, 'I don't want to read you a lesson on your own ineptitude, and I don't suppose you would understand it if I did. But don't you see that the whole trouble is _because_ you let the furnace out? The boiler itself is all right, but you see, gents, it feeds off the furnace.' "'Ah,' said the Bishop in a deep melodious tone, 'it feeds off the furnace. Now that is most interesting. Let me repeat that; I must try to remember it; it feeds _off_ the furnace. Just so.' "The upshot was that in twenty minutes we had the whole thing put to rights. I set the General breaking up boxes and had the Bishop rake out the clinkers, and very soon we had the furnace going and the boiler in operation. "'But now tell me,' said the Bishop, 'suppose one wanted to let the furnace out--suppose, I mean to say, that it was summer-time, and suppose one rather felt that one didn't care about a furnace and yet one wanted one's boiler going for one's hot water, and that sort of thing, what would one do?' "'In that case,' I said, 'you couldn't run your heating off your furnace: you'd have to connect in your tubing with a gas generator.' "'Ah, there you get me rather beyond my depth,' said the Bishop. "The General shook his head. 'Bishop,' he said, 'just step upstairs a minute; I have an idea.' "They went up together, leaving me below. To my surprise and consternation, as they reached the top of the cellar stairs, I saw the General swing the door shut and heard a key turn in the lock. I rushed to the top of the stairs and tried in vain to open the door. I was trapped. In a moment I realized my folly in trusting myself in the hands of these people. "I could hear their voices in the hall, apparently in eager discussion. "'But the fellow is priceless,' the General was saying. 'We could take him round to all the different houses and make him fix them all. Hang it, Bishop, I haven't had a decent tap running for two years, and Admiral Hay's pantry has been flooded since last March.' "'But one couldn't compel him?' "'Certainly, why not? I'd compel him bally quick with this.' "I couldn't see what the General referred to, but had no doubt that it was the huge wrench that he still carried in his hand. "'We could gag the fellow,' he went on, 'take him from house to house and make him put everything right.' "'Ah, but afterwards?' said the Bishop. "'Afterwards,' answered the General, 'why kill him! Knock him on the head and bury him under the cement in the cellar. Hay and I could easily bury him, or for that matter I imagine one could easily use the furnace itself to dispose of him.' "I must confess that my blood ran cold as I listened. "'But do you think it right?' objected the Bishop. 'You will say, of course, that it is only killing a plumber; but yet one asks oneself whether it wouldn't be just a _leetle_ bit unjustifiable.' "'Nonsense,' said the General. 'You remember that last year, when Hay strangled the income tax collector, you yourself were very keen on it.' "'Ah, that was different,' said the Bishop, 'one felt there that there was an end to serve, but here----' "'Nonsense,' repeated the General, 'come along and get Hay. He'll make short work of him.' "I heard their retreating footsteps and then all was still. "The horror which filled my mind as I sat in the half darkness waiting for their return I cannot describe. My fate appeared sealed and I gave myself up for lost, when presently I heard a light step in the hall and the key turned in the lock. "The girl stood in front of me. She was trembling with emotion. "'Quick, quick, Mr. Thornton,' she said. 'I heard all that they said. Oh, I think it's dreadful of them, simply dreadful. Mr. Thornton, I'm really ashamed that Father should act that way.' "I came out into the hall still half dazed. "'They've gone over to Admiral Hay's house, there among the trees. That's their lantern. Please, please, don't lose a minute. Do you mind not having a cab? I think really you'd prefer not to wait. And look, won't you please take this?'--she handed me a little packet as she spoke--'this is a piece of pie: you always get that, don't you? and there's a bit of cheese with it, but please run.' "In another moment I had bounded from the door into the darkness. A wild rush through the darkened streets, and in twenty minutes I was safe back again in my own consulting-room." Thornton paused in his narrative, and at that moment one of the stewards of the club came and whispered something in his ear. He rose. "I'm sorry," he said, with a grave face. "I'm called away; a very old client of mine. Valvular trouble of the worst kind. I doubt if I can do anything, but I must at least go. Please don't let me break up your evening, however." With a courtly bow he left us. "And do you know the sequel to Thornton's story?" asked Fortescue with a smile. We looked expectantly at him. "Why, he married the girl," explained Fortescue. "You see, he had to go back to her house for his wrench. One always does." "Of course," we exclaimed. "In fact he went three times; and the last time he asked the girl to marry him and she said 'yes.' He took her out of her surroundings, had her educated at a cooking school, and had her given lessons on the parlour organ. She's Mrs. Thornton now." "And the Bishop?" asked some one. "Oh, Thornton looked after him. He got him a position heating furnaces in the synagogues. He worked at it till he died a few years ago. They say that once he got the trick of it he took the greatest delight in it. Well, I must go too. Good night." VII THE BLUE AND THE GREY A PRE-WAR WAR STORY (_The title is selected for its originality. A set of seventy-five maps will be supplied to any reader free for seventy-five cents. This offer is only open till it is closed_) _VII.--The Blue and the Grey: A Pre-War War Story._ CHAPTER I The scene was a striking one. It was night. Never had the Mississippi presented a more remarkable appearance. Broad bayous, swollen beyond our powers of description, swirled to and fro in the darkness under trees garlanded with Spanish moss. All moss other than Spanish had been swept away by the angry flood of the river. Eggleston Lee Carey Randolph, a young Virginian, captain of the ----th company of the ----th regiment of ----'s brigade--even this is more than we ought to say, and is hard to pronounce--attached to the Army of the Tennessee, struggled in vain with the swollen waters. At times he sank. At other times he went up. In the intervals he wondered whether it would ever be possible for him to rejoin the particular platoon of the particular regiment to which he belonged, and of which's whereabouts (not having the volume of the army record at hand) he was in ignorance. In the intervals, also, he reflected on his past life to a sufficient extent to give the reader a more or less workable idea as to who and to what he was. His father, the old grey-haired Virginian aristocrat, he could see him still. "Take this sword, Eggleston," he had said, "use it for the State; never for anything else: don't cut string with it or open tin cans. Never sheathe it till the soil of Virginia is free. Keep it bright, my boy: oil it every now and then, and you'll find it an A 1 sword." Did Eggleston think, too, in his dire peril of another--younger than his father and fairer? Necessarily, he did. "Go, Eggleston!" she had exclaimed, as they said farewell under the portico of his father's house where she was visiting, "it is your duty. But mine lies elsewhere. I cannot forget that I am a Northern girl. I must return at once to my people in Pennsylvania. Oh, Egg, when will this cruel war end?" So had the lovers parted. Meanwhile--while Eggleston is going up and down for the third time, which is of course the last--suppose we leave him, and turn to consider the general position of the Confederacy. All right: suppose we do. CHAPTER II At this date the Confederate Army of the Tennessee was extended in a line with its right resting on the Tennessee and its left resting on the Mississippi. Its rear rested on the rugged stone hills of the Chickasaba range, while its front rested on the marshes and bayous of the Yazoo. Having thus--as far as we understand military matters--both its flanks covered and its rear protected, its position was one which we ourselves consider very comfortable. It was thus in an admirable situation for holding a review or for discussing the Constitution of the United States in reference to the right of secession. The following generals rode up and down in front of the army, namely, Mr. A. P. Hill, Mr. Longstreet, and Mr. Joseph Johnston. All these three celebrated men are thus presented to our readers at one and the same time without extra charge. But who is this tall, commanding figure who rides beside them, his head bent as if listening to what they are saying (he really isn't) while his eye alternately flashes with animation or softens to its natural melancholy? (In fact, we can only compare it to an electric light bulb with the power gone wrong.) Who is it? It is Jefferson C. Davis, President, as our readers will be gratified to learn, of the Confederate States. It being a fine day and altogether suitable for the purpose, General Longstreet reined in his prancing black charger (during this distressed period all the horses in both armies were charged: there was no other way to pay for them), and in a few terse words, about three pages, gave his views on the Constitution of the United States. Jefferson Davis, standing up in his stirrups, delivered a stirring harangue, about six columns, on the powers of the Supreme Court, admirably calculated to rouse the soldiers to frenzy. After which General A. P. Hill offered a short address, soldier-like and to the point, on the fundamental principles of international law, which inflamed the army to the highest pitch. At this moment an officer approached the President, saluted and stood rigidly at attention. Davis, with that nice punctilio which marked the Southern army, returned the salute. "Do you speak first?" he said, "or did I?" "Let me," said the officer. "Your Excellency," he continued, "a young Virginian officer has just been fished out of the Mississippi." Davis's eye flashed. "Good!" he said. "Look and see if there are many more," and then he added with a touch of melancholy, "The South needs them: fish them all out. Bring this one here." Eggleston Lee Carey Randolph, still dripping from the waters of the bayou, was led by the faithful negroes who had rescued him before the generals. Davis, who kept every thread of the vast panorama of the war in his intricate brain, eyed him keenly and directed a few searching questions to him, such as: "Who are you? Where are you? What day of the week is it? How much is nine times twelve?" and so forth. Satisfied with Eggleston's answers, Davis sat in thought a moment, and then continued: "I am anxious to send some one through the entire line of the Confederate armies in such a way that he will be present at all the great battles and end up at the battle of Gettysburg. Can you do it?" Randolph looked at his chief with a flush of pride. "I can." "Good!" resumed Davis. "To accomplish this task you must carry despatches. What they will be about I have not yet decided. But it is customary in such cases to write them so that they are calculated, if lost, to endanger the entire Confederate cause. The main thing is, can you carry them?" "Sir," said Eggleston, raising his hand in a military salute, "I am a Randolph." Davis with soldierly dignity removed his hat. "I am proud to hear it, Captain Randolph," he said. "And a Carey," continued our hero. Davis, with a graciousness all his own, took off his gloves. "I trust you, _Major_ Randolph," he said. "And I am a Lee," added Eggleston quickly. Davis with a courtly bow unbuttoned his jacket. "It is enough," he said. "I trust you. You shall carry the despatches. You are to carry them on your person and, as of course you understand, you are to keep on losing them. You are to drop them into rivers, hide them in old trees, bury them under moss, talk about them in your sleep. In fact, sir," said Davis, with a slight gesture of impatience--it was his _one_ fault--"you must act towards them as any bearer of Confederate despatches is expected to act. The point is, can you do it, or can't you?" "Sir," said Randolph, saluting again with simple dignity, "I come from Virginia." "Pardon me," said the President, saluting with both hands, "I had forgotten it." CHAPTER III Randolph set out that night, mounted upon the fastest horse, in fact the fleetest, that the Confederate Army could supply. He was attended only by a dozen faithful negroes, all devoted to his person. Riding over the Tennessee mountains by paths known absolutely to no one and never advertised, he crossed the Tombigbee, the Tahoochie and the Tallahassee, all frightfully swollen, and arrived at the headquarters of General Braxton Bragg. At this moment Bragg was extended over some seven miles of bush and dense swamp. His front rested on the marshes of the Tahoochie River, while his rear was doubled sharply back and rested on a dense growth of cactus plants. Our readers can thus form a fairly accurate idea of Bragg's position. Over against him, not more than fifty miles to the north, his indomitable opponent, Grant, lay in a frog-swamp. The space between them was filled with Union and Confederate pickets, fraternizing, joking, roasting corn, and firing an occasional shot at one another. One glance at Randolph's despatches was enough. "Take them at once to General Hood," said Bragg. "Where is he?" asked Eggleston, with military precision. Bragg waved his sword towards the east. It was characteristic of the man that even on active service he carried a short sword, while a pistol, probably loaded, protruded from his belt. But such was Bragg. Anyway, he waved his sword. "Over there beyond the Tahoochicaba range," he said. "Do you know it?" "No," said Randolph, "but I can find it." "Do," said Bragg, and added, "One thing more. On your present mission let nothing stop you. Go forward at all costs. If you come to a river, swim it. If you come to a tree, cut it down. If you strike a fence, climb over it. But don't stop! If you are killed, never mind. Do you understand?" "Almost," said Eggleston. Two days later Eggleston reached the headquarters of General Hood, and flung himself, rather than dismounted, from his jaded horse. "Take me to the General!" he gasped. They pointed to the log cabin in which General Hood was quartered. Eggleston flung himself, rather than stepped, through the door. Hood looked up from the table. "Who was that flung himself in?" he asked. Randolph reached out his hand. "Despatches!" he gasped. "Food, whisky!" "Poor lad," said the General, "you are exhausted. When did you last have food?" "Yesterday morning," gasped Eggleston. "You're lucky," said Hood bitterly. "And when did you last have a drink?" "Two weeks ago," answered Randolph. "Great Heaven!" said Hood, starting up. "Is it possible? Here, quick, drink it!" He reached out a bottle of whisky. Randolph drained it to the last drop. "Now, General," he said, "I am at your service." Meanwhile Hood had cast his eye over the despatches. "Major Randolph," he said, "you have seen General Bragg?" "I have." "And Generals Johnston and Smith?" "Yes." "You have been through Mississippi and Tennessee and seen all the battles there?" "I have," said Randolph. "Then," said Hood, "there is nothing left except to send you at once to the army in Virginia under General Lee. Remount your horse at once and ride to Gettysburg. Lose no time." CHAPTER IV It was at Gettysburg in Pennsylvania that Randolph found General Lee. The famous field is too well known to need description. The armies of the North and the South lay in and around the peaceful village of Gettysburg. About it the yellow cornfields basked in the summer sun. The voices of the teachers and the laughter of merry children rose in the harvest-fields. But already the shadow of war was falling over the landscape. As soon as the armies arrived, the shrewder of the farmers suspected that there would be trouble. General Lee was seated gravely on his horse, looking gravely over the ground before him. "Major Randolph," said the Confederate chieftain gravely, "you are just in time. We are about to go into action. I need your advice." Randolph bowed. "Ask me anything you like," he said. "Do you like the way I have the army placed?" asked Lee. Our hero directed a searching look over the field. "Frankly, I don't," he said. "What's the matter with it?" questioned Lee eagerly. "I felt there was something wrong myself. What is it?" "Your left," said Randolph, "is too far advanced. It sticks out." "By Heaven!" said Lee, turning to General Longstreet, "the boy is right! Is there anything else?" "Yes," said Randolph, "your right is crooked. It is all sideways." "It is. It is!" said Lee, striking his forehead. "I never noticed it. I'll have it straightened at once. Major Randolph, if the Confederate cause is saved, you, and you alone, have saved it." "One thing more," said Randolph. "Is your artillery loaded?" "Major Randolph," said Lee, speaking very gravely, "you have saved us again. I never thought of it." At this moment a bullet sang past Eggleston's ear. He smiled. "The battle has begun," he murmured. Another bullet buzzed past his other ear. He laughed softly to himself. A shell burst close to his feet. He broke into uncontrolled laughter. This kind of thing always amused him. Then, turning grave in a moment, "Put General Lee under cover," he said to those about him, "spread something over him." In a few moments the battle was raging in all directions. The Confederate Army was nominally controlled by General Lee, but in reality by our hero. Eggleston was everywhere. Horses were shot under him. Mules were shot around him and behind him. Shells exploded all over him; but with undaunted courage he continued to wave his sword in all directions, riding wherever the fight was hottest. The battle raged for three days. On the third day of the conflict, Randolph, his coat shot to rags, his hat pierced, his trousers practically useless, still stood at Lee's side, urging and encouraging him. Mounted on his charger, he flew to and fro in all parts of the field, moving the artillery, leading the cavalry, animating and directing the infantry. In fact, he was the whole battle. But his efforts were in vain. He turned sadly to General Lee. "It is bootless," he said. "What is?" asked Lee. "The army," said Randolph. "We must withdraw it." "Major Randolph," said the Confederate chief, "I yield to your superior knowledge. We must retreat." A few hours later the Confederate forces, checked but not beaten, were retiring southward towards Virginia. Eggleston, his head sunk in thought, rode in the rear. As he thus slowly neared a farmhouse, a woman--a girl--flew from it towards him with outstretched arms. "Eggleston!" she cried. Randolph flung himself from his horse. "Leonora!" he gasped. "You here! In all this danger! How comes it? What brings you here?" "We live here," she said. "This is Pa's house. This is our farm. Gettysburg is our home. Oh, Egg, it has been dreadful, the noise of the battle! We couldn't sleep for it. Pa's all upset about it. But come in. Do come in. Dinner's nearly ready." Eggleston gazed a moment at the retreating army. Duty and affection struggled in his heart. "I will," he said. CHAPTER V CONCLUSION The strife is done. The conflict has ceased. The wounds are healed. North and South are one. East and West are even less. The Civil War is over. Lee is dead. Grant is buried in New York. The Union Pacific runs from Omaha to San Francisco. There is total prohibition in the United States. The output of dressed beef last year broke all records. And Eggleston Lee Carey Randolph survives, hale and hearty, bright and cheery, free and easy--and so forth. There is grey hair upon his temples (some, not much), and his step has lost something of its elasticity (not a great deal), and his form is somewhat bowed (though not really crooked). But he still lives there in the farmstead at Gettysburg, and Leonora, now, like himself, an old woman, is still at his side. You may see him any day. In fact, he is the old man who shows you over the battlefield for fifty cents and explains how he himself fought and won the great battle. VIII BUGGAM GRANGE A GOOD OLD GHOST STORY _VIII.--Buggam Grange: A Good Old Ghost Story._ The evening was already falling as the vehicle in which I was contained entered upon the long and gloomy avenue that leads to Buggam Grange. A resounding shriek echoed through the wood as I entered the avenue. I paid no attention to it at the moment, judging it to be merely one of those resounding shrieks which one might expect to hear in such a place at such a time. As my drive continued, however I found myself wondering in spite of myself why such a shriek should have been uttered at the very moment of my approach. I am not by temperament in any degree a nervous man, and yet there was much in my surroundings to justify a certain feeling of apprehension. The Grange is situated in the loneliest part of England, the marsh country of the fens to which civilization has still hardly penetrated. The inhabitants, of whom there are only one and a half to the square mile, live here and there among the fens and eke out a miserable existence by frog-fishing and catching flies. They speak a dialect so broken as to be practically unintelligible, while the perpetual rain which falls upon them renders speech itself almost superfluous. Here and there where the ground rises slightly above the level of the fens there are dense woods tangled with parasitic creepers and filled with owls. Bats fly from wood to wood. The air on the lower ground is charged with the poisonous gases which exude from the marsh, while in the woods it is heavy with the dank odours of deadly nightshade and poison ivy. It had been raining in the afternoon, and as I drove up the avenue the mournful dripping of the rain from the dark trees accentuated the cheerlessness of the gloom. The vehicle in which I rode was a fly on three wheels, the fourth having apparently been broken and taken off, causing the fly to sag on one side and drag on its axle over the muddy ground, the fly thus moving only at a foot's pace in a way calculated to enhance the dreariness of the occasion. The driver on the box in front of me was so thickly muffled up as to be indistinguishable, while the horse which drew us was so thickly coated with mist as to be practically invisible. Seldom, I may say, have I had a drive of so mournful a character. The avenue presently opened out upon a lawn with overgrown shrubberies, and in the half darkness I could see the outline of the Grange itself, a rambling, dilapidated building. A dim light struggled through the casement of a window in a tower room. Save for the melancholy cry of a row of owls sitting on the roof, and croaking of the frogs in the moat which ran around the grounds, the place was soundless. My driver halted his horse at the hither side of the moat. I tried in vain to urge him, by signs, to go further. I could see by the fellow's face that he was in a paroxysm of fear, and indeed nothing but the extra sixpence which I had added to his fare would have made him undertake the drive up the avenue. I had no sooner alighted than he wheeled his cab about and made off. Laughing heartily at the fellow's trepidation (I have a way of laughing heartily in the dark), I made my way to the door and pulled the bell-handle. I could hear the muffled reverberations of the bell far within the building. Then all was silent. I bent my ear to listen, but could hear nothing except, perhaps, the sound of a low moaning as of a person in pain or in great mental distress. Convinced, however, from what my friend Sir Jeremy Buggam had told me, that the Grange was not empty, I raised the ponderous knocker and beat with it loudly against the door. But perhaps at this point I may do well to explain to my readers (before they are too frightened to listen to me) how I came to be beating on the door of Buggam Grange at nightfall on a gloomy November evening. A year before I had been sitting with Sir Jeremy Buggam, the present baronet, on the verandah of his ranch in California. "So you don't believe in the supernatural?" he was saying. "Not in the slightest," I answered, lighting a cigar as I spoke. When I want to speak very positively, I generally light a cigar as I speak. "Well, at any rate, Digby," said Sir Jeremy, "Buggam Grange is haunted. If you want to be assured of it go down there any time and spend the night and you'll see for yourself." "My dear fellow," I replied, "nothing will give me greater pleasure. I shall be back in England in six weeks, and I shall be delighted to put your ideas to the test. Now tell me," I added somewhat cynically, "is there any particular season or day when your Grange is supposed to be specially terrible?" Sir Jeremy looked at me strangely. "Why do you ask that?" he said. "Have you heard the story of the Grange?" "Never heard of the place in my life," I answered cheerily. "Till you mentioned it to-night, my dear fellow, I hadn't the remotest idea that you still owned property in England." "The Grange is shut up," said Sir Jeremy, "and has been for twenty years. But I keep a man there--Horrod--he was butler in my father's time and before. If you care to go, I'll write him that you're coming. And, since you are taking your own fate in your hands, the fifteenth of November is the day." At that moment Lady Buggam and Clara and the other girls came trooping out on the verandah, and the whole thing passed clean out of my mind. Nor did I think of it again until I was back in London. Then, by one of those strange coincidences or premonitions--call it what you will--it suddenly occurred to me one morning that it was the fifteenth of November. Whether Sir Jeremy had written to Horrod or not, I did not know. But none the less nightfall found me, as I have described, knocking at the door of Buggam Grange. The sound of the knocker had scarcely ceased to echo when I heard the shuffling of feet within, and the sound of chains and bolts being withdrawn. The door opened. A man stood before me holding a lighted candle which he shaded with his hand. His faded black clothes, once apparently a butler's dress, his white hair and advanced age left me in no doubt that he was Horrod of whom Sir Jeremy had spoken. Without a word he motioned me to come in, and, still without speech, he helped me to remove my wet outer garments, and then beckoned me into a great room, evidently the dining-room of the Grange. I am not in any degree a nervous man by temperament, as I think I remarked before, and yet there was something in the vastness of the wainscoted room, lighted only by a single candle, and in the silence of the empty house, and still more in the appearance of my speechless attendant, which gave me a feeling of distinct uneasiness. As Horrod moved to and fro I took occasion to scrutinize his face more narrowly. I have seldom seen features more calculated to inspire a nervous dread. The pallor of his face and the whiteness of his hair (the man was at least seventy), and still more the peculiar furtiveness of his eyes, seemed to mark him as one who lived under a great terror. He moved with a noiseless step and at times he turned his head to glance in the dark corners of the room. "Sir Jeremy told me," I said, speaking as loudly and as heartily as I could, "that he would apprise you of my coming." I was looking into his face as I spoke. In answer Horrod laid his finger across his lips and I knew that he was deaf and dumb. I am not nervous (I think I said that), but the realization that my sole companion in the empty house was a deaf mute struck a cold chill to my heart. Horrod laid in front of me a cold meat pie, a cold goose, a cheese, and a tall flagon of cider. But my appetite was gone. I ate the goose, but found that after I had finished the pie I had but little zest for the cheese, which I finished without enjoyment. The cider had a sour taste, and after having permitted Horrod to refill the flagon twice I found that it induced a sense of melancholy and decided to drink no more. My meal finished, the butler picked up the candle and beckoned me to follow him. We passed through the empty corridors of the house, a long line of pictured Buggams looking upon us as we passed, their portraits in the flickering light of the taper assuming a strange and life-like appearance, as if leaning forward from their frames to gaze upon the intruder. Horrod led me upstairs and I realized that he was taking me to the tower in the east wing, in which I had observed a light. The rooms to which the butler conducted me consisted of a sitting-room with an adjoining bedroom, both of them fitted with antique wainscoting against which a faded tapestry fluttered. There was a candle burning on the table in the sitting-room, but its insufficient light only rendered the surroundings the more dismal. Horrod bent down in front of the fireplace and endeavoured to light a fire there. But the wood was evidently damp and the fire flickered feebly on the hearth. The butler left me, and in the stillness of the house I could hear his shuffling step echo down the corridor. It may have been fancy, but it seemed to me that his departure was the signal for a low moan that came from somewhere behind the wainscot. There was a narrow cupboard door at one side of the room, and for the moment I wondered whether the moaning came from within. I am not as a rule lacking in courage (I am sure my reader will be decent enough to believe this), yet I found myself entirely unwilling to open the cupboard door and look within. In place of doing so I seated myself in a great chair in front of the feeble fire. I must have been seated there for some time when I happened to lift my eyes to the mantel above and saw, standing upon it, a letter addressed to myself. I knew the handwriting at once to be that of Sir Jeremy Buggam. I opened it, and spreading it out within reach of the feeble candlelight, I read as follows: "My dear Digby, "In our talk that you will remember, I had no time to finish telling you about the mystery of Buggam Grange. I take for granted, however, that you will go there and that Horrod will put you in the tower rooms, which are the only ones that make any pretence of being habitable. I have, therefore, sent him this letter to deliver at the Grange itself. "The story is this: "On the night of the fifteenth of November, fifty years ago, my grandfather was murdered in the room in which you are sitting, by his cousin, Sir Duggam Buggam. He was stabbed from behind while seated at the little table at which you are probably reading this letter. The two had been playing cards at the table and my grandfather's body was found lying in a litter of cards and gold sovereigns on the floor. Sir Duggam Buggam, insensible from drink, lay beside him, the fatal knife at his hand, his fingers smeared with blood. My grandfather, though of the younger branch, possessed a part of the estates which were to revert to Sir Duggam on his death. Sir Duggam Buggam was tried at the Assizes and was hanged. On the day of his execution he was permitted by the authorities, out of respect for his rank, to wear a mask to the scaffold. The clothes in which he was executed are hanging at full length in the little cupboard to your right, and the mask is above them. It is said that on every fifteenth of November at midnight the cupboard door opens and Sir Duggam Buggam walks out into the room. It has been found impossible to get servants to remain at the Grange, and the place--except for the presence of Horrod--has been unoccupied for a generation. At the time of the murder Horrod was a young man of twenty-two, newly entered into the service of the family. It was he who entered the room and discovered the crime. On the day of the execution he was stricken with paralysis and has never spoken since. From that time to this he has never consented to leave the Grange, where he lives in isolation. "Wishing you a pleasant night after your tiring journey, "I remain, "Very faithfully, "Jeremy Buggam." I leave my reader to imagine my state of mind when I completed the perusal of the letter. I have as little belief in the supernatural as anyone, yet I must confess that there was something in the surroundings in which I now found myself which rendered me at least uncomfortable. My reader may smile if he will, but I assure him that it was with a very distinct feeling of uneasiness that I at length managed to rise to my feet, and, grasping my candle in my hand, to move backward into the bedroom. As I backed into it something so like a moan seemed to proceed from the closed cupboard that I accelerated my backward movement to a considerable degree. I hastily blew out the candle, threw myself upon the bed and drew the bedclothes over my head, keeping, however, one eye and one ear still out and available. How long I lay thus listening to every sound, I cannot tell. The stillness had become absolute. From time to time I could dimly hear the distant cry of an owl, and once far away in the building below a sound as of some one dragging a chain along a floor. More than once I was certain that I heard the sound of moaning behind the wainscot. Meantime I realized that the hour must now be drawing close upon the fatal moment of midnight. My watch I could not see in the darkness, but by reckoning the time that must have elapsed I knew that midnight could not be far away. Then presently my ear, alert to every sound, could just distinguish far away across the fens the striking of a church bell, in the clock tower of Buggam village church, no doubt, tolling the hour of twelve. On the last stroke of twelve, the cupboard door in the next room opened. There is no need to ask me how I knew it. I couldn't, of course, see it, but I could hear, or sense in some way, the sound of it. I could feel my hair, all of it, rising upon my head. I was aware that there was a _presence_ in the adjoining room, I will not say a person, a living soul, but a _presence_. Anyone who has been in the next room to a presence will know just how I felt. I could hear a sound as of some one groping on the floor and the faint rattle as of coins. My hair was now perpendicular. My reader can blame it or not, but it was. Then at this very moment from somewhere below in the building there came the sound of a prolonged and piercing cry, a cry as of a soul passing in agony. My reader may censure me or not, but right at this moment I decided to beat it. Whether I should have remained to see what was happening is a question that I will not discuss. My one idea was to get out, and to get out quickly. The window of the tower room was some twenty-five feet above the ground. I sprang out through the casement in one leap and landed on the grass below. I jumped over the shrubbery in one bound and cleared the moat in one jump. I went down the avenue in about six strides and ran five miles along the road through the fens in three minutes. This at least is an accurate transcription of my sensations. It may have taken longer. I never stopped till I found myself on the threshold of the _Buggam Arms_ in Little Buggam, beating on the door for the landlord. I returned to Buggam Grange on the next day in the bright sunlight of a frosty November morning, in a seven-cylinder motor car with six local constables and a physician. It makes all the difference. We carried revolvers, spades, pickaxes, shotguns and an ouija board. What we found cleared up for ever the mystery of the Grange. We discovered Horrod the butler lying on the dining-room floor quite dead. The physician said that he had died from heart failure. There was evidence from the marks of his shoes in the dust that he had come in the night to the tower room. On the table he had placed a paper which contained a full confession of his having murdered Jeremy Buggam fifty years before. The circumstances of the murder had rendered it easy for him to fasten the crime upon Sir Duggam, already insensible from drink. A few minutes with the ouija board enabled us to get a full corroboration from Sir Duggam. He promised, moreover, now that his name was cleared, to go away from the premises for ever. My friend, the present Sir Jeremy, has rehabilitated Buggam Grange. The place is rebuilt. The moat is drained. The whole house is lit with electricity. There are beautiful motor drives in all directions in the woods. He has had the bats shot and the owls stuffed. His daughter, Clara Buggam, became my wife. She is looking over my shoulder as I write. What more do you want? THE END * * * * * BY THE SAME AUTHOR LITERARY LAPSES _Twelfth Edition. Crown 8vo. 5s. net_ _Spectator._--"This little book is a happy example of the way in which the double life can be lived blamelessly and to the great advantage of the community. The book fairly entitles Mr. Leacock to be considered not only a humorist but a benefactor. The contents should appeal to English readers with the double virtue that attaches to work which is at once new and richly humorous." _Globe._--"One specimen of Mr. Leacock's humour, 'Boarding-House Geometry,' has long been treasured on this side." _The Guardian._--"Much to be welcomed is Professor Stephen Leacock's 'Literary Lapses,'--this charming and humorous work. All the sketches have a freshness and a new personal touch. Mr. Leacock is, as the politicians say, 'a national asset,' and Mr. Leacock is a Canadian to be proud of. One has the comfortable feeling as one reads that one is in the company of a cultured person capable of attractive varieties of foolishness." _Pall Mall Gazette._--"The appearance of 'Literary Lapses' is practically the English début of a young Canadian writer who is turning from medicine to literature with every success. Dr. Stephen Leacock is at least the equal of many who are likely to be long remembered for their short comic sketches and essays; he has already shown that he has the high spirits of 'Max Adeler' and the fine sense of quick fun. There are many sketches in 'Literary Lapses' that are worthy of comparison with the best American humour." _Morning Post._--"The close connection between imagination, humour, and the mathematical faculty has never been so delightfully demonstrated." _Outlook._--"Mr. John Lane must be credited with the desire of associating the Bodley Head with the discovery of new humorists. Mr. Leacock sets out to make people laugh. He succeeds and makes them laugh at the right thing. He has a wide range of new subjects; the world will gain in cheerfulness if Mr. Leacock continues to produce so many excellent jests to the book as there are in the one under notice." _Truth._--"By the publication of Mr. Stephen Leacock's 'Literary Lapses' Mr. John Lane has introduced to the British Public a new American humorist for whom a widespread popularity can be confidently predicted." * * * * * BY THE SAME AUTHOR NONSENSE NOVELS _THIRTEENTH EDITION_ _Crown 8vo. 5s. net_ _Spectator._--"We can assure our readers who delight in mere joyous desipience that they will find a rich harvest of laughter in the purely irresponsible outpourings of Professor Leacock's fancy." _Pall Mall Gazette._--"It is all not only healthy satire, but healthy humour as well, and shows that the author of 'Literary Lapses' is capable of producing a steady flow of high spirits put into a form which is equal to the best traditions of contemporary humour. Mr. Leacock certainly bids fair to rival the immortal 'Lewis Carroll' in combining the irreconcilable--exact science with perfect humour--and making the amusement better the instruction." _Daily Mail._--"In his 'Literary Lapses' Mr. Stephen Leacock gave the laughter-loving world assurance of a new humorist of irresistible high spirits and rare spontaneity and freshness. By this rollicking collection of 'Nonsense Novels,' in tabloid form, he not only confirms the excellent impression of his earlier work, but establishes his reputation as a master of the art of literary burlesque. The whole collection is a sheer delight, and places its author in the front rank as a literary humorist." Mr. JAMES DOUGLAS in _The Star_.--"We have all laughed over Mr. Stephen Leacock's 'Literary Lapses.' It is one of those books one would die rather than lend, for to lend it is to lose it for ever. Mr. Leacock's new book, 'Nonsense Novels,' is more humorous than 'Literary Lapses.' That is to say, it is the most humorous book we have had since Mr. Dooley swum into our ken. Its humour is so rich that it places Mr. Leacock beside Mark Twain." _Morning Leader._--"Mr. Leacock possesses infinite verbal dexterity.... Mr. Leacock must be added as a recognized humorist." _Daily Express._--"Mr. Stephen Leacock's 'Nonsense Novels' is the best collection of parodies I have read for many a day. The whole book is a scream, witty, ingenious, irresistible." _Public Opinion._--"A most entertaining book." * * * * * BY THE SAME AUTHOR SUNSHINE SKETCHES OF A LITTLE TOWN WITH A FRONTISPIECE BY CYRUS CUNEO _Ninth Edition. Crown 8vo. 5s. net_ _The Times._--"His real hard work, for which no emolument would be a fitting reward, is distilling sunshine. This new book is full of it--the sunshine of humour, the thin keen sunshine of irony, the mellow evening sunshine of sentiment." _Spectator._--"This is not the first but the third volume in which he has contributed to the gaiety of the Old as well as the New World.... A most welcome freedom from the pessimism of Old-World fiction." _Academy._--"One of the best and most enjoyable series of sketches that we have read for some time ... they are all bright and sparkling, and bristle with wit and humour." _Pall Mall Gazette._--"Like all real humorists Mr. Leacock steps at once into his proper position.... His touch of humour will make the Anglo-Saxon world his reader.... We cannot recall a more laughable book." _Globe._--"Professor Leacock never fails to provide a feast of enjoyment.... No one who wishes to dispose intellectually of a few hours should neglect Professor Leacock's admirable contribution to English literature. It is warranted to bring sunshine into every home." _Country Life._--"Informed by a droll humour, quite unforced, Mr. Leacock reviews his little community for the sport of the thing, and the result is a natural and delightful piece of work." _Daily Telegraph._--"His Sketches are so fresh and delightful in the manner of their presentation.... Allowing for differences of theme, and of the human materials for study, Mr. Leacock strikes us as a sort of Americanised Mr. W. W. Jacobs. Like the English humorist, the Canadian one has a delightfully fresh and amusing way of putting things, of suggesting more than he says, of narrating more or less ordinary happenings in an irresistibly comical fashion.... Mr. Leacock should be popular with readers who can appreciate fun shot with kindly satire." * * * * * BY THE SAME AUTHOR BEHIND THE BEYOND AND OTHER CONTRIBUTIONS TO HUMAN KNOWLEDGE. With 16 Illustrations by A. H. FISH. _Fifth Edition. Crown 8vo. 5s. net_ _Punch._--"In his latest book, 'Behind the Beyond,' he is in brilliant scoring form. I can see 'Behind the Beyond' breaking up many homes; for no family will be able to stand the sudden sharp yelps of laughter which must infallibly punctuate the decent after-dinner silence when one of its members gets hold of this book. It is Mr. Leacock's peculiar gift that he makes you laugh out loud. When Mr. Leacock's literal translation of Homer, on p. 193, met my eye, a howl of mirth broke from me. I also forgot myself over the interview with the photographer. As for the sketch which gives its title, to the book, it is the last word in polished satire. The present volume is Mr. Leacock at his best." _Spectator._--"Beneficent contributions to the gaiety of nations. The longest and best thing in the book is the delightful burlesque of a modern problem play. Miss Fish's illustrations are decidedly clever." _Observer._--"There are delicious touches in it." _Queen._--"All through the book the author furnishes a continual feast of enjoyment." _Dundee Advertiser._--"'Behind the Beyond' is a brilliant parody, and the other sketches are all of Mr. Leacock's very best, 'Homer and Humbug' being as fine a piece of raillery as Mr. Leacock has written. Mr. Leacock is a humorist of the first rank, unique in his own sphere, and this volume will add yet more to his reputation." _Aberdeen Free Press._--"Exquisite quality ... amazingly funny." _Yorkshire Daily Post._--"In the skit on the problem play which gives the book its title the author reaches his high-water mark." _Glasgow Herald._--"Another welcome addition to the gaiety of the nations. The title-piece is an inimitably clever skit. It is both genial and realistic, and there is a genuine laugh in every line of it. Humour and artistry are finely blended in the drawings." _Daily Express._--"The pictures have genuine and rare distinction." * * * * * BY THE SAME AUTHOR ARCADIAN ADVENTURES WITH THE IDLE RICH _FOURTH EDITION_ _Crown 8vo. 5s. net_ _Spectator._--"A blend of delicious fooling and excellent satire. Once more the author of 'Literary Lapses' has proved himself a benefactor of his kind." _Morning Post._--"All the 'Adventures' are full of the fuel of the laughter which is an intellectual thing." _Pall Mall Gazette._--"Professor Leacock shows no falling off either in his fund of social observation or his power of turning it to sarcasm and humour. The book is full to the brim with honest laughter and clever ideas." _Bystander._--"It is necessary to laugh, now even more necessary than at ordinary times. Fortunately, Professor Leacock produces a new book at the right moment. It will cause many chuckles. He is simply irresistible." _Westminster Gazette._--"Marks a distinct advance in Mr. Leacock's artistic development." _Daily Chronicle._--"This altogether delightful and brilliant comedy of life.... Mr. Leacock's humour comes from the very depths of a strong personality, and in the midst of a thousand whimsicalities, a thousand searchlights on the puerilities of human nature he never loses touch with the essential bite of life." _Saturday Review._--"Professor Leacock is a delightful writer of irresponsible nonsense with a fresh and original touch. These 'Arcadian Adventures' are things of sheer delight." _Tatler._--"I have not felt so full of eagerness and life since the war began as after I had read this delightfully humorous and clever book." _Evening Standard._--"In this book the satire is brilliantly conspicuous." * * * * * BY THE SAME AUTHOR MOONBEAMS FROM THE LARGER LUNACY _FOURTH EDITION_ _Crown 8vo. 5s. net_ _Times._--"Such a perfect piece of social observation and joyful castigation as the description of the last man in Europe ... the portrait of So-and-so is not likely to be forgotten ... it is so funny and so true." _Morning Post._--"Excellent fooling ... wisdom made laughable." _Daily Chronicle._--"Here is wit, fun, frolic, nonsense, verse, satire, comedy, criticism--a perfect gold mine for those who love laughter." _Sunday Times._--"Very pungent and telling satire. Buy the book--it will give you a happy hour." _Standard._--"Under the beams of the moon of his delight, the author never fails to be amusing." _Pall Mall Gazette._--"Mr. Leacock's humour is a credit to Canada, for it has a depth and a polish such as are both rare in the literature of a young nation." _Land and Water._--"Unlike a number of so-called humorists, Mr. Leacock is really funny, as these sketches prove." _Field._--"Indeed a very pleasant hour can be spent with this author, who is full of humour, wit, and cleverness, and by his work adds much to the gaiety of life." _Spectator._--"Mr. Leacock has added to our indebtedness by his new budget of refreshing absurdities.... In shooting folly as it flies, he launches darts that find their billet on both sides of the Atlantic." * * * * * BY THE SAME AUTHOR ESSAYS AND LITERARY STUDIES _Fifth Edition. Crown 8vo. 5s. net_ _Truth._--"Full of practical wisdom, as sober as it is sound." _Morning Post._--"He is the subtlest of all transatlantic humorists, and, as we have pointed out before, might almost be defined as the discoverer of a method combining English and American humour. But he never takes either his subject or himself too seriously, and the result is a book which is as readable as any of its mirthful predecessors." _World._--"Those readers who fail to find pleasure in this new volume of Essays will be difficult to please. Here are discourses in the author's happiest vein." _Daily News._--"All are delightful." _Bystander._--"No sane person will object to Professor Leacock professing, so long as he periodically issues such good entertainment as 'Essays and Literary Studies.'" _Daily Telegraph._--"The engaging talent of this Canadian author has hitherto been exercised in the lighter realm of wit and fancy. In his latest volume there is the same irresistible humour, the same delicate satire, the same joyous freshness; but the wisdom he distils is concerned more with realities of our changing age." _Outlook._--"Mr. Leacock's humour is his own, whimsical with the ease of a self-confident personality, far-sighted, quick-witted, and invariably humane." _Times._--"Professor Leacock's paper on American humour is quite the best that we know upon the subject." _Spectator._--"Those of us who are grateful to Mr. Leacock as an intrepid purveyor of wholesome food for laughter have not failed to recognize that he mingles shrewdness with levity--that he is, in short, wise as well as merry." * * * * * BY THE SAME AUTHOR Further Foolishness SKETCHES AND SATIRES ON THE FOLLIES OF THE DAY With Coloured Frontispiece by "Fish," and five other Plates by M. Blood _Fourth Edition. Crown 8vo. 5s. net_ _Morning Post._--"An excellent antidote to war worry." _Evening Standard._--"You will acknowledge, if you have not done so before, the satirical keenness of Mr. Leacock." _Daily Graphic._--"The book is a joy all through, laughter on every page." _Times._--"Further examples of the diverting humour of Professor Leacock." _Bystander._--"'Further Foolishness,' in a word, is the most admirable tonic which I can prescribe to-day ... the jolliest possible medley." _Daily Chronicle._--"Mr. Leacock's fun is fine and delicate, full of quaint surprises; guaranteed to provoke cheerfulness in the dullest. He is a master-humorist, and this book is one of the cleverest examples of honest humour and witty satire ever produced." _Spectator._--"In this new budget of absurdities we are more than ever reminded of Mr. Leacock's essential affinity with Artemus Ward, in whose wildest extravagances there was nearly always a core of wholesome sanity, who was always on the side of the angels, and who was a true patriot as well as a great humorist." _Pall Mall Gazette._--"A humorist of high excellence." _Daily Express._--"Really clever and admirably good fun." _Star._--"Some day there will be a Leacock Club. Its members will all possess a sense of humour." * * * * * BY THE SAME AUTHOR FRENZIED FICTION _FOURTH EDITION_ _Crown 8vo. 5s. net_ "Everything in 'Frenzied Fiction' is exhilarating. Full of good things."--_Morning Post._ "More delightful samples of Leacock humour. These delightful chapters show Mr. Leacock at his best." _Daily Graphic._ "Stephen Leacock has firmly established himself in public favour as one of our greatest humorists. His readers will be more than pleased with 'Frenzied Fiction.'"--_Evening Standard._ "It is enough to say that Mr. Leacock retains an unimpaired command of his happy gift of disguising sanity in the garb of the ludicrous. There is always an ultimate core of shrewd common-sense in his burlesques."--_Spectator._ "Full of mellow humour."--_Daily Mail._ "From beginning to end the book is one long gurgle of delight."--_World._ "If it is your first venture into the Leacockian world read that delicious parody 'My Revelations as a Spy,' and we will be sworn that before you've turned half a dozen pages you will have become a life-member of the Leacock Lodge."--_Town Topics._ "When humour is such as you get in 'Frenzied Fiction' it is a very good thing indeed."--_Sketch._ "There is always sufficient sense under Stephen Leacock's nonsense to enable one to read him at least twice."--_Land and Water._ * * * * * BY THE SAME AUTHOR THE HOHENZOLLERNS IN AMERICA AND OTHER IMPOSSIBILITIES _Crown 8vo. 5s. net_ "Equal in gay humour and deft satire to any of its predecessors, and no holiday will be so gay but this volume will make it gayer.... It is a book of rollicking good humour that will keep you chuckling long past summer-time."--_Daily Chronicle._ "At his best, full of whims and oddities ... the most cheerful of humorists and the wisest of wayside philosophers."--_Daily Telegraph._ "He has never provided finer food for quiet enjoyment ... his precious quality of Rabelaisian humanism has matured and broadened in its sympathy."--_Globe._ "In the author's merriest mood. All of it is distilled wit and wisdom of the best brand, full of honest laughter, fun and frolic, comedy and criticism."--_Daily Graphic._ "The book is inspired by that spirit of broad farce which runs glorious riot through nearly all that Stephen Leacock has written."--_Bookman._ "He has all the energy and exuberance of the born humorist.... All admirers will recognize it as typical of Mr. Leacock's best work."--_Manchester Guardian._ "An entertaining volume."--_Scotsman._ * * * * * BY THE SAME AUTHOR THE UNSOLVED RIDDLE OF SOCIAL JUSTICE _Crown 8vo. 5s. net_ A discussion of the new social unrest, the transformation of society which it portends and the social catastrophe which it might precipitate. The point of view taken by the author leads towards the conclusion that the safety of the future lies in a progressive movement of social control alleviating at least the misery it cannot obliterate, and based upon the broad general principle of equality of opportunity, and a fair start. The chief immediate opportunities for social betterment, as the writer sees them, lie in the attempt to give every human being in childhood, education and opportunity. "His book is short, lucid, always to the point, and sometimes witty."--_Times._ "A book for the times, suggestive, critical and highly stimulating. Mr. Leacock surveys the troubled hour and discusses the popular palliatives with a keen, unbiassed intelligence and splendid sympathy. I hope it will have as large a circulation as any of his humorous books, for it has much wisdom in it."--_Daily Chronicle._ "The charm of Mr. Leacock's book is ... that it deals tersely and clearly with the problem of Social Justice without technical jargon or any abuse of generalities."--_Morning Post._ * * * * * THE HUMOROUS NOVELS OF HARRY LEON WILSON BUNKER BEAN MA PETTENGILL SOMEWHERE IN RED GAP RUGGLES OF RED GAP _Crown 8vo. 7s. net_ Harry Leon Wilson is one of the first of American humorists, and in popularity he is a close rival of O. Henry. His "Ruggles of Red Gap," published at the beginning of the war, achieved a distinct success in England, while the raciness and vivacity of "Ma Pettengill" have furthered the author's reputation as an inimitable delineator of Western comedy. An English edition of this author's works is in course of preparation, of which the above are the first volumes. "The author has the rare and precious gift of original humour."--_Daily Graphic._ "Thackeray would have enjoyed Mr. Wilson's merry tale of 'Ruggles of Red Gap.' A very triumph of farce."--_Sunday Times._ "Mr. Wilson is an American humorist of the first water. We have not for a long time seen anything so clever in its way and so outrageously funny."--_Literary World._ LONDON: JOHN LANE, THE BODLEY HEAD 
6340	----	LITERARY LAPSES By Stephen Leacock CONTENTS MY FINANCIAL CAREER LORD OXHEAD'S SECRET BOARDING-HOUSE GEOMETRY THE AWFUL FATE OF MELPOMENUS JONES A CHRISTMAS LETTER HOW TO MAKE A MILLION DOLLARS HOW TO LIVE TO BE 200 HOW TO AVOID GETTING MARRIED HOW TO BE A DOCTOR THE NEW FOOD A NEW PATHOLOGY THE POET ANSWERED THE FORCE OF STATISTICS MEN WHO HAVE SHAVED ME GETTING THE THREAD OF IT TELLING HIS FAULTS WINTER PASTIMES NUMBER FIFTY-SIX ARISTOCRATIC EDUCATION THE CONJURER'S REVENGE HINTS TO TRAVELLERS A MANUAL OF EDUCATION HOODOO MCFIGGIN'S CHRISTMAS THE LIFE OF JOHN SMITH ON COLLECTING THINGS SOCIETY CHIT-CHAT INSURANCE UP TO DATE BORROWING A MATCH A LESSON IN FICTION HELPING THE ARMENIANS A STUDY IN STILL LIFE: THE COUNTRY HOTEL AN EXPERIMENT WITH POLICEMAN HOGAN THE PASSING OF THE POET SELF-MADE MEN A MODEL DIALOGUE BACK TO THE BUSH REFLECTIONS ON RIDING SALOONIO HALF-HOURS WITH THE POETS-- I. MR. WORDSWORTH AND THE LITTLE COTTAGE GIRL II. HOW TENNYSON KILLED THE MAY QUEEN III. OLD MR. LONGFELLOW ON BOARD THE "HESPERUS" A. B, AND C LITERARY LAPSES My Financial Career When I go into a bank I get rattled. The clerks rattle me; the wickets rattle me; the sight of the money rattles me; everything rattles me. The moment I cross the threshold of a bank and attempt to transact business there, I become an irresponsible idiot. I knew this beforehand, but my salary had been raised to fifty dollars a month and I felt that the bank was the only place for it. So I shambled in and looked timidly round at the clerks. I had an idea that a person about to open an account must needs consult the manager. I went up to a wicket marked "Accountant." The accountant was a tall, cool devil. The very sight of him rattled me. My voice was sepulchral. "Can I see the manager?" I said, and added solemnly, "alone." I don't know why I said "alone." "Certainly," said the accountant, and fetched him. The manager was a grave, calm man. I held my fifty-six dollars clutched in a crumpled ball in my pocket. "Are you the manager?" I said. God knows I didn't doubt it. "Yes," he said. "Can I see you," I asked, "alone?" I didn't want to say "alone" again, but without it the thing seemed self-evident. The manager looked at me in some alarm. He felt that I had an awful secret to reveal. "Come in here," he said, and led the way to a private room. He turned the key in the lock. "We are safe from interruption here," he said; "sit down." We both sat down and looked at each other. I found no voice to speak. "You are one of Pinkerton's men, I presume," he said. He had gathered from my mysterious manner that I was a detective. I knew what he was thinking, and it made me worse. "No, not from Pinkerton's," I said, seeming to imply that I came from a rival agency. "To tell the truth," I went on, as if I had been prompted to lie about it, "I am not a detective at all. I have come to open an account. I intend to keep all my money in this bank." The manager looked relieved but still serious; he concluded now that I was a son of Baron Rothschild or a young Gould. "A large account, I suppose," he said. "Fairly large," I whispered. "I propose to deposit fifty-six dollars now and fifty dollars a month regularly." The manager got up and opened the door. He called to the accountant. "Mr. Montgomery," he said unkindly loud, "this gentleman is opening an account, he will deposit fifty-six dollars. Good morning." I rose. A big iron door stood open at the side of the room. "Good morning," I said, and stepped into the safe. "Come out," said the manager coldly, and showed me the other way. I went up to the accountant's wicket and poked the ball of money at him with a quick convulsive movement as if I were doing a conjuring trick. My face was ghastly pale. "Here," I said, "deposit it." The tone of the words seemed to mean, "Let us do this painful thing while the fit is on us." He took the money and gave it to another clerk. He made me write the sum on a slip and sign my name in a book. I no longer knew what I was doing. The bank swam before my eyes. "Is it deposited?" I asked in a hollow, vibrating voice. "It is," said the accountant. "Then I want to draw a cheque." My idea was to draw out six dollars of it for present use. Someone gave me a chequebook through a wicket and someone else began telling me how to write it out. The people in the bank had the impression that I was an invalid millionaire. I wrote something on the cheque and thrust it in at the clerk. He looked at it. "What! are you drawing it all out again?" he asked in surprise. Then I realized that I had written fifty-six instead of six. I was too far gone to reason now. I had a feeling that it was impossible to explain the thing. All the clerks had stopped writing to look at me. Reckless with misery, I made a plunge. "Yes, the whole thing." "You withdraw your money from the bank?" "Every cent of it." "Are you not going to deposit any more?" said the clerk, astonished. "Never." An idiot hope struck me that they might think something had insulted me while I was writing the cheque and that I had changed my mind. I made a wretched attempt to look like a man with a fearfully quick temper. The clerk prepared to pay the money. "How will you have it?" he said. "What?" "How will you have it?" "Oh"--I caught his meaning and answered without even trying to think--"in fifties." He gave me a fifty-dollar bill. "And the six?" he asked dryly. "In sixes," I said. He gave it me and I rushed out. As the big door swung behind me I caught the echo of a roar of laughter that went up to the ceiling of the bank. Since then I bank no more. I keep my money in cash in my trousers pocket and my savings in silver dollars in a sock. Lord Oxhead's Secret A ROMANCE IN ONE CHAPTER It was finished. Ruin had come. Lord Oxhead sat gazing fixedly at the library fire. Without, the wind soughed (or sogged) around the turrets of Oxhead Towers, the seat of the Oxhead family. But the old earl heeded not the sogging of the wind around his seat. He was too absorbed. Before him lay a pile of blue papers with printed headings. From time to time he turned them over in his hands and replaced them on the table with a groan. To the earl they meant ruin--absolute, irretrievable ruin, and with it the loss of his stately home that had been the pride of the Oxheads for generations. More than that--the world would now know the awful secret of his life. The earl bowed his head in the bitterness of his sorrow, for he came of a proud stock. About him hung the portraits of his ancestors. Here on the right an Oxhead who had broken his lance at Crecy, or immediately before it. There McWhinnie Oxhead who had ridden madly from the stricken field of Flodden to bring to the affrighted burghers of Edinburgh all the tidings that he had been able to gather in passing the battlefield. Next him hung the dark half Spanish face of Sir Amyas Oxhead of Elizabethan days whose pinnace was the first to dash to Plymouth with the news that the English fleet, as nearly as could be judged from a reasonable distance, seemed about to grapple with the Spanish Armada. Below this, the two Cavalier brothers, Giles and Everard Oxhead, who had sat in the oak with Charles II. Then to the right again the portrait of Sir Ponsonby Oxhead who had fought with Wellington in Spain, and been dismissed for it. Immediately before the earl as he sat was the family escutcheon emblazoned above the mantelpiece. A child might read the simplicity of its proud significance--an ox rampant quartered in a field of gules with a pike dexter and a dog intermittent in a plain parallelogram right centre, with the motto, "Hic, haec, hoc, hujus, hujus, hujus." * * * * * "Father!"--The girl's voice rang clear through the half light of the wainscoted library. Gwendoline Oxhead had thrown herself about the earl's neck. The girl was radiant with happiness. Gwendoline was a beautiful girl of thirty-three, typically English in the freshness of her girlish innocence. She wore one of those charming walking suits of brown holland so fashionable among the aristocracy of England, while a rough leather belt encircled her waist in a single sweep. She bore herself with that sweet simplicity which was her greatest charm. She was probably more simple than any girl of her age for miles around. Gwendoline was the pride of her father's heart, for he saw reflected in her the qualities of his race. "Father," she said, a blush mantling her fair face, "I am so happy, oh so happy; Edwin has asked me to be his wife, and we have plighted our troth--at least if you consent. For I will never marry without my father's warrant," she added, raising her head proudly; "I am too much of an Oxhead for that." Then as she gazed into the old earl's stricken face, the girl's mood changed at once. "Father," she cried, "father, are you ill? What is it? Shall I ring?" As she spoke Gwendoline reached for the heavy bell-rope that hung beside the wall, but the earl, fearful that her frenzied efforts might actually make it ring, checked her hand. "I am, indeed, deeply troubled," said Lord Oxhead, "but of that anon. Tell me first what is this news you bring. I hope, Gwendoline, that your choice has been worthy of an Oxhead, and that he to whom you have plighted your troth will be worthy to bear our motto with his own." And, raising his eyes to the escutcheon before him, the earl murmured half unconsciously, "Hic, haec, hoc, hujus, hujus, hujus," breathing perhaps a prayer as many of his ancestors had done before him that he might never forget it. "Father," continued Gwendoline, half timidly, "Edwin is an American." "You surprise me indeed," answered Lord Oxhead; "and yet," he continued, turning to his daughter with the courtly grace that marked the nobleman of the old school, "why should we not respect and admire the Americans? Surely there have been great names among them. Indeed, our ancestor Sir Amyas Oxhead was, I think, married to Pocahontas--at least if not actually married"--the earl hesitated a moment. "At least they loved one another," said Gwendoline simply. "Precisely," said the earl, with relief, "they loved one another, yes, exactly." Then as if musing to himself, "Yes, there have been great Americans. Bolivar was an American. The two Washingtons--George and Booker--are both Americans. There have been others too, though for the moment I do not recall their names. But tell me, Gwendoline, this Edwin of yours--where is his family seat?" "It is at Oshkosh, Wisconsin, father." "Ah! say you so?" rejoined the earl, with rising interest. "Oshkosh is, indeed, a grand old name. The Oshkosh are a Russian family. An Ivan Oshkosh came to England with Peter the Great and married my ancestress. Their descendant in the second degree once removed, Mixtup Oshkosh, fought at the burning of Moscow and later at the sack of Salamanca and the treaty of Adrianople. And Wisconsin too," the old nobleman went on, his features kindling with animation, for he had a passion for heraldry, genealogy, chronology, and commercial geography; "the Wisconsins, or better, I think, the Guisconsins, are of old blood. A Guisconsin followed Henry I to Jerusalem and rescued my ancestor Hardup Oxhead from the Saracens. Another Guisconsin..." "Nay, father," said Gwendoline, gently interrupting, "Wisconsin is not Edwin's own name: that is, I believe, the name of his estate. My lover's name is Edwin Einstein." "Einstein," repeated the earl dubiously--"an Indian name perhaps; yet the Indians are many of them of excellent family. An ancestor of mine..." "Father," said Gwendoline, again interrupting, "here is a portrait of Edwin. Judge for yourself if he be noble." With this she placed in her father's hand an American tin-type, tinted in pink and brown. The picture represented a typical specimen of American manhood of that Anglo-Semitic type so often seen in persons of mixed English and Jewish extraction. The figure was well over five feet two inches in height and broad in proportion. The graceful sloping shoulders harmonized with the slender and well-poised waist, and with a hand pliant and yet prehensile. The pallor of the features was relieved by a drooping black moustache. Such was Edwin Einstein to whom Gwendoline's heart, if not her hand, was already affianced. Their love had been so simple and yet so strange. It seemed to Gwendoline that it was but a thing of yesterday, and yet in reality they had met three weeks ago. Love had drawn them irresistibly together. To Edwin the fair English girl with her old name and wide estates possessed a charm that he scarcely dared confess to himself. He determined to woo her. To Gwendoline there was that in Edwin's bearing, the rich jewels that he wore, the vast fortune that rumour ascribed to him, that appealed to something romantic and chivalrous in her nature. She loved to hear him speak of stocks and bonds, corners and margins, and his father's colossal business. It all seemed so noble and so far above the sordid lives of the people about her. Edwin, too, loved to hear the girl talk of her father's estates, of the diamond-hilted sword that the saladin had given, or had lent, to her ancestor hundreds of years ago. Her description of her father, the old earl, touched something romantic in Edwin's generous heart. He was never tired of asking how old he was, was he robust, did a shock, a sudden shock, affect him much? and so on. Then had come the evening that Gwendoline loved to live over and over again in her mind when Edwin had asked her in his straightforward, manly way, whether--subject to certain written stipulations to be considered later--she would be his wife: and she, putting her hand confidingly in his hand, answered simply, that--subject to the consent of her father and pending always the necessary legal formalities and inquiries--she would. It had all seemed like a dream: and now Edwin Einstein had come in person to ask her hand from the earl, her father. Indeed, he was at this moment in the outer hall testing the gold leaf in the picture-frames with his pen-knife while waiting for his affianced to break the fateful news to Lord Oxhead. Gwendoline summoned her courage for a great effort. "Papa," she said, "there is one other thing that it is fair to tell you. Edwin's father is in business." The earl started from his seat in blank amazement. "In business!" he repeated, "the father of the suitor of the daughter of an Oxhead in business! My daughter the step-daughter of the grandfather of my grandson! Are you mad, girl? It is too much, too much!" "But, father," pleaded the beautiful girl in anguish, "hear me. It is Edwin's father--Sarcophagus Einstein, senior--not Edwin himself. Edwin does nothing. He has never earned a penny. He is quite unable to support himself. You have only to see him to believe it. Indeed, dear father, he is just like us. He is here now, in this house, waiting to see you. If it were not for his great wealth..." "Girl," said the earl sternly, "I care not for the man's riches. How much has he?" "Fifteen million two hundred and fifty thousand dollars," answered Gwendoline. Lord Oxhead leaned his head against the mantelpiece. His mind was in a whirl. He was trying to calculate the yearly interest on fifteen and a quarter million dollars at four and a half per cent reduced to pounds, shillings, and pence. It was bootless. His brain, trained by long years of high living and plain thinking, had become too subtle, too refined an instrument for arithmetic... * * * * * At this moment the door opened and Edwin Einstein stood before the earl. Gwendoline never forgot what happened. Through her life the picture of it haunted her--her lover upright at the door, his fine frank gaze fixed inquiringly on the diamond pin in her father's necktie, and he, her father, raising from the mantelpiece a face of agonized amazement. "You! You!" he gasped. For a moment he stood to his full height, swaying and groping in the air, then fell prostrate his full length upon the floor. The lovers rushed to his aid. Edwin tore open his neckcloth and plucked aside his diamond pin to give him air. But it was too late. Earl Oxhead had breathed his last. Life had fled. The earl was extinct. That is to say, he was dead. The reason of his death was never known. Had the sight of Edwin killed him? It might have. The old family doctor, hurriedly summoned, declared his utter ignorance. This, too, was likely. Edwin himself could explain nothing. But it was observed that after the earl's death and his marriage with Gwendoline he was a changed man; he dressed better, talked much better English. The wedding itself was quiet, almost sad. At Gwendoline's request there was no wedding breakfast, no bridesmaids, and no reception, while Edwin, respecting his bride's bereavement, insisted that there should be no best man, no flowers, no presents, and no honeymoon. Thus Lord Oxhead's secret died with him. It was probably too complicated to be interesting anyway. Boarding-House Geometry DEFINITIONS AND AXIOMS All boarding-houses are the same boarding-house. Boarders in the same boarding-house and on the same flat are equal to one another. A single room is that which has no parts and no magnitude. The landlady of a boarding-house is a parallelogram--that is, an oblong angular figure, which cannot be described, but which is equal to anything. A wrangle is the disinclination of two boarders to each other that meet together but are not in the same line. All the other rooms being taken, a single room is said to be a double room. POSTULATES AND PROPOSITIONS A pie may be produced any number of times. The landlady can be reduced to her lowest terms by a series of propositions. A bee line may be made from any boarding-house to any other boarding-house. The clothes of a boarding-house bed, though produced ever so far both ways, will not meet. Any two meals at a boarding-house are together less than two square meals. If from the opposite ends of a boarding-house a line be drawn passing through all the rooms in turn, then the stovepipe which warms the boarders will lie within that line. On the same bill and on the same side of it there should not be two charges for the same thing. If there be two boarders on the same flat, and the amount of side of the one be equal to the amount of side of the other, each to each, and the wrangle between one boarder and the landlady be equal to the wrangle between the landlady and the other, then shall the weekly bills of the two boarders be equal also, each to each. For if not, let one bill be the greater. Then the other bill is less than it might have been--which is absurd. The Awful Fate of Melpomenus Jones Some people--not you nor I, because we are so awfully self-possessed--but some people, find great difficulty in saying good-bye when making a call or spending the evening. As the moment draws near when the visitor feels that he is fairly entitled to go away he rises and says abruptly, "Well, I think I..." Then the people say, "Oh, must you go now? Surely it's early yet!" and a pitiful struggle ensues. I think the saddest case of this kind of thing that I ever knew was that of my poor friend Melpomenus Jones, a curate--such a dear young man, and only twenty-three! He simply couldn't get away from people. He was too modest to tell a lie, and too religious to wish to appear rude. Now it happened that he went to call on some friends of his on the very first afternoon of his summer vacation. The next six weeks were entirely his own--absolutely nothing to do. He chatted awhile, drank two cups of tea, then braced himself for the effort and said suddenly: "Well, I think I..." But the lady of the house said, "Oh, no! Mr. Jones, can't you really stay a little longer?" Jones was always truthful. "Oh, yes," he said, "of course, I--er--can stay." "Then please don't go." He stayed. He drank eleven cups of tea. Night was falling. He rose again. "Well now," he said shyly, "I think I really..." "You must go?" said the lady politely. "I thought perhaps you could have stayed to dinner..." "Oh well, so I could, you know," Jones said, "if..." "Then please stay, I'm sure my husband will be delighted." "All right," he said feebly, "I'll stay," and he sank back into his chair, just full of tea, and miserable. Papa came home. They had dinner. All through the meal Jones sat planning to leave at eight-thirty. All the family wondered whether Mr. Jones was stupid and sulky, or only stupid. After dinner mamma undertook to "draw him out," and showed him photographs. She showed him all the family museum, several gross of them--photos of papa's uncle and his wife, and mamma's brother and his little boy, an awfully interesting photo of papa's uncle's friend in his Bengal uniform, an awfully well-taken photo of papa's grandfather's partner's dog, and an awfully wicked one of papa as the devil for a fancy-dress ball. At eight-thirty Jones had examined seventy-one photographs. There were about sixty-nine more that he hadn't. Jones rose. "I must say good night now," he pleaded. "Say good night!" they said, "why it's only half-past eight! Have you anything to do?" "Nothing," he admitted, and muttered something about staying six weeks, and then laughed miserably. Just then it turned out that the favourite child of the family, such a dear little romp, had hidden Mr. Jones's hat; so papa said that he must stay, and invited him to a pipe and a chat. Papa had the pipe and gave Jones the chat, and still he stayed. Every moment he meant to take the plunge, but couldn't. Then papa began to get very tired of Jones, and fidgeted and finally said, with jocular irony, that Jones had better stay all night, they could give him a shake-down. Jones mistook his meaning and thanked him with tears in his eyes, and papa put Jones to bed in the spare room and cursed him heartily. After breakfast next day, papa went off to his work in the City, and left Jones playing with the baby, broken-hearted. His nerve was utterly gone. He was meaning to leave all day, but the thing had got on his mind and he simply couldn't. When papa came home in the evening he was surprised and chagrined to find Jones still there. He thought to jockey him out with a jest, and said he thought he'd have to charge him for his board, he! he! The unhappy young man stared wildly for a moment, then wrung papa's hand, paid him a month's board in advance, and broke down and sobbed like a child. In the days that followed he was moody and unapproachable. He lived, of course, entirely in the drawing-room, and the lack of air and exercise began to tell sadly on his health. He passed his time in drinking tea and looking at the photographs. He would stand for hours gazing at the photographs of papa's uncle's friend in his Bengal uniform--talking to it, sometimes swearing bitterly at it. His mind was visibly failing. At length the crash came. They carried him upstairs in a raging delirium of fever. The illness that followed was terrible. He recognized no one, not even papa's uncle's friend in his Bengal uniform. At times he would start up from his bed and shriek, "Well, I think I..." and then fall back upon the pillow with a horrible laugh. Then, again, he would leap up and cry, "Another cup of tea and more photographs! More photographs! Har! Har!" At length, after a month of agony, on the last day of his vacation, he passed away. They say that when the last moment came, he sat up in bed with a beautiful smile of confidence playing upon his face, and said, "Well--the angels are calling me; I'm afraid I really must go now. Good afternoon." And the rushing of his spirit from its prison-house was as rapid as a hunted cat passing over a garden fence. A Christmas Letter (In answer to a young lady who has sent an invitation to be present at a children's party) Madamoiselle, Allow me very gratefully but firmly to refuse your kind invitation. You doubtless mean well; but your ideas are unhappily mistaken. Let us understand one another once and for all. I cannot at my mature age participate in the sports of children with such abandon as I could wish. I entertain, and have always entertained, the sincerest regard for such games as Hunt-the-Slipper and Blind-Man's Buff. But I have now reached a time of life, when, to have my eyes blindfolded and to have a powerful boy of ten hit me in the back with a hobby-horse and ask me to guess who hit me, provokes me to a fit of retaliation which could only culminate in reckless criminality. Nor can I cover my shoulders with a drawing-room rug and crawl round on my hands and knees under the pretence that I am a bear without a sense of personal insufficiency, which is painful to me. Neither can I look on with a complacent eye at the sad spectacle of your young clerical friend, the Reverend Mr. Uttermost Farthing, abandoning himself to such gambols and appearing in the role of life and soul of the evening. Such a degradation of his holy calling grieves me, and I cannot but suspect him of ulterior motives. You inform me that your maiden aunt intends to help you to entertain the party. I have not, as you know, the honour of your aunt's acquaintance, yet I think I may with reason surmise that she will organize games--guessing games--in which she will ask me to name a river in Asia beginning with a Z; on my failure to do so she will put a hot plate down my neck as a forfeit, and the children will clap their hands. These games, my dear young friend, involve the use of a more adaptable intellect than mine, and I cannot consent to be a party to them. May I say in conclusion that I do not consider a five-cent pen-wiper from the top branch of a Xmas tree any adequate compensation for the kind of evening you propose. I have the honour To subscribe myself, Your obedient servant. How to Make a Million Dollars I mix a good deal with the Millionaires. I like them. I like their faces. I like the way they live. I like the things they eat. The more we mix together the better I like the things we mix. Especially I like the way they dress, their grey check trousers, their white check waist-coats, their heavy gold chains, and the signet-rings that they sign their cheques with. My! they look nice. Get six or seven of them sitting together in the club and it's a treat to see them. And if they get the least dust on them, men come and brush it off. Yes, and are glad to. I'd like to take some of the dust off them myself. Even more than what they eat I like their intellectual grasp. It is wonderful. Just watch them read. They simply read all the time. Go into the club at any hour and you'll see three or four of them at it. And the things they can read! You'd think that a man who'd been driving hard in the office from eleven o'clock until three, with only an hour and a half for lunch, would be too fagged. Not a bit. These men can sit down after office hours and read the Sketch and the Police Gazette and the Pink Un, and understand the jokes just as well as I can. What I love to do is to walk up and down among them and catch the little scraps of conversation. The other day I heard one lean forward and say, "Well, I offered him a million and a half and said I wouldn't give a cent more, he could either take it or leave it--" I just longed to break in and say, "What! what! a million and a half! Oh! say that again! Offer it to me, to either take it or leave it. Do try me once: I know I can: or here, make it a plain million and let's call it done." Not that these men are careless over money. No, sir. Don't think it. Of course they don't take much account of big money, a hundred thousand dollars at a shot or anything of that sort. But little money. You've no idea till you know them how anxious they get about a cent, or half a cent, or less. Why, two of them came into the club the other night just frantic with delight: they said wheat had risen and they'd cleaned up four cents each in less than half an hour. They bought a dinner for sixteen on the strength of it. I don't understand it. I've often made twice as much as that writing for the papers and never felt like boasting about it. One night I heard one man say, "Well, let's call up New York and offer them a quarter of a cent." Great heavens! Imagine paying the cost of calling up New York, nearly five million people, late at night and offering them a quarter of a cent! And yet--did New York get mad? No, they took it. Of course it's high finance. I don't pretend to understand it. I tried after that to call up Chicago and offer it a cent and a half, and to call up Hamilton, Ontario, and offer it half a dollar, and the operator only thought I was crazy. All this shows, of course, that I've been studying how the millionaires do it. I have. For years. I thought it might be helpful to young men just beginning to work and anxious to stop. You know, many a man realizes late in life that if when he was a boy he had known what he knows now, instead of being what he is he might be what he won't; but how few boys stop to think that if they knew what they don't know instead of being what they will be, they wouldn't be? These are awful thoughts. At any rate, I've been gathering hints on how it is they do it. One thing I'm sure about. If a young man wants to make a million dollars he's got to be mighty careful about his diet and his living. This may seem hard. But success is only achieved with pains. There is no use in a young man who hopes to make a million dollars thinking he's entitled to get up at 7.30, eat force and poached eggs, drink cold water at lunch, and go to bed at 10 p.m. You can't do it. I've seen too many millionaires for that. If you want to be a millionaire you mustn't get up till ten in the morning. They never do. They daren't. It would be as much as their business is worth if they were seen on the street at half-past nine. And the old idea of abstemiousness is all wrong. To be a millionaire you need champagne, lots of it and all the time. That and Scotch whisky and soda: you have to sit up nearly all night and drink buckets of it. This is what clears the brain for business next day. I've seen some of these men with their brains so clear in the morning, that their faces look positively boiled. To live like this requires, of course, resolution. But you can buy that by the pint. Therefore, my dear young man, if you want to get moved on from your present status in business, change your life. When your landlady brings your bacon and eggs for breakfast, throw them out of window to the dog and tell her to bring you some chilled asparagus and a pint of Moselle. Then telephone to your employer that you'll be down about eleven o'clock. You will get moved on. Yes, very quickly. Just how the millionaires make the money is a difficult question. But one way is this. Strike the town with five cents in your pocket. They nearly all do this; they've told me again and again (men with millions and millions) that the first time they struck town they had only five cents. That seems to have given them their start. Of course, it's not easy to do. I've tried it several times. I nearly did it once. I borrowed five cents, carried it away out of town, and then turned and came back at the town with an awful rush. If I hadn't struck a beer saloon in the suburbs and spent the five cents I might have been rich to-day. Another good plan is to start something. Something on a huge scale: something nobody ever thought of. For instance, one man I know told me that once he was down in Mexico without a cent (he'd lost his five in striking Central America) and he noticed that they had no power plants. So he started some and made a mint of money. Another man that I know was once stranded in New York, absolutely without a nickel. Well, it occurred to him that what was needed were buildings ten stories higher than any that had been put up. So he built two and sold them right away. Ever so many millionaires begin in some such simple way as that. There is, of course, a much easier way than any of these. I almost hate to tell this, because I want to do it myself. I learned of it just by chance one night at the club. There is one old man there, extremely rich, with one of the best faces of the lot, just like a hyena. I never used to know how he had got so rich. So one evening I asked one of the millionaires how old Bloggs had made all his money. "How he made it?" he answered with a sneer. "Why he made it by taking it out of widows and orphans." Widows and orphans! I thought, what an excellent idea. But who would have suspected that they had it? "And how," I asked pretty cautiously, "did he go at it to get it out of them?" "Why," the man answered, "he just ground them under his heels, that was how." Now isn't that simple? I've thought of that conversation often since and I mean to try it. If I can get hold of them, I'll grind them quick enough. But how to get them. Most of the widows I know look pretty solid for that sort of thing, and as for orphans, it must take an awful lot of them. Meantime I am waiting, and if I ever get a large bunch of orphans all together, I'll stamp on them and see. I find, too, on inquiry, that you can also grind it out of clergymen. They say they grind nicely. But perhaps orphans are easier. How to Live to be 200 Twenty years ago I knew a man called Jiggins, who had the Health Habit. He used to take a cold plunge every morning. He said it opened his pores. After it he took a hot sponge. He said it closed the pores. He got so that he could open and shut his pores at will. Jiggins used to stand and breathe at an open window for half an hour before dressing. He said it expanded his lungs. He might, of course, have had it done in a shoe-store with a boot stretcher, but after all it cost him nothing this way, and what is half an hour? After he had got his undershirt on, Jiggins used to hitch himself up like a dog in harness and do Sandow exercises. He did them forwards, backwards, and hind-side up. He could have got a job as a dog anywhere. He spent all his time at this kind of thing. In his spare time at the office, he used to lie on his stomach on the floor and see if he could lift himself up with his knuckles. If he could, then he tried some other way until he found one that he couldn't do. Then he would spend the rest of his lunch hour on his stomach, perfectly happy. In the evenings in his room he used to lift iron bars, cannon-balls, heave dumb-bells, and haul himself up to the ceiling with his teeth. You could hear the thumps half a mile. He liked it. He spent half the night slinging himself around his room. He said it made his brain clear. When he got his brain perfectly clear, he went to bed and slept. As soon as he woke, he began clearing it again. Jiggins is dead. He was, of course, a pioneer, but the fact that he dumb-belled himself to death at an early age does not prevent a whole generation of young men from following in his path. They are ridden by the Health Mania. They make themselves a nuisance. They get up at impossible hours. They go out in silly little suits and run Marathon heats before breakfast. They chase around barefoot to get the dew on their feet. They hunt for ozone. They bother about pepsin. They won't eat meat because it has too much nitrogen. They won't eat fruit because it hasn't any. They prefer albumen and starch and nitrogen to huckleberry pie and doughnuts. They won't drink water out of a tap. They won't eat sardines out of a can. They won't use oysters out of a pail. They won't drink milk out of a glass. They are afraid of alcohol in any shape. Yes, sir, afraid. "Cowards." And after all their fuss they presently incur some simple old-fashioned illness and die like anybody else. Now people of this sort have no chance to attain any great age. They are on the wrong track. Listen. Do you want to live to be really old, to enjoy a grand, green, exuberant, boastful old age and to make yourself a nuisance to your whole neighbourhood with your reminiscences? Then cut out all this nonsense. Cut it out. Get up in the morning at a sensible hour. The time to get up is when you have to, not before. If your office opens at eleven, get up at ten-thirty. Take your chance on ozone. There isn't any such thing anyway. Or, if there is, you can buy a Thermos bottle full for five cents, and put it on a shelf in your cupboard. If your work begins at seven in the morning, get up at ten minutes to, but don't be liar enough to say that you like it. It isn't exhilarating, and you know it. Also, drop all that cold-bath business. You never did it when you were a boy. Don't be a fool now. If you must take a bath (you don't really need to), take it warm. The pleasure of getting out of a cold bed and creeping into a hot bath beats a cold plunge to death. In any case, stop gassing about your tub and your "shower," as if you were the only man who ever washed. So much for that point. Next, take the question of germs and bacilli. Don't be scared of them. That's all. That's the whole thing, and if you once get on to that you never need to worry again. If you see a bacilli, walk right up to it, and look it in the eye. If one flies into your room, strike at it with your hat or with a towel. Hit it as hard as you can between the neck and the thorax. It will soon get sick of that. But as a matter of fact, a bacilli is perfectly quiet and harmless if you are not afraid of it. Speak to it. Call out to it to "lie down." It will understand. I had a bacilli once, called Fido, that would come and lie at my feet while I was working. I never knew a more affectionate companion, and when it was run over by an automobile, I buried it in the garden with genuine sorrow. (I admit this is an exaggeration. I don't really remember its name; it may have been Robert.) Understand that it is only a fad of modern medicine to say that cholera and typhoid and diphtheria are caused by bacilli and germs; nonsense. Cholera is caused by a frightful pain in the stomach, and diphtheria is caused by trying to cure a sore throat. Now take the question of food. Eat what you want. Eat lots of it. Yes, eat too much of it. Eat till you can just stagger across the room with it and prop it up against a sofa cushion. Eat everything that you like until you can't eat any more. The only test is, can you pay for it? If you can't pay for it, don't eat it. And listen--don't worry as to whether your food contains starch, or albumen, or gluten, or nitrogen. If you are a damn fool enough to want these things, go and buy them and eat all you want of them. Go to a laundry and get a bag of starch, and eat your fill of it. Eat it, and take a good long drink of glue after it, and a spoonful of Portland cement. That will gluten you, good and solid. If you like nitrogen, go and get a druggist to give you a canful of it at the soda counter, and let you sip it with a straw. Only don't think that you can mix all these things up with your food. There isn't any nitrogen or phosphorus or albumen in ordinary things to eat. In any decent household all that sort of stuff is washed out in the kitchen sink before the food is put on the table. And just one word about fresh air and exercise. Don't bother with either of them. Get your room full of good air, then shut up the windows and keep it. It will keep for years. Anyway, don't keep using your lungs all the time. Let them rest. As for exercise, if you have to take it, take it and put up with it. But as long as you have the price of a hack and can hire other people to play baseball for you and run races and do gymnastics when you sit in the shade and smoke and watch them--great heavens, what more do you want? How to Avoid Getting Married Some years ago, when I was the Editor of a Correspondence Column, I used to receive heart-broken letters from young men asking for advice and sympathy. They found themselves the object of marked attentions from girls which they scarcely knew how to deal with. They did not wish to give pain or to seem indifferent to a love which they felt was as ardent as it was disinterested, and yet they felt that they could not bestow their hands where their hearts had not spoken. They wrote to me fully and frankly, and as one soul might write to another for relief. I accepted their confidences as under the pledge of a secrecy, never divulging their disclosures beyond the circulation of my newspapers, or giving any hint of their identity other than printing their names and addresses and their letters in full. But I may perhaps without dishonour reproduce one of these letters, and my answer to it, inasmuch as the date is now months ago, and the softening hand of Time has woven its roses--how shall I put it?--the mellow haze of reminiscences has--what I mean is that the young man has gone back to work and is all right again. Here then is a letter from a young man whose name I must not reveal, but whom I will designate as D. F., and whose address I must not divulge, but will simply indicate as Q. Street, West. "DEAR MR. LEACOCK, "For some time past I have been the recipient of very marked attentions from a young lady. She has been calling at the house almost every evening, and has taken me out in her motor, and invited me to concerts and the theatre. On these latter occasions I have insisted on her taking my father with me, and have tried as far as possible to prevent her saying anything to me which would be unfit for father to hear. But my position has become a very difficult one. I do not think it right to accept her presents when I cannot feel that my heart is hers. Yesterday she sent to my house a beautiful bouquet of American Beauty roses addressed to me, and a magnificent bunch of Timothy Hay for father. I do not know what to say. Would it be right for father to keep all this valuable hay? I have confided fully in father, and we have discussed the question of presents. He thinks that there are some that we can keep with propriety, and others that a sense of delicacy forbids us to retain. He himself is going to sort out the presents into the two classes. He thinks that as far as he can see, the Hay is in class B. Meantime I write to you, as I understand that Miss Laura Jean Libby and Miss Beatrix Fairfax are on their vacation, and in any case a friend of mine who follows their writings closely tells me that they are always full. "I enclose a dollar, because I do not think it right to ask you to give all your valuable time and your best thought without giving you back what it is worth." On receipt of this I wrote back at once a private and confidential letter which I printed in the following edition of the paper. "MY DEAR, DEAR BOY, "Your letter has touched me. As soon as I opened it and saw the green and blue tint of the dollar bill which you had so daintily and prettily folded within the pages of your sweet letter, I knew that the note was from someone that I could learn to love, if our correspondence were to continue as it had begun. I took the dollar from your letter and kissed and fondled it a dozen times. Dear unknown boy! I shall always keep that dollar! No matter how much I may need it, or how many necessaries, yes, absolute necessities, of life I may be wanting, I shall always keep THAT dollar. Do you understand, dear? I shall keep it. I shall not spend it. As far as the USE of it goes, it will be just as if you had not sent it. Even if you were to send me another dollar, I should still keep the first one, so that no matter how many you sent, the recollection of one first friendship would not be contaminated with mercenary considerations. When I say dollar, darling, of course an express order, or a postal note, or even stamps would be all the same. But in that case do not address me in care of this office, as I should not like to think of your pretty little letters lying round where others might handle them. "But now I must stop chatting about myself, for I know that you cannot be interested in a simple old fogey such as I am. Let me talk to you about your letter and about the difficult question it raises for all marriageable young men. "In the first place, let me tell you how glad I am that you confide in your father. Whatever happens, go at once to your father, put your arms about his neck, and have a good cry together. And you are right, too, about presents. It needs a wiser head than my poor perplexed boy to deal with them. Take them to your father to be sorted, or, if you feel that you must not overtax his love, address them to me in your own pretty hand. "And now let us talk, dear, as one heart to another. Remember always that if a girl is to have your heart she must be worthy of you. When you look at your own bright innocent face in the mirror, resolve that you will give your hand to no girl who is not just as innocent as you are and no brighter than yourself. So that you must first find out how innocent she is. Ask her quietly and frankly--remember, dear, that the days of false modesty are passing away--whether she has ever been in jail. If she has not (and if YOU have not), then you know that you are dealing with a dear confiding girl who will make you a life mate. Then you must know, too, that her mind is worthy of your own. So many men to-day are led astray by the merely superficial graces and attractions of girls who in reality possess no mental equipment at all. Many a man is bitterly disillusioned after marriage when he realises that his wife cannot solve a quadratic equation, and that he is compelled to spend all his days with a woman who does not know that X squared plus 2XY plus Y squared is the same thing, or, I think nearly the same thing, as X plus Y squared. "Nor should the simple domestic virtues be neglected. If a girl desires to woo you, before allowing her to press her suit, ask her if she knows how to press yours. If she can, let her woo; if not, tell her to whoa. But I see I have written quite as much as I need for this column. Won't you write again, just as before, dear boy? "STEPHEN LEACOCK." How to be a Doctor Certainly the progress of science is a wonderful thing. One can't help feeling proud of it. I must admit that I do. Whenever I get talking to anyone--that is, to anyone who knows even less about it than I do--about the marvellous development of electricity, for instance, I feel as if I had been personally responsible for it. As for the linotype and the aeroplane and the vacuum house-cleaner, well, I am not sure that I didn't invent them myself. I believe that all generous-hearted men feel just the same way about it. However, that is not the point I am intending to discuss. What I want to speak about is the progress of medicine. There, if you like, is something wonderful. Any lover of humanity (or of either sex of it) who looks back on the achievements of medical science must feel his heart glow and his right ventricle expand with the pericardiac stimulus of a permissible pride. Just think of it. A hundred years ago there were no bacilli, no ptomaine poisoning, no diphtheria, and no appendicitis. Rabies was but little known, and only imperfectly developed. All of these we owe to medical science. Even such things as psoriasis and parotitis and trypanosomiasis, which are now household names, were known only to the few, and were quite beyond the reach of the great mass of the people. Or consider the advance of the science on its practical side. A hundred years ago it used to be supposed that fever could be cured by the letting of blood; now we know positively that it cannot. Even seventy years ago it was thought that fever was curable by the administration of sedative drugs; now we know that it isn't. For the matter of that, as recently as thirty years ago, doctors thought that they could heal a fever by means of low diet and the application of ice; now they are absolutely certain that they cannot. This instance shows the steady progress made in the treatment of fever. But there has been the same cheering advance all along the line. Take rheumatism. A few generations ago people with rheumatism used to have to carry round potatoes in their pockets as a means of cure. Now the doctors allow them to carry absolutely anything they like. They may go round with their pockets full of water-melons if they wish to. It makes no difference. Or take the treatment of epilepsy. It used to be supposed that the first thing to do in sudden attacks of this kind was to unfasten the patient's collar and let him breathe; at present, on the contrary, many doctors consider it better to button up the patient's collar and let him choke. In only one respect has there been a decided lack of progress in the domain of medicine, that is in the time it takes to become a qualified practitioner. In the good old days a man was turned out thoroughly equipped after putting in two winter sessions at a college and spending his summers in running logs for a sawmill. Some of the students were turned out even sooner. Nowadays it takes anywhere from five to eight years to become a doctor. Of course, one is willing to grant that our young men are growing stupider and lazier every year. This fact will be corroborated at once by any man over fifty years of age. But even when this is said it seems odd that a man should study eight years now to learn what he used to acquire in eight months. However, let that go. The point I want to develop is that the modern doctor's business is an extremely simple one, which could be acquired in about two weeks. This is the way it is done. The patient enters the consulting-room. "Doctor," he says, "I have a bad pain." "Where is it?" "Here." "Stand up," says the doctor, "and put your arms up above your head." Then the doctor goes behind the patient and strikes him a powerful blow in the back. "Do you feel that," he says. "I do," says the patient. Then the doctor turns suddenly and lets him have a left hook under the heart. "Can you feel that," he says viciously, as the patient falls over on the sofa in a heap. "Get up," says the doctor, and counts ten. The patient rises. The doctor looks him over very carefully without speaking, and then suddenly fetches him a blow in the stomach that doubles him up speechless. The doctor walks over to the window and reads the morning paper for a while. Presently he turns and begins to mutter more to himself than the patient. "Hum!" he says, "there's a slight anaesthesia of the tympanum." "Is that so?" says the patient, in an agony of fear. "What can I do about it, doctor?" "Well," says the doctor, "I want you to keep very quiet; you'll have to go to bed and stay there and keep quiet." In reality, of course, the doctor hasn't the least idea what is wrong with the man; but he DOES know that if he will go to bed and keep quiet, awfully quiet, he'll either get quietly well again or else die a quiet death. Meantime, if the doctor calls every morning and thumps and beats him, he can keep the patient submissive and perhaps force him to confess what is wrong with him. "What about diet, doctor?" says the patient, completely cowed. The answer to this question varies very much. It depends on how the doctor is feeling and whether it is long since he had a meal himself. If it is late in the morning and the doctor is ravenously hungry, he says: "Oh, eat plenty, don't be afraid of it; eat meat, vegetables, starch, glue, cement, anything you like." But if the doctor has just had lunch and if his breathing is short-circuited with huckleberry-pie, he says very firmly: "No, I don't want you to eat anything at all: absolutely not a bite; it won't hurt you, a little self-denial in the matter of eating is the best thing in the world." "And what about drinking?" Again the doctor's answer varies. He may say: "Oh, yes, you might drink a glass of lager now and then, or, if you prefer it, a gin and soda or a whisky and Apollinaris, and I think before going to bed I'd take a hot Scotch with a couple of lumps of white sugar and bit of lemon-peel in it and a good grating of nutmeg on the top." The doctor says this with real feeling, and his eye glistens with the pure love of his profession. But if, on the other hand, the doctor has spent the night before at a little gathering of medical friends, he is very apt to forbid the patient to touch alcohol in any shape, and to dismiss the subject with great severity. Of course, this treatment in and of itself would appear too transparent, and would fail to inspire the patient with a proper confidence. But nowadays this element is supplied by the work of the analytical laboratory. Whatever is wrong with the patient, the doctor insists on snipping off parts and pieces and extracts of him and sending them mysteriously away to be analysed. He cuts off a lock of the patient's hair, marks it, "Mr. Smith's Hair, October, 1910." Then he clips off the lower part of the ear, and wraps it in paper, and labels it, "Part of Mr. Smith's Ear, October, 1910." Then he looks the patient up and down, with the scissors in his hand, and if he sees any likely part of him he clips it off and wraps it up. Now this, oddly enough, is the very thing that fills the patient up with that sense of personal importance which is worth paying for. "Yes," says the bandaged patient, later in the day to a group of friends much impressed, "the doctor thinks there may be a slight anaesthesia of the prognosis, but he's sent my ear to New York and my appendix to Baltimore and a lock of my hair to the editors of all the medical journals, and meantime I am to keep very quiet and not exert myself beyond drinking a hot Scotch with lemon and nutmeg every half-hour." With that he sinks back faintly on his cushions, luxuriously happy. And yet, isn't it funny? You and I and the rest of us--even if we know all this--as soon as we have a pain within us, rush for a doctor as fast as a hack can take us. Yes, personally, I even prefer an ambulance with a bell on it. It's more soothing. The New Food I see from the current columns of the daily press that "Professor Plumb, of the University of Chicago, has just invented a highly concentrated form of food. All the essential nutritive elements are put together in the form of pellets, each of which contains from one to two hundred times as much nourishment as an ounce of an ordinary article of diet. These pellets, diluted with water, will form all that is necessary to support life. The professor looks forward confidently to revolutionizing the present food system." Now this kind of thing may be all very well in its way, but it is going to have its drawbacks as well. In the bright future anticipated by Professor Plumb, we can easily imagine such incidents as the following: The smiling family were gathered round the hospitable board. The table was plenteously laid with a soup-plate in front of each beaming child, a bucket of hot water before the radiant mother, and at the head of the board the Christmas dinner of the happy home, warmly covered by a thimble and resting on a poker chip. The expectant whispers of the little ones were hushed as the father, rising from his chair, lifted the thimble and disclosed a small pill of concentrated nourishment on the chip before him. Christmas turkey, cranberry sauce, plum pudding, mince pie--it was all there, all jammed into that little pill and only waiting to expand. Then the father with deep reverence, and a devout eye alternating between the pill and heaven, lifted his voice in a benediction. At this moment there was an agonized cry from the mother. "Oh, Henry, quick! Baby has snatched the pill!" It was too true. Dear little Gustavus Adolphus, the golden-haired baby boy, had grabbed the whole Christmas dinner off the poker chip and bolted it. Three hundred and fifty pounds of concentrated nourishment passed down the oesophagus of the unthinking child. "Clap him on the back!" cried the distracted mother. "Give him water!" The idea was fatal. The water striking the pill caused it to expand. There was a dull rumbling sound and then, with an awful bang, Gustavus Adolphus exploded into fragments! And when they gathered the little corpse together, the baby lips were parted in a lingering smile that could only be worn by a child who had eaten thirteen Christmas dinners. A New Pathology It has long been vaguely understood that the condition of a man's clothes has a certain effect upon the health of both body and mind. The well-known proverb, "Clothes make the man" has its origin in a general recognition of the powerful influence of the habiliments in their reaction upon the wearer. The same truth may be observed in the facts of everyday life. On the one hand we remark the bold carriage and mental vigour of a man attired in a new suit of clothes; on the other hand we note the melancholy features of him who is conscious of a posterior patch, or the haunted face of one suffering from internal loss of buttons. But while common observation thus gives us a certain familiarity with a few leading facts regarding the ailments and influence of clothes, no attempt has as yet been made to reduce our knowledge to a systematic form. At the same time the writer feels that a valuable addition might be made to the science of medicine in this direction. The numerous diseases which are caused by this fatal influence should receive a scientific analysis, and their treatment be included among the principles of the healing art. The diseases of the clothes may roughly be divided into medical cases and surgical cases, while these again fall into classes according to the particular garment through which the sufferer is attacked. MEDICAL CASES Probably no article of apparel is so liable to a diseased condition as the trousers. It may be well, therefore, to treat first those maladies to which they are subject. I. Contractio Pantalunae, or Shortening of the Legs of the Trousers, an extremely painful malady most frequently found in the growing youth. The first symptom is the appearance of a yawning space (lacuna) above the boots, accompanied by an acute sense of humiliation and a morbid anticipation of mockery. The application of treacle to the boots, although commonly recommended, may rightly be condemned as too drastic a remedy. The use of boots reaching to the knee, to be removed only at night, will afford immediate relief. In connection with Contractio is often found-- II. Inflatio Genu, or Bagging of the Knees of the Trousers, a disease whose symptoms are similar to those above. The patient shows an aversion to the standing posture, and, in acute cases, if the patient be compelled to stand, the head is bent and the eye fixed with painful rigidity upon the projecting blade formed at the knee of the trousers. In both of the above diseases anything that can be done to free the mind of the patient from a morbid sense of his infirmity will do much to improve the general tone of the system. III. Oases, or Patches, are liable to break out anywhere on the trousers, and range in degree of gravity from those of a trifling nature to those of a fatal character. The most distressing cases are those where the patch assumes a different colour from that of the trousers (dissimilitas coloris). In this instance the mind of the patient is found to be in a sadly aberrated condition. A speedy improvement may, however, be effected by cheerful society, books, flowers, and, above all, by a complete change. IV. The overcoat is attacked by no serious disorders, except-- Phosphorescentia, or Glistening, a malady which indeed may often be observed to affect the whole system. It is caused by decay of tissue from old age and is generally aggravated by repeated brushing. A peculiar feature of the complaint is the lack of veracity on the part of the patient in reference to the cause of his uneasiness. Another invariable symptom is his aversion to outdoor exercise; under various pretexts, which it is the duty of his medical adviser firmly to combat, he will avoid even a gentle walk in the streets. V. Of the waistcoat science recognizes but one disease-- Porriggia, an affliction caused by repeated spilling of porridge. It is generally harmless, chiefly owing to the mental indifference of the patient. It can be successfully treated by repeated fomentations of benzine. VI. Mortificatio Tilis, or Greenness of the Hat, is a disease often found in connection with Phosphorescentia (mentioned above), and characterized by the same aversion to outdoor life. VII. Sterilitas, or Loss of Fur, is another disease of the hat, especially prevalent in winter. It is not accurately known whether this is caused by a falling out of the fur or by a cessation of growth. In all diseases of the hat the mind of the patient is greatly depressed and his countenance stamped with the deepest gloom. He is particularly sensitive in regard to questions as to the previous history of the hat. Want of space precludes the mention of minor diseases, such as-- VIII. Odditus Soccorum, or oddness of the socks, a thing in itself trifling, but of an alarming nature if met in combination with Contractio Pantalunae. Cases are found where the patient, possibly on the public platform or at a social gathering, is seized with a consciousness of the malady so suddenly as to render medical assistance futile. SURGICAL CASES It is impossible to mention more than a few of the most typical cases of diseases of this sort. I. Explosio, or Loss of Buttons, is the commonest malady demanding surgical treatment. It consists of a succession of minor fractures, possibly internal, which at first excite no alarm. A vague sense of uneasiness is presently felt, which often leads the patient to seek relief in the string habit--a habit which, if unduly indulged in, may assume the proportions of a ruling passion. The use of sealing-wax, while admirable as a temporary remedy for Explosio, should never be allowed to gain a permanent hold upon the system. There is no doubt that a persistent indulgence in the string habit, or the constant use of sealing-wax, will result in-- II. Fractura Suspendorum, or Snapping of the Braces, which amounts to a general collapse of the system. The patient is usually seized with a severe attack of explosio, followed by a sudden sinking feeling and sense of loss. A sound constitution may rally from the shock, but a system undermined by the string habit invariably succumbs. III. Sectura Pantalunae, or Ripping of the Trousers, is generally caused by sitting upon warm beeswax or leaning against a hook. In the case of the very young it is not unfrequently accompanied by a distressing suppuration of the shirt. This, however, is not remarked in adults. The malady is rather mental than bodily, the mind of the patient being racked by a keen sense of indignity and a feeling of unworthiness. The only treatment is immediate isolation, with a careful stitching of the affected part. In conclusion, it may be stated that at the first symptom of disease the patient should not hesitate to put himself in the hands of a professional tailor. In so brief a compass as the present article the discussion has of necessity been rather suggestive than exhaustive. Much yet remains to be done, and the subject opens wide to the inquiring eye. The writer will, however, feel amply satisfied if this brief outline may help to direct the attention of medical men to what is yet an unexplored field. The Poet Answered Dear sir: In answer to your repeated questions and requests which have appeared for some years past in the columns of the rural press, I beg to submit the following solutions of your chief difficulties:-- Topic I.--You frequently ask, where are the friends of your childhood, and urge that they shall be brought back to you. As far as I am able to learn, those of your friends who are not in jail are still right there in your native village. You point out that they were wont to share your gambols. If so, you are certainly entitled to have theirs now. Topic II.--You have taken occasion to say: "Give me not silk, nor rich attire, Nor gold, nor jewels rare." But, my dear fellow, this is preposterous. Why, these are the very things I had bought for you. If you won't take any of these, I shall have to give you factory cotton and cordwood. Topic III.--You also ask, "How fares my love across the sea?" Intermediate, I presume. She would hardly travel steerage. Topic IV.--"Why was I born? Why should I breathe?" Here I quite agree with you. I don't think you ought to breathe. Topic V.--You demand that I shall show you the man whose soul is dead and then mark him. I am awfully sorry; the man was around here all day yesterday, and if I had only known I could easily have marked him so that we could pick him out again. Topic VI.--I notice that you frequently say, "Oh, for the sky of your native land." Oh, for it, by all means, if you wish. But remember that you already owe for a great deal. Topic VII.--On more than one occasion you wish to be informed, "What boots it, that you idly dream?" Nothing boots it at present--a fact, sir, which ought to afford you the highest gratification. The Force of Statistics They were sitting on a seat of the car, immediately in front of me. I was consequently able to hear all that they were saying. They were evidently strangers who had dropped into a conversation. They both had the air of men who considered themselves profoundly interesting as minds. It was plain that each laboured under the impression that he was a ripe thinker. One had just been reading a book which lay in his lap. "I've been reading some very interesting statistics," he was saying to the other thinker. "Ah, statistics" said the other; "wonderful things, sir, statistics; very fond of them myself." "I find, for instance," the first man went on, "that a drop of water is filled with little...with little...I forget just what you call them...little--er--things, every cubic inch containing--er--containing...let me see..." "Say a million," said the other thinker, encouragingly. "Yes, a million, or possibly a billion...but at any rate, ever so many of them." "Is it possible?" said the other. "But really, you know there are wonderful things in the world. Now, coal...take coal..." "Very, good," said his friend, "let us take coal," settling back in his seat with the air of an intellect about to feed itself. "Do you know that every ton of coal burnt in an engine will drag a train of cars as long as...I forget the exact length, but say a train of cars of such and such a length, and weighing, say so much...from...from...hum! for the moment the exact distance escapes me...drag it from..." "From here to the moon," suggested the other. "Ah, very likely; yes, from here to the moon. Wonderful, isn't it?" "But the most stupendous calculation of all, sir, is in regard to the distance from the earth to the sun. Positively, sir, a cannon-ball--er--fired at the sun..." "Fired at the sun," nodded the other, approvingly, as if he had often seen it done. "And travelling at the rate of...of..." "Of three cents a mile," hinted the listener. "No, no, you misunderstand me,--but travelling at a fearful rate, simply fearful, sir, would take a hundred million--no, a hundred billion--in short would take a scandalously long time in getting there--" At this point I could stand no more. I interrupted--"Provided it were fired from Philadelphia," I said, and passed into the smoking-car. Men Who have Shaved Me A barber is by nature and inclination a sport. He can tell you at what exact hour the ball game of the day is to begin, can foretell its issue without losing a stroke of the razor, and can explain the points of inferiority of all the players, as compared with better men that he has personally seen elsewhere, with the nicety of a professional. He can do all this, and then stuff the customer's mouth with a soap-brush, and leave him while he goes to the other end of the shop to make a side bet with one of the other barbers on the outcome of the Autumn Handicap. In the barber-shops they knew the result of the Jeffries-Johnson prize-fight long before it happened. It is on information of this kind that they make their living. The performance of shaving is only incidental to it. Their real vocation in life is imparting information. To the barber the outside world is made up of customers, who are to be thrown into chairs, strapped, manacled, gagged with soap, and then given such necessary information on the athletic events of the moment as will carry them through the business hours of the day without open disgrace. As soon as the barber has properly filled up the customer with information of this sort, he rapidly removes his whiskers as a sign that the man is now fit to talk to, and lets him out of the chair. The public has grown to understand the situation. Every reasonable business man is willing to sit and wait half an hour for a shave which he could give himself in three minutes, because he knows that if he goes down town without understanding exactly why Chicago lost two games straight he will appear an ignoramus. At times, of course, the barber prefers to test his customer with a question or two. He gets him pinned in the chair, with his head well back, covers the customer's face with soap, and then planting his knee on his chest and holding his hand firmly across the customer's mouth, to prevent all utterance and to force him to swallow the soap, he asks: "Well, what did you think of the Detroit-St. Louis game yesterday?" This is not really meant for a question at all. It is only equivalent to saying: "Now, you poor fool, I'll bet you don't know anything about the great events of your country at all." There is a gurgle in the customer's throat as if he were trying to answer, and his eyes are seen to move sideways, but the barber merely thrusts the soap-brush into each eye, and if any motion still persists, he breathes gin and peppermint over the face, till all sign of life is extinct. Then he talks the game over in detail with the barber at the next chair, each leaning across an inanimate thing extended under steaming towels that was once a man. To know all these things barbers have to be highly educated. It is true that some of the greatest barbers that have ever lived have begun as uneducated, illiterate men, and by sheer energy and indomitable industry have forced their way to the front. But these are exceptions. To succeed nowadays it is practically necessary to be a college graduate. As the courses at Harvard and Yale have been found too superficial, there are now established regular Barbers' Colleges, where a bright young man can learn as much in three weeks as he would be likely to know after three years at Harvard. The courses at these colleges cover such things as: (1) Physiology, including Hair and its Destruction, The Origin and Growth of Whiskers, Soap in its Relation to Eyesight; (2) Chemistry, including lectures on Florida Water; and How to Make it out of Sardine Oil; (3) Practical Anatomy, including The Scalp and How to Lift it, The Ears and How to Remove them, and, as the Major Course for advanced students, The Veins of the Face and how to open and close them at will by the use of alum. The education of the customer is, as I have said, the chief part of the barber's vocation. But it must be remembered that the incidental function of removing his whiskers in order to mark him as a well-informed man is also of importance, and demands long practice and great natural aptitude. In the barbers' shops of modern cities shaving has been brought to a high degree of perfection. A good barber is not content to remove the whiskers of his client directly and immediately. He prefers to cook him first. He does this by immersing the head in hot water and covering the victim's face with steaming towels until he has him boiled to a nice pink. From time to time the barber removes the towels and looks at the face to see if it is yet boiled pink enough for his satisfaction. If it is not, he replaces the towels again and jams them down firmly with his hand until the cooking is finished. The final result, however, amply justifies this trouble, and the well-boiled customer only needs the addition of a few vegetables on the side to present an extremely appetizing appearance. During the process of the shave, it is customary for the barber to apply the particular kind of mental torture known as the third degree. This is done by terrorizing the patient as to the very evident and proximate loss of all his hair and whiskers, which the barber is enabled by his experience to foretell. "Your hair," he says, very sadly and sympathetically, "is all falling out. Better let me give you a shampoo?" "No." "Let me singe your hair to close up the follicles?" "No." "Let me plug up the ends of your hair with sealing-wax, it's the only thing that will save it for you?" "No." "Let me rub an egg on your scalp?" "No." "Let me squirt a lemon on your eyebrows?" "No." The barber sees that he is dealing with a man of determination, and he warms to his task. He bends low and whispers into the prostrate ear: "You've got a good many grey hairs coming in; better let me give you an application of Hairocene, only cost you half a dollar?" "No." "Your face," he whispers again, with a soft, caressing voice, "is all covered with wrinkles; better let me rub some of this Rejuvenator into the face." This process is continued until one of two things happens. Either the customer is obdurate, and staggers to his feet at last and gropes his way out of the shop with the knowledge that he is a wrinkled, prematurely senile man, whose wicked life is stamped upon his face, and whose unstopped hair-ends and failing follicles menace him with the certainty of complete baldness within twenty-four hours--or else, as in nearly all instances, he succumbs. In the latter case, immediately on his saying "yes" there is a shout of exultation from the barber, a roar of steaming water, and within a moment two barbers have grabbed him by the feet and thrown him under the tap, and, in spite of his struggles, are giving him the Hydro-magnetic treatment. When he emerges from their hands, he steps out of the shop looking as if he had been varnished. But even the application of the Hydro-magnetic and the Rejuvenator do not by any means exhaust the resources of the up-to-date barber. He prefers to perform on the customer a whole variety of subsidiary services not directly connected with shaving, but carried on during the process of the shave. In a good, up-to-date shop, while one man is shaving the customer, others black his boots; brush his clothes, darn his socks, point his nails, enamel his teeth, polish his eyes, and alter the shape of any of his joints which they think unsightly. During this operation they often stand seven or eight deep round a customer, fighting for a chance to get at him. All of these remarks apply to barber-shops in the city, and not to country places. In the country there is only one barber and one customer at a time. The thing assumes the aspect of a straight-out, rough-and-tumble, catch-as-catch-can fight, with a few spectators sitting round the shop to see fair play. In the city they can shave a man without removing any of his clothes. But in the country, where the customer insists on getting the full value for his money, they remove the collar and necktie, the coat and the waistcoat, and, for a really good shave and hair-cut, the customer is stripped to the waist. The barber can then take a rush at him from the other side of the room, and drive the clippers up the full length of the spine, so as to come at the heavier hair on the back of the head with the impact of a lawn-mower driven into long grass. Getting the Thread of It Have you ever had a man try to explain to you what happened in a book as far as he has read? It is a most instructive thing. Sinclair, the man who shares my rooms with me, made such an attempt the other night. I had come in cold and tired from a walk and found him full of excitement, with a bulky magazine in one hand and a paper-cutter gripped in the other. "Say, here's a grand story," he burst out as soon as I came in; "it's great! most fascinating thing I ever read. Wait till I read you some of it. I'll just tell you what has happened up to where I am--you'll easily catch the thread of it--and then we'll finish it together." I wasn't feeling in a very responsive mood, but I saw no way to stop him, so I merely said, "All right, throw me your thread, I'll catch it." "Well," Sinclair began with great animation, "this count gets this letter..." "Hold on," I interrupted, "what count gets what letter?" "Oh, the count it's about, you know. He gets this letter from this Porphirio." "From which Porphirio?" "Why, Porphirio sent the letter, don't you see, he sent it," Sinclair exclaimed a little impatiently--"sent it through Demonio and told him to watch for him with him, and kill him when he got him." "Oh, see here!" I broke in, "who is to meet who, and who is to get stabbed?" "They're going to stab Demonio." "And who brought the letter?" "Demonio." "Well, now, Demonio must be a clam! What did he bring it for?" "Oh, but he don't know what's in it, that's just the slick part of it," and Sinclair began to snigger to himself at the thought of it. "You see, this Carlo Carlotti the Condottiere..." "Stop right there," I said. "What's a Condottiere?" "It's a sort of brigand. He, you understand, was in league with this Fra Fraliccolo..." A suspicion flashed across my mind. "Look here," I said firmly, "if the scene of this story is laid in the Highlands, I refuse to listen to it. Call it off." "No, no," Sinclair answered quickly, "that's all right. It's laid in Italy...time of Pius the something. He comes in--say, but he's great! so darned crafty. It's him, you know, that persuades this Franciscan..." "Pause," I said, "what Franciscan?" "Fra Fraliccolo, of course," Sinclair said snappishly. "You see, Pio tries to..." "Whoa!" I said, "who is Pio?" "Oh, hang it all, Pio is Italian, it's short for Pius. He tries to get Fra Fraliccolo and Carlo Carlotti the Condottiere to steal the document from...let me see; what was he called?...Oh, yes...from the Dog of Venice, so that...or...no, hang it, you put me out, that's all wrong. It's the other way round. Pio wasn't clever at all; he's a regular darned fool. It's the Dog that's crafty. By Jove, he's fine," Sinclair went on; warming up to enthusiasm again, "he just does anything he wants. He makes this Demonio (Demonio is one of those hirelings, you know, he's the tool of the Dog)...makes him steal the document off Porphirio, and..." "But how does he get him to do that?" I asked. "Oh, the Dog has Demonio pretty well under his thumb, so he makes Demonio scheme round till he gets old Pio--er--gets him under his thumb, and then, of course, Pio thinks that Porphirio--I mean he thinks that he has Porphirio--er--has him under his thumb." "Half a minute, Sinclair," I said, "who did you say was under the Dog's thumb?" "Demonio." "Thanks. I was mixed in the thumbs. Go on." "Well, just when things are like this..." "Like what?" "Like I said." "All right." "Who should turn up and thwart the whole scheme, but this Signorina Tarara in her domino..." "Hully Gee!" I said, "you make my head ache. What the deuce does she come in her domino for?" "Why, to thwart it." "To thwart what?" "Thwart the whole darned thing," Sinclair exclaimed emphatically. "But can't she thwart it without her domino?" "I should think not! You see, if it hadn't been for the domino, the Dog would have spotted her quick as a wink. Only when he sees her in the domino with this rose in her hair, he thinks she must be Lucia dell' Esterolla." "Say, he fools himself, doesn't he? Who's this last girl?" "Lucia? Oh, she's great!" Sinclair said. "She's one of those Southern natures, you know, full of--er--full of..." "Full of fun," I suggested. "Oh, hang it all, don't make fun of it! Well, anyhow, she's sister, you understand, to the Contessa Carantarata, and that's why Fra Fraliccolo, or...hold on, that's not it, no, no, she's not sister to anybody. She's cousin, that's it; or, anyway, she thinks she is cousin to Fra Fraliccolo himself, and that's why Pio tries to stab Fra Fraliccolo." "Oh, yes," I assented, "naturally he would." "Ah," Sinclair said hopefully, getting his paper-cutter ready to cut the next pages, "you begin to get the thread now, don't you?" "Oh, fine!" I said. "The people in it are the Dog and Pio, and Carlo Carlotti the Condottiere, and those others that we spoke of." "That's right," Sinclair said. "Of course, there are more still that I can tell you about if..." "Oh, never mind," I said, "I'll work along with those, they're a pretty representative crowd. Then Porphirio is under Pio's thumb, and Pio is under Demonio's thumb, and the Dog is crafty, and Lucia is full of something all the time. Oh, I've got a mighty clear idea of it," I concluded bitterly. "Oh, you've got it," Sinclair said, "I knew you'd like it. Now we'll go on. I'll just finish to the bottom of my page and then I'll go on aloud." He ran his eyes rapidly over the lines till he came to the bottom of the page, then he cut the leaves and turned over. I saw his eye rest on the half-dozen lines that confronted him on the next page with an expression of utter consternation. "Well, I will be cursed!" he said at length. "What's the matter?" I said gently, with a great joy at my heart. "This infernal thing's a serial," he gasped, as he pointed at the words, "To be continued," "and that's all there is in this number." Telling His Faults "Oh, do, Mr. Sapling," said the beautiful girl at the summer hotel, "do let me read the palm of your hand! I can tell you all your faults." Mr. Sapling gave an inarticulate gurgle and a roseate flush swept over his countenance as he surrendered his palm to the grasp of the fair enchantress. "Oh, you're just full of faults, just full of them, Mr. Sapling!" she cried. Mr. Sapling looked it. "To begin with," said the beautiful girl, slowly and reflectingly, "you are dreadfully cynical: you hardly believe in anything at all, and you've utterly no faith in us poor women." The feeble smile that had hitherto kindled the features of Mr. Sapling into a ray of chastened imbecility, was distorted in an effort at cynicism. "Then your next fault is that you are too determined; much too determined. When once you have set your will on any object, you crush every obstacle under your feet." Mr. Sapling looked meekly down at his tennis shoes, but began to feel calmer, more lifted up. Perhaps he had been all these things without knowing it. "Then you are cold and sarcastic." Mr. Sapling attempted to look cold and sarcastic. He succeeded in a rude leer. "And you're horribly world-weary, you care for nothing. You have drained philosophy to the dregs, and scoff at everything." Mr. Sapling's inner feeling was that from now on he would simply scoff and scoff and scoff. "Your only redeeming quality is that you are generous. You have tried to kill even this, but cannot. Yes," concluded the beautiful girl, "those are your faults, generous still, but cold, cynical, and relentless. Good night, Mr. Sapling." And resisting all entreaties the beautiful girl passed from the verandah of the hotel and vanished. And when later in the evening the brother of the beautiful girl borrowed Mr. Sapling's tennis racket, and his bicycle for a fortnight, and the father of the beautiful girl got Sapling to endorse his note for a couple of hundreds, and her uncle Zephas borrowed his bedroom candle and used his razor to cut up a plug of tobacco, Mr. Sapling felt proud to be acquainted with the family. Winter Pastimes It is in the depth of winter, when the intense cold renders it desirable to stay at home, that the really Pleasant Family is wont to serve invitations upon a few friends to spend a Quiet Evening. It is at these gatherings that that gay thing, the indoor winter game, becomes rampant. It is there that the old euchre deck and the staring domino become fair and beautiful things; that the rattle of the Loto counter rejoices the heart, that the old riddle feels the sap stirring in its limbs again, and the amusing spilikin completes the mental ruin of the jaded guest. Then does the Jolly Maiden Aunt propound the query: What is the difference between an elephant and a silk hat? Or declare that her first is a vowel, her second a preposition, and her third an archipelago. It is to crown such a quiet evening, and to give the finishing stroke to those of the visitors who have not escaped early, with a fierce purpose of getting at the saloons before they have time to close, that the indoor game or family reservoir of fun is dragged from its long sleep. It is spread out upon the table. Its paper of directions is unfolded. Its cards, its counters, its pointers and its markers are distributed around the table, and the visitor forces a look of reckless pleasure upon his face. Then the "few simple directions" are read aloud by the Jolly Aunt, instructing each player to challenge the player holding the golden letter corresponding to the digit next in order, to name a dead author beginning with X, failing which the player must declare himself in fault, and pay the forfeit of handing over to the Jolly Aunt his gold watch and all his money, or having a hot plate put down his neck. With a view to bringing some relief to the guests at entertainments of this kind, I have endeavoured to construct one or two little winter pastimes of a novel character. They are quite inexpensive, and as they need no background of higher arithmetic or ancient history, they are within reach of the humblest intellect. Here is one of them. It is called Indoor Football, or Football without a Ball. In this game any number of players, from fifteen to thirty, seat themselves in a heap on any one player, usually the player next to the dealer. They then challenge him to get up, while one player stands with a stop-watch in his hand and counts forty seconds. Should the first player fail to rise before forty seconds are counted, the player with the watch declares him suffocated. This is called a "Down" and counts one. The player who was the Down is then leant against the wall; his wind is supposed to be squeezed out. The player called the referee then blows a whistle and the players select another player and score a down off him. While the player is supposed to be down, all the rest must remain seated as before, and not rise from him until the referee by counting forty and blowing his whistle announces that in his opinion the other player is stifled. He is then leant against the wall beside the first player. When the whistle again blows the player nearest the referee strikes him behind the right ear. This is a "Touch," and counts two. It is impossible, of course, to give all the rules in detail. I might add, however, that while it counts TWO to strike the referee, to kick him counts THREE. To break his arm or leg counts FOUR, and to kill him outright is called GRAND SLAM and counts one game. Here is another little thing that I have worked out, which is superior to parlour games in that it combines their intense excitement with sound out-of-door exercise. It is easily comprehended, and can be played by any number of players, old and young. It requires no other apparatus than a trolley car of the ordinary type, a mile or two of track, and a few thousand volts of electricity. It is called: The Suburban Trolley Car A Holiday Game for Old and Young. The chief part in the game is taken by two players who station themselves one at each end of the car, and who adopt some distinctive costumes to indicate that they are "it." The other players occupy the body of the car, or take up their position at intervals along the track. The object of each player should be to enter the car as stealthily as possible in such a way as to escape the notice of the players in distinctive dress. Should he fail to do this he must pay the philopena or forfeit. Of these there are two: philopena No. 1, the payment of five cents, and philopena No. 2, being thrown off the car by the neck. Each player may elect which philopena he will pay. Any player who escapes paying the philopena scores one. The players who are in the car may elect to adopt a standing attitude, or to seat themselves, but no player may seat himself in the lap of another without the second player's consent. The object of those who elect to remain standing is to place their feet upon the toes of those who sit; when they do this they score. The object of those who elect to sit is to elude the feet of the standing players. Much merriment is thus occasioned. The player in distinctive costume at the front of the car controls a crank, by means of which he is enabled to bring the car to a sudden stop, or to cause it to plunge violently forward. His aim in so doing is to cause all the standing players to fall over backward. Every time he does this he scores. For this purpose he is generally in collusion with the other player in distinctive costume, whose business it is to let him know by a series of bells and signals when the players are not looking, and can be easily thrown down. A sharp fall of this sort gives rise to no end of banter and good-natured drollery, directed against the two players who are "it." Should a player who is thus thrown backward save himself from falling by sitting down in the lap of a female player, he scores one. Any player who scores in this manner is entitled to remain seated while he may count six, after which he must remove himself or pay philopena No. 2. Should the player who controls the crank perceive a player upon the street desirous of joining in the game by entering the car, his object should be: primo, to run over him and kill him; secundo, to kill him by any other means in his power; tertio, to let him into the car, but to exact the usual philopena. Should a player, in thus attempting to get on the car from without, become entangled in the machinery, the player controlling the crank shouts "huff!" and the car is supposed to pass over him. All within the car score one. A fine spice of the ludicrous may be added to the game by each player pretending that he has a destination or stopping-place, where he would wish to alight. It now becomes the aim of the two players who are "it" to carry him past his point. A player who is thus carried beyond his imaginary stopping-place must feign a violent passion, and imitate angry gesticulations. He may, in addition, feign a great age or a painful infirmity, which will be found to occasion the most convulsive fun for the other players in the game. These are the main outlines of this most amusing pastime. Many other agreeable features may, of course, be readily introduced by persons of humour and imagination. Number Fifty-Six What I narrate was told me one winter's evening by my friend Ah-Yen in the little room behind his laundry. Ah-Yen is a quiet little celestial with a grave and thoughtful face, and that melancholy contemplative disposition so often noticed in his countrymen. Between myself and Ah-Yen there exists a friendship of some years' standing, and we spend many a long evening in the dimly lighted room behind his shop, smoking a dreamy pipe together and plunged in silent meditation. I am chiefly attracted to my friend by the highly imaginative cast of his mind, which is, I believe, a trait of the Eastern character and which enables him to forget to a great extent the sordid cares of his calling in an inner life of his own creation. Of the keen, analytical side of his mind, I was in entire ignorance until the evening of which I write. The room where we sat was small and dingy, with but little furniture except our chairs and the little table at which we filled and arranged our pipes, and was lighted only by a tallow candle. There were a few pictures on the walls, for the most part rude prints cut from the columns of the daily press and pasted up to hide the bareness of the room. Only one picture was in any way noticeable, a portrait admirably executed in pen and ink. The face was that of a young man, a very beautiful face, but one of infinite sadness. I had long been aware, although I know not how, that Ah-Yen had met with a great sorrow, and had in some way connected the fact with this portrait. I had always refrained, however, from asking him about it, and it was not until the evening in question that I knew its history. We had been smoking in silence for some time when Ah-Yen spoke. My friend is a man of culture and wide reading, and his English is consequently perfect in its construction; his speech is, of course, marked by the lingering liquid accent of his country which I will not attempt to reproduce. "I see," he said, "that you have been examining the portrait of my unhappy friend, Fifty-Six. I have never yet told you of my bereavement, but as to-night is the anniversary of his death, I would fain speak of him for a while." Ah-Yen paused; I lighted my pipe afresh, and nodded to him to show that I was listening. "I do not know," he went on, "at what precise time Fifty-Six came into my life. I could indeed find it out by examining my books, but I have never troubled to do so. Naturally I took no more interest in him at first than in any other of my customers--less, perhaps, since he never in the course of our connection brought his clothes to me himself but always sent them by a boy. When I presently perceived that he was becoming one of my regular customers, I allotted to him his number, Fifty-Six, and began to speculate as to who and what he was. Before long I had reached several conclusions in regard to my unknown client. The quality of his linen showed me that, if not rich, he was at any rate fairly well off. I could see that he was a young man of regular Christian life, who went out into society to a certain extent; this I could tell from his sending the same number of articles to the laundry, from his washing always coming on Saturday night, and from the fact that he wore a dress shirt about once a week. In disposition he was a modest, unassuming fellow, for his collars were only two inches high." I stared at Ah-Yen in some amazement, the recent publications of a favourite novelist had rendered me familiar with this process of analytical reasoning, but I was prepared for no such revelations from my Eastern friend. "When I first knew him," Ah-Yen went on, "Fifty-Six was a student at the university. This, of course, I did not know for some time. I inferred it, however, in the course of time, from his absence from town during the four summer months, and from the fact that during the time of the university examinations the cuffs of his shirts came to me covered with dates, formulas, and propositions in geometry. I followed him with no little interest through his university career. During the four years which it lasted, I washed for him every week; my regular connection with him and the insight which my observation gave me into the lovable character of the man, deepened my first esteem into a profound affection and I became most anxious for his success. I helped him at each succeeding examination, as far as lay in my power, by starching his shirts half-way to the elbow, so as to leave him as much room as possible for annotations. My anxiety during the strain of his final examination I will not attempt to describe. That Fifty-Six was undergoing the great crisis of his academic career, I could infer from the state of his handkerchiefs which, in apparent unconsciousness, he used as pen-wipers during the final test. His conduct throughout the examination bore witness to the moral development which had taken place in his character during his career as an undergraduate; for the notes upon his cuffs which had been so copious at his earlier examinations were limited now to a few hints, and these upon topics so intricate as to defy an ordinary memory. It was with a thrill of joy that I at last received in his laundry bundle one Saturday early in June, a ruffled dress shirt, the bosom of which was thickly spattered with the spillings of the wine-cup, and realized that Fifty-Six had banqueted as a Bachelor of Arts. "In the following winter the habit of wiping his pen upon his handkerchief, which I had remarked during his final examination, became chronic with him, and I knew that he had entered upon the study of law. He worked hard during that year, and dress shirts almost disappeared from his weekly bundle. It was in the following winter, the second year of his legal studies, that the tragedy of his life began. I became aware that a change had come over his laundry; from one, or at most two a week, his dress shirts rose to four, and silk handkerchiefs began to replace his linen ones. It dawned upon me that Fifty-Six was abandoning the rigorous tenor of his student life and was going into society. I presently perceived something more; Fifty-Six was in love. It was soon impossible to doubt it. He was wearing seven shirts a week; linen handkerchiefs disappeared from his laundry; his collars rose from two inches to two and a quarter, and finally to two and a half. I have in my possession one of his laundry lists of that period; a glance at it will show the scrupulous care which he bestowed upon his person. Well do I remember the dawning hopes of those days, alternating with the gloomiest despair. Each Saturday I opened his bundle with a trembling eagerness to catch the first signs of a return of his love. I helped my friend in every way that I could. His shirts and collars were masterpieces of my art, though my hand often shook with agitation as I applied the starch. She was a brave noble girl, that I knew; her influence was elevating the whole nature of Fifty-Six; until now he had had in his possession a certain number of detached cuffs and false shirt-fronts. These he discarded now,--at first the false shirt-fronts, scorning the very idea of fraud, and after a time, in his enthusiasm, abandoning even the cuffs. I cannot look back upon those bright happy days of courtship without a sigh. "The happiness of Fifty-Six seemed to enter into and fill my whole life. I lived but from Saturday to Saturday. The appearance of false shirt-fronts would cast me to the lowest depths of despair; their absence raised me to a pinnacle of hope. It was not till winter softened into spring that Fifty-Six nerved himself to learn his fate. One Saturday he sent me a new white waistcoat, a garment which had hitherto been shunned by his modest nature, to prepare for his use. I bestowed upon it all the resources of my art; I read his purpose in it. On the Saturday following it was returned to me and, with tears of joy, I marked where a warm little hand had rested fondly on the right shoulder, and knew that Fifty-Six was the accepted lover of his sweetheart." Ah-Yen paused and sat for some time silent; his pipe had sputtered out and lay cold in the hollow of his hand; his eye was fixed upon the wall where the light and shadows shifted in the dull flickering of the candle. At last he spoke again: "I will not dwell upon the happy days that ensued--days of gaudy summer neckties and white waistcoats, of spotless shirts and lofty collars worn but a single day by the fastidious lover. Our happiness seemed complete and I asked no more from fate. Alas! it was not destined to continue! When the bright days of summer were fading into autumn, I was grieved to notice an occasional quarrel--only four shirts instead of seven, or the reappearance of the abandoned cuffs and shirt-fronts. Reconciliations followed, with tears of penitence upon the shoulder of the white waistcoat, and the seven shirts came back. But the quarrels grew more frequent and there came at times stormy scenes of passionate emotion that left a track of broken buttons down the waistcoat. The shirts went slowly down to three, then fell to two, and the collars of my unhappy friend subsided to an inch and three-quarters. In vain I lavished my utmost care upon Fifty-Six. It seemed to my tortured mind that the gloss upon his shirts and collars would have melted a heart of stone. Alas! my every effort at reconciliation seemed to fail. An awful month passed; the false fronts and detached cuffs were all back again; the unhappy lover seemed to glory in their perfidy. At last, one gloomy evening, I found on opening his bundle that he had bought a stock of celluloids, and my heart told me that she had abandoned him for ever. Of what my poor friend suffered at this time, I can give you no idea; suffice it to say that he passed from celluloid to a blue flannel shirt and from blue to grey. The sight of a red cotton handkerchief in his wash at length warned me that his disappointed love had unhinged his mind, and I feared the worst. Then came an agonizing interval of three weeks during which he sent me nothing, and after that came the last parcel that I ever received from him an enormous bundle that seemed to contain all his effects. In this, to my horror, I discovered one shirt the breast of which was stained a deep crimson with his blood, and pierced by a ragged hole that showed where a bullet had singed through into his heart. "A fortnight before, I remembered having heard the street boys crying the news of an appalling suicide, and I know now that it must have been he. After the first shock of my grief had passed, I sought to keep him in my memory by drawing the portrait which hangs beside you. I have some skill in the art, and I feel assured that I have caught the expression of his face. The picture is, of course, an ideal one, for, as you know, I never saw Fifty-Six." The bell on the door of the outer shop tinkled at the entrance of a customer. Ah-Yen rose with that air of quiet resignation that habitually marked his demeanour, and remained for some time in the shop. When he returned he seemed in no mood to continue speaking of his lost friend. I left him soon after and walked sorrowfully home to my lodgings. On my way I mused much upon my little Eastern friend and the sympathetic grasp of his imagination. But a burden lay heavy on my heart--something I would fain have told him but which I could not bear to mention. I could not find it in my heart to shatter the airy castle of his fancy. For my life has been secluded and lonely and I have known no love like that of my ideal friend. Yet I have a haunting recollection of a certain huge bundle of washing that I sent to him about a year ago. I had been absent from town for three weeks and my laundry was much larger than usual in consequence. And if I mistake not there was in the bundle a tattered shirt that had been grievously stained by the breaking of a bottle of red ink in my portmanteau, and burnt in one place where an ash fell from my cigar as I made up the bundle. Of all this I cannot feel absolutely certain, yet I know at least that until a year ago, when I transferred my custom to a more modern establishment, my laundry number with Ah-Yen was Fifty-Six. Aristocratic Education House of Lords, Jan. 25, 1920.--The House of Lords commenced to-day in Committee the consideration of Clause No. 52,000 of the Education Bill, dealing with the teaching of Geometry in the schools. The Leader of the Government in presenting the clause urged upon their Lordships the need of conciliation. The Bill, he said, had now been before their Lordships for sixteen years. The Government had made every concession. They had accepted all the amendments of their Lordships on the opposite side in regard to the original provisions of the Bill. They had consented also to insert in the Bill a detailed programme of studies of which the present clause, enunciating the fifth proposition of Euclid, was a part. He would therefore ask their Lordships to accept the clause drafted as follows: "The angles at the base of an isosceles triangle are equal, and if the equal sides of the triangle are produced, the exterior angles will also be equal." He would hasten to add that the Government had no intention of producing the sides. Contingencies might arise to render such a course necessary, but in that case their Lordships would receive an early intimation of the fact. The Archbishop of Canterbury spoke against the clause. He considered it, in its present form, too secular. He should wish to amend the clause so as to make it read: "The angles at the base of an isosceles triangle are, in every Christian community, equal, and if the sides be produced by a member of a Christian congregation, the exterior angles will be equal." He was aware, he continued, that the angles at the base of an isosceles triangle are extremely equal, but he must remind the Government that the Church had been aware of this for several years past. He was willing also to admit that the opposite sides and ends of a parallelogram are equal, but he thought that such admission should be coupled with a distinct recognition of the existence of a Supreme Being. The Leader of the Government accepted His Grace's amendment with pleasure. He considered it the brightest amendment His Grace had made that week. The Government, he said, was aware of the intimate relation in which His Grace stood to the bottom end of a parallelogram and was prepared to respect it. Lord Halifax rose to offer a further amendment. He thought the present case was one in which the "four-fifths" clause ought to apply: he should wish it stated that the angles are equal for two days every week, except in the case of schools where four-fifths of the parents are conscientiously opposed to the use of the isosceles triangle. The Leader of the Government thought the amendment a singularly pleasing one. He accepted it and would like it understood that the words isosceles triangle were not meant in any offensive sense. Lord Rosebery spoke at some length. He considered the clause unfair to Scotland, where the high state of morality rendered education unnecessary. Unless an amendment in this sense was accepted, it might be necessary to reconsider the Act of Union of 1707. The Leader of the Government said that Lord Rosebery's amendment was the best he had heard yet. The Government accepted it at once. They were willing to make every concession. They would, if need be, reconsider the Norman Conquest. The Duke of Devonshire took exception to the part of the clause relating to the production of the sides. He did not think the country was prepared for it. It was unfair to the producer. He would like the clause altered to read, "if the sides be produced in the home market." The Leader of the Government accepted with pleasure His Grace's amendment. He considered it quite sensible. He would now, as it was near the hour of rising, present the clause in its revised form. He hoped, however, that their Lordships would find time to think out some further amendments for the evening sitting. The clause was then read. His Grace of Canterbury then moved that the House, in all humility, adjourn for dinner. The Conjurer's Revenge "Now, ladies and gentlemen," said the conjurer, "having shown you that the cloth is absolutely empty, I will proceed to take from it a bowl of goldfish. Presto!" All around the hall people were saying, "Oh, how wonderful! How does he do it?" But the Quick Man on the front seat said in a big whisper to the people near him, "He-had-it-up-his-sleeve." Then the people nodded brightly at the Quick Man and said, "Oh, of course"; and everybody whispered round the hall, "He-had-it-up-his-sleeve." "My next trick," said the conjurer, "is the famous Hindostanee rings. You will notice that the rings are apparently separate; at a blow they all join (clang, clang, clang)--Presto!" There was a general buzz of stupefaction till the Quick Man was heard to whisper, "He-must-have-had-another-lot- up-his-sleeve." Again everybody nodded and whispered, "The-rings-were- up-his-sleeve." The brow of the conjurer was clouded with a gathering frown. "I will now," he continued, "show you a most amusing trick by which I am enabled to take any number of eggs from a hat. Will some gentleman kindly lend me his hat? Ah, thank you--Presto!" He extracted seventeen eggs, and for thirty-five seconds the audience began to think that he was wonderful. Then the Quick Man whispered along the front bench, "He-has-a- hen-up-his-sleeve," and all the people whispered it on. "He-has-a-lot-of-hens-up-his-sleeve." The egg trick was ruined. It went on like that all through. It transpired from the whispers of the Quick Man that the conjurer must have concealed up his sleeve, in addition to the rings, hens, and fish, several packs of cards, a loaf of bread, a doll's cradle, a live guinea-pig, a fifty-cent piece, and a rocking-chair. The reputation of the conjurer was rapidly sinking below zero. At the close of the evening he rallied for a final effort. "Ladies and gentlemen," he said, "I will present to you, in conclusion, the famous Japanese trick recently invented by the natives of Tipperary. Will you, sir," he continued turning toward the Quick Man, "will you kindly hand me your gold watch?" It was passed to him. "Have I your permission to put it into this mortar and pound it to pieces?" he asked savagely. The Quick Man nodded and smiled. The conjurer threw the watch into the mortar and grasped a sledge hammer from the table. There was a sound of violent smashing, "He's-slipped-it-up-his-sleeve," whispered the Quick Man. "Now, sir," continued the conjurer, "will you allow me to take your handkerchief and punch holes in it? Thank you. You see, ladies and gentlemen, there is no deception; the holes are visible to the eye." The face of the Quick Man beamed. This time the real mystery of the thing fascinated him. "And now, sir, will you kindly pass me your silk hat and allow me to dance on it? Thank you." The conjurer made a few rapid passes with his feet and exhibited the hat crushed beyond recognition. "And will you now, sir, take off your celluloid collar and permit me to burn it in the candle? Thank you, sir. And will you allow me to smash your spectacles for you with my hammer? Thank you." By this time the features of the Quick Man were assuming a puzzled expression. "This thing beats me," he whispered, "I don't see through it a bit." There was a great hush upon the audience. Then the conjurer drew himself up to his full height and, with a withering look at the Quick Man, he concluded: "Ladies and gentlemen, you will observe that I have, with this gentleman's permission, broken his watch, burnt his collar, smashed his spectacles, and danced on his hat. If he will give me the further permission to paint green stripes on his overcoat, or to tie his suspenders in a knot, I shall be delighted to entertain you. If not, the performance is at an end." And amid a glorious burst of music from the orchestra the curtain fell, and the audience dispersed, convinced that there are some tricks, at any rate, that are not done up the conjurer's sleeve. Hints to Travellers The following hints and observations have occurred to me during a recent trip across the continent: they are written in no spirit of complaint against existing railroad methods, but merely in the hope that they may prove useful to those who travel, like myself, in a spirit of meek, observant ignorance. 1. Sleeping in a Pullman car presents some difficulties to the novice. Care should be taken to allay all sense of danger. The frequent whistling of the engine during the night is apt to be a source of alarm. Find out, therefore, before travelling, the meaning of the various whistles. One means "station," two, "railroad crossing," and so on. Five whistles, short and rapid, mean sudden danger. When you hear whistles in the night, sit up smartly in your bunk and count them. Should they reach five, draw on your trousers over your pyjamas and leave the train instantly. As a further precaution against accident, sleep with the feet towards the engine if you prefer to have the feet crushed, or with the head towards the engine, if you think it best to have the head crushed. In making this decision try to be as unselfish as possible. If indifferent, sleep crosswise with the head hanging over into the aisle. 2. I have devoted some thought to the proper method of changing trains. The system which I have observed to be the most popular with travellers of my own class, is something as follows: Suppose that you have been told on leaving New York that you are to change at Kansas City. The evening before approaching Kansas City, stop the conductor in the aisle of the car (you can do this best by putting out your foot and tripping him), and say politely, "Do I change at Kansas City?" He says "Yes." Very good. Don't believe him. On going into the dining-car for supper, take a negro aside and put it to him as a personal matter between a white man and a black, whether he thinks you ought to change at Kansas City. Don't be satisfied with this. In the course of the evening pass through the entire train from time to time, and say to people casually, "Oh, can you tell me if I change at Kansas City?" Ask the conductor about it a few more times in the evening: a repetition of the question will ensure pleasant relations with him. Before falling asleep watch for his passage and ask him through the curtains of your berth, "Oh, by the way, did you say I changed at Kansas City?" If he refuses to stop, hook him by the neck with your walking-stick, and draw him gently to your bedside. In the morning when the train stops and a man calls, "Kansas City! All change!" approach the conductor again and say, "Is this Kansas City?" Don't be discouraged at his answer. Pick yourself up and go to the other end of the car and say to the brakesman, "Do you know, sir, if this is Kansas City?" Don't be too easily convinced. Remember that both brakesman and conductor may be in collusion to deceive you. Look around, therefore, for the name of the station on the signboard. Having found it, alight and ask the first man you see if this is Kansas City. He will answer, "Why, where in blank are your blank eyes? Can't you see it there, plain as blank?" When you hear language of this sort, ask no more. You are now in Kansas and this is Kansas City. 3. I have observed that it is now the practice of the conductors to stick bits of paper in the hats of the passengers. They do this, I believe, to mark which ones they like best. The device is pretty, and adds much to the scenic appearance of the car. But I notice with pain that the system is fraught with much trouble for the conductors. The task of crushing two or three passengers together, in order to reach over them and stick a ticket into the chinks of a silk skull cap is embarrassing for a conductor of refined feelings. It would be simpler if the conductor should carry a small hammer and a packet of shingle nails and nail the paid-up passenger to the back of the seat. Or better still, let the conductor carry a small pot of paint and a brush, and mark the passengers in such a way that he cannot easily mistake them. In the case of bald-headed passengers, the hats might be politely removed and red crosses painted on the craniums. This will indicate that they are bald. Through passengers might be distinguished by a complete coat of paint. In the hands of a man of taste, much might be effected by a little grouping of painted passengers and the leisure time of the conductor agreeably occupied. 4. I have observed in travelling in the West that the irregularity of railroad accidents is a fruitful cause of complaint. The frequent disappointment of the holders of accident policy tickets on western roads is leading to widespread protest. Certainly the conditions of travel in the West are altering rapidly and accidents can no longer be relied upon. This is deeply to be regretted, in so much as, apart from accidents, the tickets may be said to be practically valueless. A Manual of Education The few selections below are offered as a specimen page of a little book which I have in course of preparation. Every man has somewhere in the back of his head the wreck of a thing which he calls his education. My book is intended to embody in concise form these remnants of early instruction. Educations are divided into splendid educations, thorough classical educations, and average educations. All very old men have splendid educations; all men who apparently know nothing else have thorough classical educations; nobody has an average education. An education, when it is all written out on foolscap, covers nearly ten sheets. It takes about six years of severe college training to acquire it. Even then a man often finds that he somehow hasn't got his education just where he can put his thumb on it. When my little book of eight or ten pages has appeared, everybody may carry his education in his hip pocket. Those who have not had the advantage of an early training will be enabled, by a few hours of conscientious application, to put themselves on an equal footing with the most scholarly. The selections are chosen entirely at random. I.--REMAINS OF ASTRONOMY Astronomy teaches the correct use of the sun and the planets. These may be put on a frame of little sticks and turned round. This causes the tides. Those at the ends of the sticks are enormously far away. From time to time a diligent searching of the sticks reveals new planets. The orbit of a planet is the distance the stick goes round in going round. Astronomy is intensely interesting; it should be done at night, in a high tower in Spitzbergen. This is to avoid the astronomy being interrupted. A really good astronomer can tell when a comet is coming too near him by the warning buzz of the revolving sticks. II.--REMAINS OF HISTORY Aztecs: A fabulous race, half man, half horse, half mound-builder. They flourished at about the same time as the early Calithumpians. They have left some awfully stupendous monuments of themselves somewhere. Life of Caesar: A famous Roman general, the last who ever landed in Britain without being stopped at the custom house. On returning to his Sabine farm (to fetch something), he was stabbed by Brutus, and died with the words "Veni, vidi, tekel, upharsim" in his throat. The jury returned a verdict of strangulation. Life of Voltaire: A Frenchman; very bitter. Life of Schopenhauer: A German; very deep; but it was not really noticeable when he sat down. Life of Dante: An Italian; the first to introduce the banana and the class of street organ known as "Dante's Inferno." Peter the Great, Alfred the Great, Frederick the Great, John the Great, Tom the Great, Jim the Great, Jo the Great, etc., etc. It is impossible for a busy man to keep these apart. They sought a living as kings and apostles and pugilists and so on. III.--REMAINS OF BOTANY. Botany is the art of plants. Plants are divided into trees, flowers, and vegetables. The true botanist knows a tree as soon as he sees it. He learns to distinguish it from a vegetable by merely putting his ear to it. IV.--REMAINS OF NATURAL SCIENCE. Natural Science treats of motion and force. Many of its teachings remain as part of an educated man's permanent equipment in life. Such are: (a) The harder you shove a bicycle the faster it will go. This is because of natural science. (b) If you fall from a high tower, you fall quicker and quicker and quicker; a judicious selection of a tower will ensure any rate of speed. (c) If you put your thumb in between two cogs it will go on and on, until the wheels are arrested, by your suspenders. This is machinery. (d) Electricity is of two kinds, positive and negative. The difference is, I presume, that one kind comes a little more expensive, but is more durable; the other is a cheaper thing, but the moths get into it. Hoodoo McFiggin's Christmas This Santa Claus business is played out. It's a sneaking, underhand method, and the sooner it's exposed the better. For a parent to get up under cover of the darkness of night and palm off a ten-cent necktie on a boy who had been expecting a ten-dollar watch, and then say that an angel sent it to him, is low, undeniably low. I had a good opportunity of observing how the thing worked this Christmas, in the case of young Hoodoo McFiggin, the son and heir of the McFiggins, at whose house I board. Hoodoo McFiggin is a good boy--a religious boy. He had been given to understand that Santa Claus would bring nothing to his father and mother because grown-up people don't get presents from the angels. So he saved up all his pocket-money and bought a box of cigars for his father and a seventy-five-cent diamond brooch for his mother. His own fortunes he left in the hands of the angels. But he prayed. He prayed every night for weeks that Santa Claus would bring him a pair of skates and a puppy-dog and an air-gun and a bicycle and a Noah's ark and a sleigh and a drum--altogether about a hundred and fifty dollars' worth of stuff. I went into Hoodoo's room quite early Christmas morning. I had an idea that the scene would be interesting. I woke him up and he sat up in bed, his eyes glistening with radiant expectation, and began hauling things out of his stocking. The first parcel was bulky; it was done up quite loosely and had an odd look generally. "Ha! ha!" Hoodoo cried gleefully, as he began undoing it. "I'll bet it's the puppy-dog, all wrapped up in paper!" And was it the puppy-dog? No, by no means. It was a pair of nice, strong, number-four boots, laces and all, labelled, "Hoodoo, from Santa Claus," and underneath Santa Claus had written, "95 net." The boy's jaw fell with delight. "It's boots," he said, and plunged in his hand again. He began hauling away at another parcel with renewed hope on his face. This time the thing seemed like a little round box. Hoodoo tore the paper off it with a feverish hand. He shook it; something rattled inside. "It's a watch and chain! It's a watch and chain!" he shouted. Then he pulled the lid off. And was it a watch and chain? No. It was a box of nice, brand-new celluloid collars, a dozen of them all alike and all his own size. The boy was so pleased that you could see his face crack up with pleasure. He waited a few minutes until his intense joy subsided. Then he tried again. This time the packet was long and hard. It resisted the touch and had a sort of funnel shape. "It's a toy pistol!" said the boy, trembling with excitement. "Gee! I hope there are lots of caps with it! I'll fire some off now and wake up father." No, my poor child, you will not wake your father with that. It is a useful thing, but it needs not caps and it fires no bullets, and you cannot wake a sleeping man with a tooth-brush. Yes, it was a tooth-brush--a regular beauty, pure bone all through, and ticketed with a little paper, "Hoodoo, from Santa Claus." Again the expression of intense joy passed over the boy's face, and the tears of gratitude started from his eyes. He wiped them away with his tooth-brush and passed on. The next packet was much larger and evidently contained something soft and bulky. It had been too long to go into the stocking and was tied outside. "I wonder what this is," Hoodoo mused, half afraid to open it. Then his heart gave a great leap, and he forgot all his other presents in the anticipation of this one. "It's the drum!" he gasped. "It's the drum, all wrapped up!" Drum nothing! It was pants--a pair of the nicest little short pants--yellowish-brown short pants--with dear little stripes of colour running across both ways, and here again Santa Claus had written, "Hoodoo, from Santa Claus, one fort net." But there was something wrapped up in it. Oh, yes! There was a pair of braces wrapped up in it, braces with a little steel sliding thing so that you could slide your pants up to your neck, if you wanted to. The boy gave a dry sob of satisfaction. Then he took out his last present. "It's a book," he said, as he unwrapped it. "I wonder if it is fairy stories or adventures. Oh, I hope it's adventures! I'll read it all morning." No, Hoodoo, it was not precisely adventures. It was a small family Bible. Hoodoo had now seen all his presents, and he arose and dressed. But he still had the fun of playing with his toys. That is always the chief delight of Christmas morning. First he played with his tooth-brush. He got a whole lot of water and brushed all his teeth with it. This was huge. Then he played with his collars. He had no end of fun with them, taking them all out one by one and swearing at them, and then putting them back and swearing at the whole lot together. The next toy was his pants. He had immense fun there, putting them on and taking them off again, and then trying to guess which side was which by merely looking at them. After that he took his book and read some adventures called "Genesis" till breakfast-time. Then he went downstairs and kissed his father and mother. His father was smoking a cigar, and his mother had her new brooch on. Hoodoo's face was thoughtful, and a light seemed to have broken in upon his mind. Indeed, I think it altogether likely that next Christmas he will hang on to his own money and take chances on what the angels bring. The Life of John Smith The lives of great men occupy a large section of our literature. The great man is certainly a wonderful thing. He walks across his century and leaves the marks of his feet all over it, ripping out the dates on his goloshes as he passes. It is impossible to get up a revolution or a new religion, or a national awakening of any sort, without his turning up, putting himself at the head of it and collaring all the gate-receipts for himself. Even after his death he leaves a long trail of second-rate relations spattered over the front seats of fifty years of history. Now the lives of great men are doubtless infinitely interesting. But at times I must confess to a sense of reaction and an idea that the ordinary common man is entitled to have his biography written too. It is to illustrate this view that I write the life of John Smith, a man neither good nor great, but just the usual, everyday homo like you and me and the rest of us. From his earliest childhood John Smith was marked out from his comrades by nothing. The marvellous precocity of the boy did not astonish his preceptors. Books were not a passion for him from his youth, neither did any old man put his hand on Smith's head and say, mark his words, this boy would some day become a man. Nor yet was it his father's wont to gaze on him with a feeling amounting almost to awe. By no means! All his father did was to wonder whether Smith was a darn fool because he couldn't help it, or because he thought it smart. In other words, he was just like you and me and the rest of us. In those athletic sports which were the ornament of the youth of his day, Smith did not, as great men do, excel his fellows. He couldn't ride worth a darn. He couldn't skate worth a darn. He couldn't swim worth a darn. He couldn't shoot worth a darn. He couldn't do anything worth a darn. He was just like us. Nor did the bold cast of the boy's mind offset his physical defects, as it invariably does in the biographies. On the contrary. He was afraid of his father. He was afraid of his school-teacher. He was afraid of dogs. He was afraid of guns. He was afraid of lightning. He was afraid of hell. He was afraid of girls. In the boy's choice of a profession there was not seen that keen longing for a life-work that we find in the celebrities. He didn't want to be a lawyer, because you have to know law. He didn't want to be a doctor, because you have to know medicine. He didn't want to be a business-man, because you have to know business; and he didn't want to be a school-teacher, because he had seen too many of them. As far as he had any choice, it lay between being Robinson Crusoe and being the Prince of Wales. His father refused him both and put him into a dry goods establishment. Such was the childhood of Smith. At its close there was nothing in his outward appearance to mark the man of genius. The casual observer could have seen no genius concealed behind the wide face, the massive mouth, the long slanting forehead, and the tall ear that swept up to the close-cropped head. Certainly he couldn't. There wasn't any concealed there. It was shortly after his start in business life that Smith was stricken with the first of those distressing attacks, to which he afterwards became subject. It seized him late one night as he was returning home from a delightful evening of song and praise with a few old school chums. Its symptoms were a peculiar heaving of the sidewalk, a dancing of the street lights, and a crafty shifting to and fro of the houses, requiring a very nice discrimination in selecting his own. There was a strong desire not to drink water throughout the entire attack, which showed that the thing was evidently a form of hydrophobia. From this time on, these painful attacks became chronic with Smith. They were liable to come on at any time, but especially on Saturday nights, on the first of the month, and on Thanksgiving Day. He always had a very severe attack of hydrophobia on Christmas Eve, and after elections it was fearful. There was one incident in Smith's career which he did, perhaps, share with regret. He had scarcely reached manhood when he met the most beautiful girl in the world. She was different from all other women. She had a deeper nature than other people. Smith realized it at once. She could feel and understand things that ordinary people couldn't. She could understand him. She had a great sense of humour and an exquisite appreciation of a joke. He told her the six that he knew one night and she thought them great. Her mere presence made Smith feel as if he had swallowed a sunset: the first time that his finger brushed against hers, he felt a thrill all through him. He presently found that if he took a firm hold of her hand with his, he could get a fine thrill, and if he sat beside her on a sofa, with his head against her ear and his arm about once and a half round her, he could get what you might call a first-class, A-1 thrill. Smith became filled with the idea that he would like to have her always near him. He suggested an arrangement to her, by which she should come and live in the same house with him and take personal charge of his clothes and his meals. She was to receive in return her board and washing, about seventy-five cents a week in ready money, and Smith was to be her slave. After Smith had been this woman's slave for some time, baby fingers stole across his life, then another set of them, and then more and more till the house was full of them. The woman's mother began to steal across his life too, and every time she came Smith had hydrophobia frightfully. Strangely enough there was no little prattler that was taken from his life and became a saddened, hallowed memory to him. Oh, no! The little Smiths were not that kind of prattler. The whole nine grew up into tall, lank boys with massive mouths and great sweeping ears like their father's, and no talent for anything. The life of Smith never seemed to bring him to any of those great turning-points that occurred in the lives of the great. True, the passing years brought some change of fortune. He was moved up in his dry-goods establishment from the ribbon counter to the collar counter, from the collar counter to the gents' panting counter, and from the gents' panting to the gents' fancy shirting. Then, as he grew aged and inefficient, they moved him down again from the gents' fancy shirting to the gents' panting, and so on to the ribbon counter. And when he grew quite old they dismissed him and got a boy with a four-inch mouth and sandy-coloured hair, who did all Smith could do for half the money. That was John Smith's mercantile career: it won't stand comparison with Mr. Gladstone's, but it's not unlike your own. Smith lived for five years after this. His sons kept him. They didn't want to, but they had to. In his old age the brightness of his mind and his fund of anecdote were not the delight of all who dropped in to see him. He told seven stories and he knew six jokes. The stories were long things all about himself, and the jokes were about a commercial traveller and a Methodist minister. But nobody dropped in to see him, anyway, so it didn't matter. At sixty-five Smith was taken ill, and, receiving proper treatment, he died. There was a tombstone put up over him, with a hand pointing north-north-east. But I doubt if he ever got there. He was too like us. On Collecting Things Like most other men I have from time to time been stricken with a desire to make collections of things. It began with postage stamps. I had a letter from a friend of mine who had gone out to South Africa. The letter had a three-cornered stamp on it, and I thought as soon as I looked at it, "That's the thing! Stamp collecting! I'll devote my life to it." I bought an album with accommodation for the stamps of all nations, and began collecting right off. For three days the collection made wonderful progress. It contained: One Cape of Good Hope stamp. One one-cent stamp, United States of America. One two-cent stamp, United States of America. One five-cent stamp, United States of America. One ten-cent stamp, United States of America. After that the collection came to a dead stop. For a while I used to talk about it rather airily and say I had one or two rather valuable South African stamps. But I presently grew tired even of lying about it. Collecting coins is a thing that I attempt at intervals. Every time I am given an old half-penny or a Mexican quarter, I get an idea that if a fellow made a point of holding on to rarities of that sort, he'd soon have quite a valuable collection. The first time that I tried it I was full of enthusiasm, and before long my collection numbered quite a few articles of vertu. The items were as follows: No. 1. Ancient Roman coin. Time of Caligula. This one of course was the gem of the whole lot; it was given me by a friend, and that was what started me collecting. No. 2. Small copper coin. Value one cent. United States of America. Apparently modern. No. 3. Small nickel coin. Circular. United States of America. Value five cents. No. 4. Small silver coin. Value ten cents. United States of America. No. 5. Silver coin. Circular. Value twenty-five cents. United States of America. Very beautiful. No. 6. Large silver coin. Circular. Inscription, "One Dollar." United States of America. Very valuable. No. 7. Ancient British copper coin. Probably time of Caractacus. Very dim. Inscription, "Victoria Dei gratia regina." Very valuable. No. 8. Silver coin. Evidently French. Inscription, "Funf Mark. Kaiser Wilhelm." No. 9. Circular silver coin. Very much defaced. Part of inscription, "E Pluribus Unum." Probably a Russian rouble, but quite as likely to be a Japanese yen or a Shanghai rooster. That's as far as that collection got. It lasted through most of the winter and I was getting quite proud of it, but I took the coins down town one evening to show to a friend and we spent No. 3, No. 4, No. 5, No. 6, and No. 7 in buying a little dinner for two. After dinner I bought a yen's worth of cigars and traded the relic of Caligula for as many hot Scotches as they cared to advance on it. After that I felt reckless and put No. 2 and No. 8 into a Children's Hospital poor box. I tried fossils next. I got two in ten years. Then I quit. A friend of mine once showed me a very fine collection of ancient and curious weapons, and for a time I was full of that idea. I gathered several interesting specimens, such as: No. 1. Old flint-lock musket, used by my grandfather. (He used it on the farm for years as a crowbar.) No. 2. Old raw-hide strap, used by my father. No. 3. Ancient Indian arrowhead, found by myself the very day after I began collecting. It resembles a three-cornered stone. No. 4. Ancient Indian bow, found by myself behind a sawmill on the second day of collecting. It resembles a straight stick of elm or oak. It is interesting to think that this very weapon may have figured in some fierce scene of savage warfare. No. 5. Cannibal poniard or straight-handled dagger of the South Sea Islands. It will give the reader almost a thrill of horror to learn that this atrocious weapon, which I bought myself on the third day of collecting, was actually exposed in a second-hand store as a family carving-knife. In gazing at it one cannot refrain from conjuring up the awful scenes it must have witnessed. I kept this collection for quite a long while until, in a moment of infatuation, I presented it to a young lady as a betrothal present. The gift proved too ostentatious and our relations subsequently ceased to be cordial. On the whole I am inclined to recommend the beginner to confine himself to collecting coins. At present I am myself making a collection of American bills (time of Taft preferred), a pursuit I find most absorbing. Society Chat-Chat AS IT SHOULD BE WRITTEN I notice that it is customary for the daily papers to publish a column or so of society gossip. They generally head it "Chit-Chat," or "On Dit," or "Le Boudoir," or something of the sort, and they keep it pretty full of French terms to give it the proper sort of swing. These columns may be very interesting in their way, but it always seems to me that they don't get hold of quite the right things to tell us about. They are very fond, for instance, of giving an account of the delightful dance at Mrs. De Smythe's--at which Mrs. De Smythe looked charming in a gown of old tulle with a stomacher of passementerie--or of the dinner-party at Mr. Alonzo Robinson's residence, or the smart pink tea given by Miss Carlotta Jones. No, that's all right, but it's not the kind of thing we want to get at; those are not the events which happen in our neighbours' houses that we really want to hear about. It is the quiet little family scenes, the little traits of home-life that--well, for example, take the case of that delightful party at the De Smythes. I am certain that all those who were present would much prefer a little paragraph like the following, which would give them some idea of the home-life of the De Smythes on the morning after the party. DEJEUNER DE LUXE AT THE DE SMYTHE RESIDENCE On Wednesday morning last at 7.15 a.m. a charming little breakfast was served at the home of Mr. De Smythe. The dejeuner was given in honour of Mr. De Smythe and his two sons, Master Adolphus and Master Blinks De Smythe, who were about to leave for their daily travail at their wholesale Bureau de Flour et de Feed. All the gentlemen were very quietly dressed in their habits de work. Miss Melinda De Smythe poured out tea, the domestique having refuse to get up so early after the partie of the night before. The menu was very handsome, consisting of eggs and bacon, demi-froid, and ice-cream. The conversation was sustained and lively. Mr. De Smythe sustained it and made it lively for his daughter and his garcons. In the course of the talk Mr. De Smythe stated that the next time he allowed the young people to turn his maison topsy-turvy he would see them in enfer. He wished to know if they were aware that some ass of the evening before had broken a pane of coloured glass in the hall that would cost him four dollars. Did they think he was made of argent. If so, they never made a bigger mistake in their vie. The meal closed with general expressions of good-feeling. A little bird has whispered to us that there will be no more parties at the De Smythes' pour long-temps. Here is another little paragraph that would be of general interest in society. DINER DE FAMEEL AT THE BOARDING-HOUSE DE MCFIGGIN Yesterday evening at half after six a pleasant little diner was given by Madame McFiggin of Rock Street, to her boarders. The salle a manger was very prettily decorated with texts, and the furniture upholstered with cheveux de horse, Louis Quinze. The boarders were all very quietly dressed: Mrs. McFiggin was daintily attired in some old clinging stuff with a corsage de Whalebone underneath. The ample board groaned under the bill of fare. The boarders groaned also. Their groaning was very noticeable. The piece de resistance was a hunko de boeuf boile, flanked with some old clinging stuff. The entrees were pate de pumpkin, followed by fromage McFiggin, served under glass. Towards the end of the first course, speeches became the order of the day. Mrs. McFiggin was the first speaker. In commencing, she expressed her surprise that so few of the gentlemen seemed to care for the hunko de boeuf; her own mind, she said, had hesitated between hunko de boeuf boile and a pair of roast chickens (sensation). She had finally decided in favour of the hunko de boeuf (no sensation). She referred at some length to the late Mr. McFiggin, who had always shown a marked preference for hunko de boeuf. Several other speakers followed. All spoke forcibly and to the point. The last to speak was the Reverend Mr. Whiner. The reverend gentleman, in rising, said that he confided himself and his fellow-boarders to the special interference of providence. For what they had eaten, he said, he hoped that Providence would make them truly thankful. At the close of the Repas several of the boarders expressed their intention of going down the street to a restourong to get quelque chose a manger. Here is another example. How interesting it would be to get a detailed account of that little affair at the Robinsons', of which the neighbours only heard indirectly! Thus: DELIGHTFUL EVENING AT THE RESIDENCE OF MR. ALONZO ROBINSON Yesterday the family of Mr. Alonzo Robinson spent a very lively evening at their home on ---th Avenue. The occasion was the seventeenth birthday of Master Alonzo Robinson, junior. It was the original intention of Master Alonzo Robinson to celebrate the day at home and invite a few of les garcons. Mr. Robinson, senior, however, having declared that he would be damne first, Master Alonzo spent the evening in visiting the salons of the town, which he painted rouge. Mr. Robinson, senior, spent the evening at home in quiet expectation of his son's return. He was very becomingly dressed in a pantalon quatre vingt treize, and had his whippe de chien laid across his knee. Madame Robinson and the Mademoiselles Robinson wore black. The guest of the evening arrived at a late hour. He wore his habits de spri, and had about six pouces of eau de vie in him. He was evidently full up to his cou. For some time after his arrival a very lively time was spent. Mr. Robinson having at length broken the whippe de chien, the family parted for the night with expressions of cordial goodwill. Insurance up to Date A man called on me the other day with the idea of insuring my life. Now, I detest life-insurance agents; they always argue that I shall some day die, which is not so. I have been insured a great many times, for about a month at a time, but have had no luck with it at all. So I made up my mind that I would outwit this man at his own game. I let him talk straight ahead and encouraged him all I could, until he finally left me with a sheet of questions which I was to answer as an applicant. Now this was what I was waiting for; I had decided that, if that company wanted information about me, they should have it, and have the very best quality I could supply. So I spread the sheet of questions before me, and drew up a set of answers for them, which, I hoped, would settle for ever all doubts as to my eligibility for insurance. Question.--What is your age? Answer.--I can't think. Q.--What is your chest measurement? A.--Nineteen inches. Q.--What is your chest expansion? A.--Half an inch. Q.--What is your height? A.--Six feet five, if erect, but less when I walk on all fours. Q.--Is your grandfather dead? A.--Practically. Q.--Cause of death, if dead? A.--Dipsomania, if dead. Q.--Is your father dead? A.--To the world. Q.--Cause of death? A.--Hydrophobia. Q.--Place of father's residence? A.--Kentucky. Q.--What illness have you had? A.--As a child, consumption, leprosy, and water on the knee. As a man, whooping-cough, stomach-ache, and water on the brain. Q.--Have you any brothers? A.--Thirteen; all nearly dead. Q.--Are you aware of any habits or tendencies which might be expected to shorten your life? A.--I am aware. I drink, I smoke, I take morphine and vaseline. I swallow grape seeds and I hate exercise. I thought when I had come to the end of that list that I had made a dead sure thing of it, and I posted the paper with a cheque for three months' payment, feeling pretty confident of having the cheque sent back to me. I was a good deal surprised a few days later to receive the following letter from the company: "DEAR SIR,--We beg to acknowledge your letter of application and cheque for fifteen dollars. After a careful comparison of your case with the average modern standard, we are pleased to accept you as a first-class risk." Borrowing a Match You might think that borrowing a match upon the street is a simple thing. But any man who has ever tried it will assure you that it is not, and will be prepared to swear to the truth of my experience of the other evening. I was standing on the corner of the street with a cigar that I wanted to light. I had no match. I waited till a decent, ordinary-looking man came along. Then I said: "Excuse me, sir, but could you oblige me with the loan of a match?" "A match?" he said, "why certainly." Then he unbuttoned his overcoat and put his hand in the pocket of his waistcoat. "I know I have one," he went on, "and I'd almost swear it's in the bottom pocket--or, hold on, though, I guess it may be in the top--just wait till I put these parcels down on the sidewalk." "Oh, don't trouble," I said, "it's really of no consequence." "Oh, it's no trouble, I'll have it in a minute; I know there must be one in here somewhere"--he was digging his fingers into his pockets as he spoke--"but you see this isn't the waistcoat I generally..." I saw that the man was getting excited about it. "Well, never mind," I protested; "if that isn't the waistcoat that you generally--why, it doesn't matter." "Hold on, now, hold on!" the man said, "I've got one of the cursed things in here somewhere. I guess it must be in with my watch. No, it's not there either. Wait till I try my coat. If that confounded tailor only knew enough to make a pocket so that a man could get at it!" He was getting pretty well worked up now. He had thrown down his walking-stick and was plunging at his pockets with his teeth set. "It's that cursed young boy of mine," he hissed; "this comes of his fooling in my pockets. By Gad! perhaps I won't warm him up when I get home. Say, I'll bet that it's in my hip-pocket. You just hold up the tail of my overcoat a second till I..." "No, no," I protested again, "please don't take all this trouble, it really doesn't matter. I'm sure you needn't take off your overcoat, and oh, pray don't throw away your letters and things in the snow like that, and tear out your pockets by the roots! Please, please don't trample over your overcoat and put your feet through the parcels. I do hate to hear you swearing at your little boy, with that peculiar whine in your voice. Don't--please don't tear your clothes so savagely." Suddenly the man gave a grunt of exultation, and drew his hand up from inside the lining of his coat. "I've got it," he cried. "Here you are!" Then he brought it out under the light. It was a toothpick. Yielding to the impulse of the moment I pushed him under the wheels of a trolley-car, and ran. A Lesson in Fiction Suppose that in the opening pages of the modern melodramatic novel you find some such situation as the following, in which is depicted the terrific combat between Gaspard de Vaux, the boy lieutenant, and Hairy Hank, the chief of the Italian banditti: "The inequality of the contest was apparent. With a mingled yell of rage and contempt, his sword brandished above his head and his dirk between his teeth, the enormous bandit rushed upon his intrepid opponent. De Vaux seemed scarce more than a stripling, but he stood his ground and faced his hitherto invincible assailant. 'Mong Dieu,' cried De Smythe, 'he is lost!'" Question. On which of the parties to the above contest do you honestly feel inclined to put your money? Answer. On De Vaux. He'll win. Hairy Hank will force him down to one knee and with a brutal cry of "Har! har!" will be about to dirk him, when De Vaux will make a sudden lunge (one he had learnt at home out of a book of lunges) and-- Very good. You have answered correctly. Now, suppose you find, a little later in the book, that the killing of Hairy Hank has compelled De Vaux to flee from his native land to the East. Are you not fearful for his safety in the desert? Answer. Frankly, I am not. De Vaux is all right. His name is on the title page, and you can't kill him. Question. Listen to this, then: "The sun of Ethiopia beat fiercely upon the desert as De Vaux, mounted upon his faithful elephant, pursued his lonely way. Seated in his lofty hoo-doo, his eye scoured the waste. Suddenly a solitary horseman appeared on the horizon, then another, and another, and then six. In a few moments a whole crowd of solitary horsemen swooped down upon him. There was a fierce shout of 'Allah!' a rattle of firearms. De Vaux sank from his hoo-doo on to the sands, while the affrighted elephant dashed off in all directions. The bullet had struck him in the heart." There now, what do you think of that? Isn't De Vaux killed now? Answer. I am sorry. De Vaux is not dead. True, the ball had hit him, oh yes, it had hit him, but it had glanced off against a family Bible, which he carried in his waistcoat in case of illness, struck some hymns that he had in his hip-pocket, and, glancing off again, had flattened itself against De Vaux's diary of his life in the desert, which was in his knapsack. Question. But even if this doesn't kill him, you must admit that he is near death when he is bitten in the jungle by the deadly dongola? Answer. That's all right. A kindly Arab will take De Vaux to the Sheik's tent. Question. What will De Vaux remind the Sheik of? Answer. Too easy. Of his long-lost son, who disappeared years ago. Question. Was this son Hairy Hank? Answer. Of course he was. Anyone could see that, but the Sheik never suspects it, and heals De Vaux. He heals him with an herb, a thing called a simple, an amazingly simple, known only to the Sheik. Since using this herb, the Sheik has used no other. Question. The Sheik will recognize an overcoat that De Vaux is wearing, and complications will arise in the matter of Hairy Hank deceased. Will this result in the death of the boy lieutenant? Answer. No. By this time De Vaux has realized that the reader knows he won't die and resolves to quit the desert. The thought of his mother keeps recurring to him, and of his father, too, the grey, stooping old man--does he stoop still or has he stopped stooping? At times, too, there comes the thought of another, a fairer than his father; she whose--but enough, De Vaux returns to the old homestead in Piccadilly. Question. When De Vaux returns to England, what will happen? Answer. This will happen: "He who left England ten years before a raw boy, has returned a sunburnt soldierly man. But who is this that advances smilingly to meet him? Can the mere girl, the bright child that shared his hours of play, can she have grown into this peerless, graceful girl, at whose feet half the noble suitors of England are kneeling? 'Can this be her?' he asks himself in amazement." Question. Is it her? Answer. Oh, it's her all right. It is her, and it is him, and it is them. That girl hasn't waited fifty pages for nothing. Question. You evidently guess that a love affair will ensue between the boy lieutenant and the peerless girl with the broad feet. Do you imagine, however, that its course will run smoothly and leave nothing to record? Answer. Not at all. I feel certain that the scene of the novel having edged itself around to London, the writer will not feel satisfied unless he introduces the following famous scene: "Stunned by the cruel revelation which he had received, unconscious of whither his steps were taking him, Gaspard de Vaux wandered on in the darkness from street to street until he found himself upon London Bridge. He leaned over the parapet and looked down upon the whirling stream below. There was something in the still, swift rush of it that seemed to beckon, to allure him. After all, why not? What was life now that he should prize it? For a moment De Vaux paused irresolute." Question. Will he throw himself in? Answer. Well, say you don't know Gaspard. He will pause irresolute up to the limit, then, with a fierce struggle, will recall his courage and hasten from the Bridge. Question. This struggle not to throw oneself in must be dreadfully difficult? Answer. Oh! dreadfully! Most of us are so frail we should jump in at once. But Gaspard has the knack of it. Besides he still has some of the Sheik's herb; he chews it. Question. What has happened to De Vaux anyway? Is it anything he has eaten? Answer. No, it is nothing that he has eaten. It's about her. The blow has come. She has no use for sunburn, doesn't care for tan; she is going to marry a duke and the boy lieutenant is no longer in it. The real trouble is that the modern novelist has got beyond the happy-marriage mode of ending. He wants tragedy and a blighted life to wind up with. Question. How will the book conclude? Answer. Oh, De Vaux will go back to the desert, fall upon the Sheik's neck, and swear to be a second Hairy Hank to him. There will be a final panorama of the desert, the Sheik and his newly found son at the door of the tent, the sun setting behind a pyramid, and De Vaux's faithful elephant crouched at his feet and gazing up at him with dumb affection. Helping the Armenians The financial affairs of the parish church up at Doogalville have been getting rather into a tangle in the last six months. The people of the church were specially anxious to do something toward the general public subscription of the town on behalf of the unhappy Armenians, and to that purpose they determined to devote the collections taken up at a series of special evening services. To give the right sort of swing to the services and to stimulate generous giving, they put a new pipe organ into the church. In order to make a preliminary payment on the organ, it was decided to raise a mortgage on the parsonage. To pay the interest on the mortgage, the choir of the church got up a sacred concert in the town hall. To pay for the town hall, the Willing Workers' Guild held a social in the Sunday school. To pay the expenses of the social, the rector delivered a public lecture on "Italy and Her Past," illustrated by a magic lantern. To pay for the magic lantern, the curate and the ladies of the church got up some amateur theatricals. Finally, to pay for the costumes for the theatricals, the rector felt it his duty to dispense with the curate. So that is where the church stands just at present. What they chiefly want to do, is to raise enough money to buy a suitable gold watch as a testimonial to the curate. After that they hope to be able to do something for the Armenians. Meantime, of course, the Armenians, the ones right there in the town, are getting very troublesome. To begin with, there is the Armenian who rented the costumes for the theatricals: he has to be squared. Then there is the Armenian organ dealer, and the Armenian who owned the magic lantern. They want relief badly. The most urgent case is that of the Armenian who holds the mortgage on the parsonage; indeed it is generally felt in the congregation, when the rector makes his impassioned appeals at the special services on behalf of the suffering cause, that it is to this man that he has special reference. In the meanwhile the general public subscription is not getting along very fast; but the proprietor of the big saloon further down the street and the man with the short cigar that runs the Doogalville Midway Plaisance have been most liberal in their contributions. A Study in Still Life.--The Country Hotel The country hotel stands on the sunny side of Main Street. It has three entrances. There is one in front which leads into the Bar. There is one at the side called the Ladies' Entrance which leads into the Bar from the side. There is also the Main Entrance which leads into the Bar through the Rotunda. The Rotunda is the space between the door of the bar-room and the cigar-case. In it is a desk and a book. In the book are written down the names of the guests, together with marks indicating the direction of the wind and the height of the barometer. It is here that the newly arrived guest waits until he has time to open the door leading to the Bar. The bar-room forms the largest part of the hotel. It constitutes the hotel proper. To it are attached a series of bedrooms on the floor above, many of which contain beds. The walls of the bar-room are perforated in all directions with trap-doors. Through one of these drinks are passed into the back sitting-room. Through others drinks are passed into the passages. Drinks are also passed through the floor and through the ceiling. Drinks once passed never return. The Proprietor stands in the doorway of the bar. He weighs two hundred pounds. His face is immovable as putty. He is drunk. He has been drunk for twelve years. It makes no difference to him. Behind the bar stands the Bar-tender. He wears wicker-sleeves, his hair is curled in a hook, and his name is Charlie. Attached to the bar is a pneumatic beer-pump, by means of which the bar-tender can flood the bar with beer. Afterwards he wipes up the beer with a rag. By this means he polishes the bar. Some of the beer that is pumped up spills into glasses and has to be sold. Behind the bar-tender is a mechanism called a cash-register, which, on being struck a powerful blow, rings a bell, sticks up a card marked NO SALE, and opens a till from which the bar-tender distributes money. There is printed a tariff of drinks and prices on the wall. It reads thus: Beer . . . . . . . . . . . . 5 cents. Whisky. . . . . . . . . . 5 cents. Whisky and Soda. . . . . . . 5 cents. Beer and Soda . . . . . . 5 cents. Whisky and Beer and Soda . . 5 cents. Whisky and Eggs . . . . . 5 cents. Beer and Eggs . . . . . . 5 cents. Champagne. . . . . . . 5 cents. Cigars . . . . . . . . 5 cents. Cigars, extra fine . . . . . 5 cents. All calculations are made on this basis and are worked out to three places of decimals. Every seventh drink is on the house and is not followed by a distribution of money. The bar-room closes at midnight, provided there are enough people in it. If there is not a quorum the proprietor waits for a better chance. A careful closing of the bar will often catch as many as twenty-five people. The bar is not opened again till seven o'clock in the morning; after that the people may go home. There are also, nowadays, Local Option Hotels. These contain only one entrance, leading directly into the bar. An Experiment With Policeman Hogan Mr. Scalper sits writing in the reporters' room of The Daily Eclipse. The paper has gone to press and he is alone; a wayward talented gentleman, this Mr. Scalper, and employed by The Eclipse as a delineator of character from handwriting. Any subscriber who forwards a specimen of his handwriting is treated to a prompt analysis of his character from Mr. Scalper's facile pen. The literary genius has a little pile of correspondence beside him, and is engaged in the practice of his art. Outside the night is dark and rainy. The clock on the City Hall marks the hour of two. In front of the newspaper office Policeman Hogan walks drearily up and down his beat. The damp misery of Hogan is intense. A belated gentleman in clerical attire, returning home from a bed of sickness, gives him a side-look of timid pity and shivers past. Hogan follows the retreating figure with his eye; then draws forth a notebook and sits down on the steps of The Eclipse building to write in the light of the gas lamp. Gentlemen of nocturnal habits have often wondered what it is that Policeman Hogan and his brethren write in their little books. Here are the words that are fashioned by the big fist of the policeman: "Two o'clock. All is well. There is a light in Mr. Scalper's room above. The night is very wet and I am unhappy and cannot sleep--my fourth night of insomnia. Suspicious-looking individual just passed. Alas, how melancholy is my life! Will the dawn never break! Oh, moist, moist stone." Mr. Scalper up above is writing too, writing with the careless fluency of a man who draws his pay by the column. He is delineating with skill and rapidity. The reporters' room is gloomy and desolate. Mr. Scalper is a man of sensitive temperament and the dreariness of his surroundings depresses him. He opens the letter of a correspondent, examines the handwriting narrowly, casts his eye around the room for inspiration, and proceeds to delineate: "G.H. You have an unhappy, despondent nature; your circumstances oppress you, and your life is filled with an infinite sadness. You feel that you are without hope--" Mr. Scalper pauses, takes another look around the room, and finally lets his eye rest for some time upon a tall black bottle that stands on the shelf of an open cupboard. Then he goes on: "--and you have lost all belief in Christianity and a future world and human virtue. You are very weak against temptation, but there is an ugly vein of determination in your character, when you make up your mind that you are going to have a thing--" Here Mr. Scalper stops abruptly, pushes back his chair, and dashes across the room to the cupboard. He takes the black bottle from the shelf, applies it to his lips, and remains for some time motionless. He then returns to finish the delineation of G.H. with the hurried words: "On the whole I recommend you to persevere; you are doing very well." Mr. Scalper's next proceeding is peculiar. He takes from the cupboard a roll of twine, about fifty feet in length, and attaches one end of it to the neck of the bottle. Going then to one of the windows, he opens it, leans out, and whistles softly. The alert ear of Policeman Hogan on the pavement below catches the sound, and he returns it. The bottle is lowered to the end of the string, the guardian of the peace applies it to his gullet, and for some time the policeman and the man of letters remain attached by a cord of sympathy. Gentlemen who lead the variegated life of Mr. Scalper find it well to propitiate the arm of the law, and attachments of this sort are not uncommon. Mr. Scalper hauls up the bottle, closes the window, and returns to his task; the policeman resumes his walk with a glow of internal satisfaction. A glance at the City Hall clock causes him to enter another note in his book. "Half-past two. All is better. The weather is milder with a feeling of young summer in the air. Two lights in Mr. Scalper's room. Nothing has occurred which need be brought to the notice of the roundsman." Things are going better upstairs too. The delineator opens a second envelope, surveys the writing of the correspondent with a critical yet charitable eye, and writes with more complacency. "William H. Your writing shows a disposition which, though naturally melancholy, is capable of a temporary cheerfulness. You have known misfortune but have made up your mind to look on the bright side of things. If you will allow me to say so, you indulge in liquor but are quite moderate in your use of it. Be assured that no harm ever comes of this moderate use. It enlivens the intellect, brightens the faculties, and stimulates the dormant fancy into a pleasurable activity. It is only when carried to excess--" At this point the feelings of Mr. Scalper, who had been writing very rapidly, evidently become too much for him. He starts up from his chair, rushes two or three times around the room, and finally returns to finish the delineation thus: "it is only when carried to excess that this moderation becomes pernicious." Mr. Scalper succumbs to the train of thought suggested and gives an illustration of how moderation to excess may be avoided, after which he lowers the bottle to Policeman Hogan with a cheery exchange of greetings. The half-hours pass on. The delineator is writing busily and feels that he is writing well. The characters of his correspondents lie bare to his keen eye and flow from his facile pen. From time to time he pauses and appeals to the source of his inspiration; his humanity prompts him to extend the inspiration to Policeman Hogan. The minion of the law walks his beat with a feeling of more than tranquillity. A solitary Chinaman, returning home late from his midnight laundry, scuttles past. The literary instinct has risen strong in Hogan from his connection with the man of genius above him, and the passage of the lone Chinee gives him occasion to write in his book: "Four-thirty. Everything is simply great. There are four lights in Mr. Scalper's room. Mild, balmy weather with prospects of an earthquake, which may be held in check by walking with extreme caution. Two Chinamen have just passed--mandarins, I presume. Their walk was unsteady, but their faces so benign as to disarm suspicion." Up in the office Mr. Scalper has reached the letter of a correspondent which appears to give him particular pleasure, for he delineates the character with a beaming smile of satisfaction. To the unpractised eye the writing resembles the prim, angular hand of an elderly spinster. Mr. Scalper, however, seems to think otherwise, for he writes: "Aunt Dorothea. You have a merry, rollicking nature. At times you are seized with a wild, tumultuous hilarity to which you give ample vent in shouting and song. You are much addicted to profanity, and you rightly feel that this is part of your nature and you must not check it. The world is a very bright place to you, Aunt Dorothea. Write to me again soon. Our minds seem cast in the same mould." Mr. Scalper seems to think that he has not done full justice to the subject he is treating, for he proceeds to write a long private letter to Aunt Dorothea in addition to the printed delineation. As he finishes the City Hall clock points to five, and Policeman Hogan makes the last entry in his chronicle. Hogan has seated himself upon the steps of The Eclipse building for greater comfort and writes with a slow, leisurely fist: "The other hand of the clock points north and the second longest points south-east by south. I infer that it is five o'clock. The electric lights in Mr. Scalper's room defy the eye. The roundsman has passed and examined my notes of the night's occurrences. They are entirely satisfactory, and he is pleased with their literary form. The earthquake which I apprehended was reduced to a few minor oscillations which cannot reach me where I sit--" The lowering of the bottle interrupts Policeman Hogan. The long letter to Aunt Dorothea has cooled the ardour of Mr. Scalper. The generous blush has passed from his mind and he has been trying in vain to restore it. To afford Hogan a similar opportunity, he decides not to haul the bottle up immediately, but to leave it in his custody while he delineates a character. The writing of this correspondent would seem to the inexperienced eye to be that of a timid little maiden in her teens. Mr. Scalper is not to be deceived by appearances. He shakes his head mournfully at the letter and writes: "Little Emily. You have known great happiness, but it has passed. Despondency has driven you to seek forgetfulness in drink. Your writing shows the worst phase of the liquor habit. I apprehend that you will shortly have delirium tremens. Poor little Emily! Do not try to break off; it is too late." Mr. Scalper is visibly affected by his correspondent's unhappy condition. His eye becomes moist, and he decides to haul up the bottle while there is still time to save Policeman Hogan from acquiring a taste for liquor. He is surprised and alarmed to find the attempt to haul it up ineffectual. The minion of the law has fallen into a leaden slumber, and the bottle remains tight in his grasp. The baffled delineator lets fall the string and returns to finish his task. Only a few lines are now required to fill the column, but Mr. Scalper finds on examining the correspondence that he has exhausted the subjects. This, however, is quite a common occurrence and occasions no dilemma in the mind of the talented gentleman. It is his custom in such cases to fill up the space with an imaginary character or two, the analysis of which is a task most congenial to his mind. He bows his head in thought for a few moments, and then writes as follows: "Policeman H. Your hand shows great firmness; when once set upon a thing you are not easily moved. But you have a mean, grasping disposition and a tendency to want more than your share. You have formed an attachment which you hope will be continued throughout life, but your selfishness threatens to sever the bond." Having written which, Mr. Scalper arranges his manuscript for the printer next day, dons his hat and coat, and wends his way home in the morning twilight, feeling that his pay is earned. The Passing of the Poet Studies in what may be termed collective psychology are essentially in keeping with the spirit of the present century. The examination of the mental tendencies, the intellectual habits which we display not as individuals, but as members of a race, community, or crowd, is offering a fruitful field of speculation as yet but little exploited. One may, therefore, not without profit, pass in review the relation of the poetic instinct to the intellectual development of the present era. Not the least noticeable feature in the psychological evolution of our time is the rapid disappearance of poetry. The art of writing poetry, or perhaps more fairly, the habit of writing poetry, is passing from us. The poet is destined to become extinct. To a reader of trained intellect the initial difficulty at once suggests itself as to what is meant by poetry. But it is needless to quibble at a definition of the term. It may be designated, simply and fairly, as the art of expressing a simple truth in a concealed form of words, any number of which, at intervals greater or less, may or may not rhyme. The poet, it must be said, is as old as civilization. The Greeks had him with them, stamping out his iambics with the sole of his foot. The Romans, too, knew him--endlessly juggling his syllables together, long and short, short and long, to make hexameters. This can now be done by electricity, but the Romans did not know it. But it is not my present purpose to speak of the poets of an earlier and ruder time. For the subject before us it is enough to set our age in comparison with the era that preceded it. We have but to contrast ourselves with our early Victorian grandfathers to realize the profound revolution that has taken place in public feeling. It is only with an effort that the practical common sense of the twentieth century can realize the excessive sentimentality of the earlier generation. In those days poetry stood in high and universal esteem. Parents read poetry to their children. Children recited poetry to their parents. And he was a dullard, indeed, who did not at least profess, in his hours of idleness, to pour spontaneous rhythm from his flowing quill. Should one gather statistics of the enormous production of poetry some sixty or seventy years ago, they would scarcely appear credible. Journals and magazines teemed with it. Editors openly countenanced it. Even the daily press affected it. Love sighed in home-made stanzas. Patriotism rhapsodized on the hustings, or cited rolling hexameters to an enraptured legislature. Even melancholy death courted his everlasting sleep in elegant elegiacs. In that era, indeed, I know not how, polite society was haunted by the obstinate fiction that it was the duty of a man of parts to express himself from time to time in verse. Any special occasion of expansion or exuberance, of depression, torsion, or introspection, was sufficient to call it forth. So we have poems of dejection, of reflection, of deglutition, of indigestion. Any particular psychological disturbance was enough to provoke an excess of poetry. The character and manner of the verse might vary with the predisposing cause. A gentleman who had dined too freely might disexpand himself in a short fit of lyric doggerel in which "bowl" and "soul" were freely rhymed. The morning's indigestion inspired a long-drawn elegiac, with "bier" and "tear," "mortal" and "portal" linked in sonorous sadness. The man of politics, from time to time, grateful to an appreciative country, sang back to it, "Ho, Albion, rising from the brine!" in verse whose intention at least was meritorious. And yet it was but a fiction, a purely fictitious obligation, self-imposed by a sentimental society. In plain truth, poetry came no more easily or naturally to the early Victorian than to you or me. The lover twanged his obdurate harp in vain for hours for the rhymes that would not come, and the man of politics hammered at his heavy hexameter long indeed before his Albion was finally "hoed" into shape; while the beer-besotted convivialist cudgelled his poor wits cold sober in rhyming the light little bottle-ditty that should have sprung like Aphrodite from the froth of the champagne. I have before me a pathetic witness of this fact. It is the note-book once used for the random jottings of a gentleman of the period. In it I read: "Fair Lydia, if my earthly harp." This is crossed out, and below it appears, "Fair Lydia, COULD my earthly harp." This again is erased, and under it appears, "Fair Lydia, SHOULD my earthly harp." This again is struck out with a despairing stroke, and amended to read: "Fair Lydia, DID my earthly harp." So that finally, when the lines appeared in the Gentleman's Magazine (1845) in their ultimate shape--"Fair Edith, when with fluent pen," etc., etc.--one can realize from what a desperate congelation the fluent pen had been so perseveringly rescued. There can be little doubt of the deleterious effect occasioned both to public and private morals by this deliberate exaltation of mental susceptibility on the part of the early Victorian. In many cases we can detect the evidences of incipient paresis. The undue access of emotion frequently assumed a pathological character. The sight of a daisy, of a withered leaf or an upturned sod, seemed to disturb the poet's mental equipoise. Spring unnerved him. The lambs distressed him. The flowers made him cry. The daffodils made him laugh. Day dazzled him. Night frightened him. This exalted mood, combined with the man's culpable ignorance of the plainest principles of physical science, made him see something out of the ordinary in the flight of a waterfowl or the song of a skylark. He complained that he could HEAR it, but not SEE it--a phenomenon too familiar to the scientific observer to occasion any comment. In such a state of mind the most inconsequential inferences were drawn. One said that the brightness of the dawn--a fact easily explained by the diurnal motion of the globe--showed him that his soul was immortal. He asserted further that he had, at an earlier period of his life, trailed bright clouds behind him. This was absurd. With the disturbance thus set up in the nervous system were coupled, in many instances, mental aberrations, particularly in regard to pecuniary matters. "Give me not silk, nor rich attire," pleaded one poet of the period to the British public, "nor gold nor jewels rare." Here was an evident hallucination that the writer was to become the recipient of an enormous secret subscription. Indeed, the earnest desire NOT to be given gold was a recurrent characteristic of the poetic temperament. The repugnance to accept even a handful of gold was generally accompanied by a desire for a draught of pure water or a night's rest. It is pleasing to turn from this excessive sentimentality of thought and speech to the practical and concise diction of our time. We have learned to express ourselves with equal force, but greater simplicity. To illustrate this I have gathered from the poets of the earlier generation and from the prose writers of to-day parallel passages that may be fairly set in contrast. Here, for example, is a passage from the poet Grey, still familiar to scholars: "Can storied urn or animated bust Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? Can honour's voice invoke the silent dust Or flattery soothe the dull cold ear of death?" Precisely similar in thought, though different in form, is the more modern presentation found in Huxley's Physiology: "Whether after the moment of death the ventricles of the heart can be again set in movement by the artificial stimulus of oxygen, is a question to which we must impose a decided negative." How much simpler, and yet how far superior to Grey's elaborate phraseology! Huxley has here seized the central point of the poet's thought, and expressed it with the dignity and precision of exact science. I cannot refrain, even at the risk of needless iteration, from quoting a further example. It is taken from the poet Burns. The original dialect being written in inverted hiccoughs, is rather difficult to reproduce. It describes the scene attendant upon the return of a cottage labourer to his home on Saturday night: "The cheerfu' supper done, wi' serious face They round the ingle form in a circle wide; The sire turns o'er, wi' patriarchal grace, The big ha' Bible, ance his father's pride: His bonnet rev'rently is laid aside, His lyart haffets wearing thin an' bare: Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide, He wales a portion wi' judeecious care." Now I find almost the same scene described in more apt phraseology in the police news of the Dumfries Chronicle (October 3, 1909), thus: "It appears that the prisoner had returned to his domicile at the usual hour, and, after partaking of a hearty meal, had seated himself on his oaken settle, for the ostensible purpose of reading the Bible. It was while so occupied that his arrest was effected." With the trifling exception that Burns omits all mention of the arrest, for which, however, the whole tenor of the poem gives ample warrant, the two accounts are almost identical. In all that I have thus said I do not wish to be misunderstood. Believing, as I firmly do, that the poet is destined to become extinct, I am not one of those who would accelerate his extinction. The time has not yet come for remedial legislation, or the application of the criminal law. Even in obstinate cases where pronounced delusions in reference to plants, animals, and natural phenomena are seen to exist, it is better that we should do nothing that might occasion a mistaken remorse. The inevitable natural evolution which is thus shaping the mould of human thought may safely be left to its own course. Self-made Men They were both what we commonly call successful business men--men with well-fed faces, heavy signet rings on fingers like sausages, and broad, comfortable waistcoats, a yard and a half round the equator. They were seated opposite each other at a table of a first-class restaurant, and had fallen into conversation while waiting to give their order to the waiter. Their talk had drifted back to their early days and how each had made his start in life when he first struck New York. "I tell you what, Jones," one of them was saying, "I shall never forget my first few years in this town. By George, it was pretty uphill work! Do you know, sir, when I first struck this place, I hadn't more than fifteen cents to my name, hadn't a rag except what I stood up in, and all the place I had to sleep in--you won't believe it, but it's a gospel fact just the same--was an empty tar barrel. No, sir," he went on, leaning back and closing up his eyes into an expression of infinite experience, "no, sir, a fellow accustomed to luxury like you has simply no idea what sleeping out in a tar barrel and all that kind of thing is like." "My dear Robinson," the other man rejoined briskly, "if you imagine I've had no experience of hardship of that sort, you never made a bigger mistake in your life. Why, when I first walked into this town I hadn't a cent, sir, not a cent, and as for lodging, all the place I had for months and months was an old piano box up a lane, behind a factory. Talk about hardship, I guess I had it pretty rough! You take a fellow that's used to a good warm tar barrel and put him into a piano box for a night or two, and you'll see mighty soon--" "My dear fellow," Robinson broke in with some irritation, "you merely show that you don't know what a tar barrel's like. Why, on winter nights, when you'd be shut in there in your piano box just as snug as you please, I used to lie awake shivering, with the draught fairly running in at the bunghole at the back." "Draught!" sneered the other man, with a provoking laugh, "draught! Don't talk to me about draughts. This box I speak of had a whole darned plank off it, right on the north side too. I used to sit there studying in the evenings, and the snow would blow in a foot deep. And yet, sir," he continued more quietly, "though I know you'll not believe it, I don't mind admitting that some of the happiest days of my life were spent in that same old box. Ah, those were good old times! Bright, innocent days, I can tell you. I'd wake up there in the mornings and fairly shout with high spirits. Of course, you may not be able to stand that kind of life--" "Not stand it!" cried Robinson fiercely; "me not stand it! By gad! I'm made for it. I just wish I had a taste of the old life again for a while. And as for innocence! Well, I'll bet you you weren't one-tenth as innocent as I was; no, nor one-fifth, nor one-third! What a grand old life it was! You'll swear this is a darned lie and refuse to believe it--but I can remember evenings when I'd have two or three fellows in, and we'd sit round and play pedro by a candle half the night." "Two or three!" laughed Jones; "why, my dear fellow, I've known half a dozen of us to sit down to supper in my piano box, and have a game of pedro afterwards; yes, and charades and forfeits, and every other darned thing. Mighty good suppers they were too! By Jove, Robinson, you fellows round this town who have ruined your digestions with high living, have no notion of the zest with which a man can sit down to a few potato peelings, or a bit of broken pie crust, or--" "Talk about hard food," interrupted the other, "I guess I know all about that. Many's the time I've breakfasted off a little cold porridge that somebody was going to throw away from a back-door, or that I've gone round to a livery stable and begged a little bran mash that they intended for the pigs. I'll venture to say I've eaten more hog's food--" "Hog's food!" shouted Robinson, striking his fist savagely on the table, "I tell you hog's food suits me better than--" He stopped speaking with a sudden grunt of surprise as the waiter appeared with the question: "What may I bring you for dinner, gentlemen?" "Dinner!" said Jones, after a moment of silence, "dinner! Oh, anything, nothing--I never care what I eat--give me a little cold porridge, if you've got it, or a chunk of salt pork--anything you like, it's all the same to me." The waiter turned with an impassive face to Robinson. "You can bring me some of that cold porridge too," he said, with a defiant look at Jones; "yesterday's, if you have it, and a few potato peelings and a glass of skim milk." There was a pause. Jones sat back in his chair and looked hard across at Robinson. For some moments the two men gazed into each other's eyes with a stern, defiant intensity. Then Robinson turned slowly round in his seat and beckoned to the waiter, who was moving off with the muttered order on his lips. "Here, waiter," he said with a savage scowl, "I guess I'll change that order a little. Instead of that cold porridge I'll take--um, yes--a little hot partridge. And you might as well bring me an oyster or two on the half shell, and a mouthful of soup (mock-turtle, consomme, anything), and perhaps you might fetch along a dab of fish, and a little peck of Stilton, and a grape, or a walnut." The waiter turned to Jones. "I guess I'll take the same," he said simply, and added; "and you might bring a quart of champagne at the same time." And nowadays, when Jones and Robinson meet, the memory of the tar barrel and the piano box is buried as far out of sight as a home for the blind under a landslide. A Model Dialogue In which is shown how the drawing-room juggler may be permanently cured of his card trick. The drawing-room juggler, having slyly got hold of the pack of cards at the end of the game of whist, says: "Ever see any card tricks? Here's rather a good one; pick a card." "Thank you, I don't want a card." "No, but just pick one, any one you like, and I'll tell which one you pick." "You'll tell who?" "No, no; I mean, I'll know which it is don't you see? Go on now, pick a card." "Any one I like?" "Yes." "Any colour at all?" "Yes, yes." "Any suit?" "Oh, yes; do go on." "Well, let me see, I'll--pick--the--ace of spades." "Great Caesar! I mean you are to pull a card out of the pack." "Oh, to pull it out of the pack! Now I understand. Hand me the pack. All right--I've got it." "Have you picked one?" "Yes, it's the three of hearts. Did you know it?" "Hang it! Don't tell me like that. You spoil the thing. Here, try again. Pick a card." "All right, I've got it." "Put it back in the pack. Thanks. (Shuffle, shuffle, shuffle--flip)--There, is that it?" (triumphantly). "I don't know. I lost sight of it." "Lost sight of it! Confound it, you have to look at it and see what it is." "Oh, you want me to look at the front of it!" "Why, of course! Now then, pick a card." "All right. I've picked it. Go ahead." (Shuffle, shuffle, shuffle--flip.) "Say, confound you, did you put that card back in the pack?" "Why, no. I kept it." "Holy Moses! Listen. Pick--a--card--just one--look at it--see what it is--then put it back--do you understand?" "Oh, perfectly. Only I don't see how you are ever going to do it. You must be awfully clever." (Shuffle, shuffle, shuffle--flip.) "There you are; that's your card, now, isn't it?" (This is the supreme moment.) "NO. THAT IS NOT MY CARD." (This is a flat lie, but Heaven will pardon you for it.) "Not that card!!!! Say--just hold on a second. Here, now, watch what you're at this time. I can do this cursed thing, mind you, every time. I've done it on father, on mother, and on every one that's ever come round our place. Pick a card. (Shuffle, shuffle, shuffle--flip, bang.) There, that's your card." "NO. I AM SORRY. THAT IS NOT MY CARD. But won't you try it again? Please do. Perhaps you are a little excited--I'm afraid I was rather stupid. Won't you go and sit quietly by yourself on the back verandah for half an hour and then try? You have to go home? Oh, I'm so sorry. It must be such an awfully clever little trick. Good night!" Back to the Bush I have a friend called Billy, who has the Bush Mania. By trade he is a doctor, but I do not think that he needs to sleep out of doors. In ordinary things his mind appears sound. Over the tops of his gold-rimmed spectacles, as he bends forward to speak to you, there gleams nothing but amiability and kindliness. Like all the rest of us he is, or was until he forgot it all, an extremely well-educated man. I am aware of no criminal strain in his blood. Yet Billy is in reality hopelessly unbalanced. He has the Mania of the Open Woods. Worse than that, he is haunted with the desire to drag his friends with him into the depths of the Bush. Whenever we meet he starts to talk about it. Not long ago I met him in the club. "I wish," he said, "you'd let me take you clear away up the Gatineau." "Yes, I wish I would, I don't think," I murmured to myself, but I humoured him and said: "How do we go, Billy, in a motor-car or by train?" "No, we paddle." "And is it up-stream all the way?" "Oh, yes," Billy said enthusiastically. "And how many days do we paddle all day to get up?" "Six." "Couldn't we do it in less?" "Yes," Billy answered, feeling that I was entering into the spirit of the thing, "if we start each morning just before daylight and paddle hard till moonlight, we could do it in five days and a half." "Glorious! and are there portages?" "Lots of them." "And at each of these do I carry two hundred pounds of stuff up a hill on my back?" "Yes." "And will there be a guide, a genuine, dirty-looking Indian guide?" "Yes." "And can I sleep next to him?" "Oh, yes, if you want to." "And when we get to the top, what is there?" "Well, we go over the height of land." "Oh, we do, do we? And is the height of land all rock and about three hundred yards up-hill? And do I carry a barrel of flour up it? And does it roll down and crush me on the other side? Look here, Billy, this trip is a great thing, but it is too luxurious for me. If you will have me paddled up the river in a large iron canoe with an awning, carried over the portages in a sedan-chair, taken across the height of land in a palanquin or a howdah, and lowered down the other side in a derrick, I'll go. Short of that, the thing would be too fattening." Billy was discouraged and left me. But he has since returned repeatedly to the attack. He offers to take me to the head-waters of the Batiscan. I am content at the foot. He wants us to go to the sources of the Attahwapiscat. I don't. He says I ought to see the grand chutes of the Kewakasis. Why should I? I have made Billy a counter-proposition that we strike through the Adirondacks (in the train) to New York, from there portage to Atlantic City, then to Washington, carrying our own grub (in the dining-car), camp there a few days (at the Willard), and then back, I to return by train and Billy on foot with the outfit. The thing is still unsettled. Billy, of course, is only one of thousands that have got this mania. And the autumn is the time when it rages at its worst. Every day there move northward trains, packed full of lawyers, bankers, and brokers, headed for the bush. They are dressed up to look like pirates. They wear slouch hats, flannel shirts, and leather breeches with belts. They could afford much better clothes than these, but they won't use them. I don't know where they get these clothes. I think the railroad lends them out. They have guns between their knees and big knives at their hips. They smoke the worst tobacco they can find, and they carry ten gallons of alcohol per man in the baggage car. In the intervals of telling lies to one another they read the railroad pamphlets about hunting. This kind of literature is deliberately and fiendishly contrived to infuriate their mania. I know all about these pamphlets because I write them. I once, for instance, wrote up, from imagination, a little place called Dog Lake at the end of a branch line. The place had failed as a settlement, and the railroad had decided to turn it into a hunting resort. I did the turning. I think I did it rather well, rechristening the lake and stocking the place with suitable varieties of game. The pamphlet ran like this. "The limpid waters of Lake Owatawetness (the name, according to the old Indian legends of the place, signifies, The Mirror of the Almighty) abound with every known variety of fish. Near to its surface, so close that the angler may reach out his hand and stroke them, schools of pike, pickerel, mackerel, doggerel, and chickerel jostle one another in the water. They rise instantaneously to the bait and swim gratefully ashore holding it in their mouths. In the middle depth of the waters of the lake, the sardine, the lobster, the kippered herring, the anchovy and other tinned varieties of fish disport themselves with evident gratification, while even lower in the pellucid depths the dog-fish, the hog-fish, the log-fish, and the sword-fish whirl about in never-ending circles. "Nor is Lake Owatawetness merely an Angler's Paradise. Vast forests of primeval pine slope to the very shores of the lake, to which descend great droves of bears--brown, green, and bear-coloured--while as the shades of evening fall, the air is loud with the lowing of moose, cariboo, antelope, cantelope, musk-oxes, musk-rats, and other graminivorous mammalia of the forest. These enormous quadrumana generally move off about 10.30 p.m., from which hour until 11.45 p.m. the whole shore is reserved for bison and buffalo. "After midnight hunters who so desire it can be chased through the woods, for any distance and at any speed they select, by jaguars, panthers, cougars, tigers, and jackals whose ferocity is reputed to be such that they will tear the breeches off a man with their teeth in their eagerness to sink their fangs in his palpitating flesh. Hunters, attention! Do not miss such attractions as these!" I have seen men--quiet, reputable, well-shaved men-- reading that pamphlet of mine in the rotundas of hotels, with their eyes blazing with excitement. I think it is the jaguar attraction that hits them the hardest, because I notice them rub themselves sympathetically with their hands while they read. Of course, you can imagine the effect of this sort of literature on the brains of men fresh from their offices, and dressed out as pirates. They just go crazy and stay crazy. Just watch them when they get into the bush. Notice that well-to-do stockbroker crawling about on his stomach in the underbrush, with his spectacles shining like gig-lamps. What is he doing? He is after a cariboo that isn't there. He is "stalking" it. With his stomach. Of course, away down in his heart he knows that the cariboo isn't there and never was; but that man read my pamphlet and went crazy. He can't help it: he's GOT to stalk something. Mark him as he crawls along; see him crawl through a thimbleberry bush (very quietly so that the cariboo won't hear the noise of the prickles going into him), then through a bee's nest, gently and slowly, so that the cariboo will not take fright when the bees are stinging him. Sheer woodcraft! Yes, mark him. Mark him any way you like. Go up behind him and paint a blue cross on the seat of his pants as he crawls. He'll never notice. He thinks he's a hunting dog. Yet this is the man who laughs at his little son of ten for crawling round under the dining-room table with a mat over his shoulders, and pretending to be a bear. Now see these other men in camp. Someone has told them--I think I first started the idea in my pamphlet--that the thing is to sleep on a pile of hemlock branches. I think I told them to listen to the wind sowing (you know the word I mean), sowing and crooning in the giant pines. So there they are upside-down, doubled up on a couch of green spikes that would have killed St. Sebastian. They stare up at the sky with blood-shot, restless eyes, waiting for the crooning to begin. And there isn't a sow in sight. Here is another man, ragged and with a six days' growth of beard, frying a piece of bacon on a stick over a little fire. Now what does he think he is? The CHEF of the Waldorf Astoria? Yes, he does, and what's more he thinks that that miserable bit of bacon, cut with a tobacco knife from a chunk of meat that lay six days in the rain, is fit to eat. What's more, he'll eat it. So will the rest. They're all crazy together. There's another man, the Lord help him who thinks he has the "knack" of being a carpenter. He is hammering up shelves to a tree. Till the shelves fall down he thinks he is a wizard. Yet this is the same man who swore at his wife for asking him to put up a shelf in the back kitchen. "How the blazes," he asked, "could he nail the damn thing up? Did she think he was a plumber?" After all, never mind. Provided they are happy up there, let them stay. Personally, I wouldn't mind if they didn't come back and lie about it. They get back to the city dead fagged for want of sleep, sogged with alcohol, bitten brown by the bush-flies, trampled on by the moose and chased through the brush by bears and skunks--and they have the nerve to say that they like it. Sometimes I think they do. Men are only animals anyway. They like to get out into the woods and growl round at night and feel something bite them. Only why haven't they the imagination to be able to do the same thing with less fuss? Why not take their coats and collars off in the office and crawl round on the floor and growl at one another. It would be just as good. Reflections on Riding The writing of this paper has been inspired by a debate recently held at the literary society of my native town on the question, "Resolved: that the bicycle is a nobler animal than the horse." In order to speak for the negative with proper authority, I have spent some weeks in completely addicting myself to the use of the horse. I find that the difference between the horse and the bicycle is greater than I had supposed. The horse is entirely covered with hair; the bicycle is not entirely covered with hair, except the '89 model they are using in Idaho. In riding a horse the performer finds that the pedals in which he puts his feet will not allow of a good circular stroke. He will observe, however, that there is a saddle in which--especially while the horse is trotting--he is expected to seat himself from time to time. But it is simpler to ride standing up, with the feet in the pedals. There are no handles to a horse, but the 1910 model has a string to each side of its face for turning its head when there is anything you want it to see. Coasting on a good horse is superb, but should be under control. I have known a horse to suddenly begin to coast with me about two miles from home, coast down the main street of my native town at a terrific rate, and finally coast through a plantoon of the Salvation Army into its livery stable. I cannot honestly deny that it takes a good deal of physical courage to ride a horse. This, however, I have. I get it at about forty cents a flask, and take it as required. I find that in riding a horse up the long street of a country town, it is not well to proceed at a trot. It excites unkindly comment. It is better to let the horse walk the whole distance. This may be made to seem natural by turning half round in the saddle with the hand on the horse's back, and gazing intently about two miles up the road. It then appears that you are the first in of about fourteen men. Since learning to ride, I have taken to noticing the things that people do on horseback in books. Some of these I can manage, but most of them are entirely beyond me. Here, for instance, is a form of equestrian performance that every reader will recognize and for which I have only a despairing admiration: "With a hasty gesture of farewell, the rider set spurs to his horse and disappeared in a cloud of dust." With a little practice in the matter of adjustment, I think I could set spurs to any size of horse, but I could never disappear in a cloud of dust--at least, not with any guarantee of remaining disappeared when the dust cleared away. Here, however, is one that I certainly can do: "The bridle-rein dropped from Lord Everard's listless hand, and, with his head bowed upon his bosom, he suffered his horse to move at a foot's pace up the sombre avenue. Deep in thought, he heeded not the movement of the steed which bore him." That is, he looked as if he didn't; but in my case Lord Everard has his eye on the steed pretty closely, just the same. This next I am doubtful about: "To horse! to horse!" cried the knight, and leaped into the saddle. I think I could manage it if it read: "To horse!" cried the knight, and, snatching a step-ladder from the hands of his trusty attendant, he rushed into the saddle. As a concluding remark, I may mention that my experience of riding has thrown a very interesting sidelight upon a rather puzzling point in history. It is recorded of the famous Henry the Second that he was "almost constantly in the saddle, and of so restless a disposition that he never sat down, even at meals." I had hitherto been unable to understand Henry's idea about his meals, but I think I can appreciate it now. Saloonio A STUDY IN SHAKESPEAREAN CRITICISM They say that young men fresh from college are pretty positive about what they know. But from my own experience of life, I should say that if you take a comfortable, elderly man who hasn't been near a college for about twenty years, who has been pretty liberally fed and dined ever since, who measures about fifty inches around the circumference, and has a complexion like a cranberry by candlelight, you will find that there is a degree of absolute certainty about what he thinks he knows that will put any young man to shame. I am specially convinced of this from the case of my friend Colonel Hogshead, a portly, choleric gentleman who made a fortune in the cattle-trade out in Wyoming, and who, in his later days, has acquired a chronic idea that the plays of Shakespeare are the one subject upon which he is most qualified to speak personally. He came across me the other evening as I was sitting by the fire in the club sitting-room looking over the leaves of The Merchant of Venice, and began to hold forth to me about the book. "Merchant of Venice, eh? There's a play for you, sir! There's genius! Wonderful, sir, wonderful! You take the characters in that play and where will you find anything like them? You take Antonio, take Sherlock, take Saloonio--" "Saloonio, Colonel?" I interposed mildly, "aren't you making a mistake? There's a Bassanio and a Salanio in the play, but I don't think there's any Saloonio, is there?" For a moment Colonel Hogshead's eye became misty with doubt, but he was not the man to admit himself in error: "Tut, tut! young man," he said with a frown, "don't skim through your books in that way. No Saloonio? Why, of course there's a Saloonio!" "But I tell you, Colonel," I rejoined, "I've just been reading the play and studying it, and I know there's no such character--" "Nonsense, sir, nonsense!" said the Colonel, "why he comes in all through; don't tell me, young man, I've read that play myself. Yes, and seen it played, too, out in Wyoming, before you were born, by fellers, sir, that could act. No Saloonio, indeed! why, who is it that is Antonio's friend all through and won't leave him when Bassoonio turns against him? Who rescues Clarissa from Sherlock, and steals the casket of flesh from the Prince of Aragon? Who shouts at the Prince of Morocco, 'Out, out, you damned candlestick'? Who loads up the jury in the trial scene and fixes the doge? No Saloonio! By gad! in my opinion, he's the most important character in the play--" "Colonel Hogshead," I said very firmly, "there isn't any Saloonio and you know it." But the old man had got fairly started on whatever dim recollection had given birth to Saloonio; the character seemed to grow more and more luminous in the Colonel's mind, and he continued with increasing animation: "I'll just tell you what Saloonio is: he's a type. Shakespeare means him to embody the type of the perfect Italian gentleman. He's an idea, that's what he is, he's a symbol, he's a unit--" Meanwhile I had been searching among the leaves of the play. "Look here," I said, "here's the list of the Dramatis Personae. There's no Saloonio there." But this didn't dismay the Colonel one atom. "Why, of course there isn't," he said. "You don't suppose you'd find Saloonio there! That's the whole art of it! That's Shakespeare! That's the whole gist of it! He's kept clean out of the Personae--gives him scope, gives him a free hand, makes him more of a type than ever. Oh, it's a subtle thing, sir, the dramatic art!" continued the Colonel, subsiding into quiet reflection; "it takes a feller quite a time to get right into Shakespeare's mind and see what he's at all the time." I began to see that there was no use in arguing any further with the old man. I left him with the idea that the lapse of a little time would soften his views on Saloonio. But I had not reckoned on the way in which old men hang on to a thing. Colonel Hogshead quite took up Saloonio. From that time on Saloonio became the theme of his constant conversation. He was never tired of discussing the character of Saloonio, the wonderful art of the dramatist in creating him, Saloonio's relation to modern life, Saloonio's attitude toward women, the ethical significance of Saloonio, Saloonio as compared with Hamlet, Hamlet as compared with Saloonio--and so on, endlessly. And the more he looked into Saloonio, the more he saw in him. Saloonio seemed inexhaustible. There were new sides to him--new phases at every turn. The Colonel even read over the play, and finding no mention of Saloonio's name in it, he swore that the books were not the same books they had had out in Wyoming; that the whole part had been cut clean out to suit the book to the infernal public schools, Saloonio's language being--at any rate, as the Colonel quoted it--undoubtedly a trifle free. Then the Colonel took to annotating his book at the side with such remarks as, "Enter Saloonio," or "A tucket sounds; enter Saloonio, on the arm of the Prince of Morocco." When there was no reasonable excuse for bringing Saloonio on the stage the Colonel swore that he was concealed behind the arras, or feasting within with the doge. But he got satisfaction at last. He had found that there was nobody in our part of the country who knew how to put a play of Shakespeare on the stage, and took a trip to New York to see Sir Henry Irving and Miss Terry do the play. The Colonel sat and listened all through with his face just beaming with satisfaction, and when the curtain fell at the close of Irving's grand presentation of the play, he stood up in his seat, and cheered and yelled to his friends: "That's it! That's him! Didn't you see that man that came on the stage all the time and sort of put the whole play through, though you couldn't understand a word he said? Well, that's him! That's Saloonio!" Half-hours with the Poets I.--MR. WORDSWORTH AND THE LITTLE COTTAGE GIRL. "I met a little cottage girl, She was eight years old she said, Her hair was thick with many a curl That clustered round her head." WORDSWORTH. This is what really happened. Over the dreary downs of his native Cumberland the aged laureate was wandering with bowed head and countenance of sorrow. Times were bad with the old man. In the south pocket of his trousers, as he set his face to the north, jingled but a few odd coins and a cheque for St. Leon water. Apparently his cup of bitterness was full. In the distance a child moved--a child in form, yet the deep lines upon her face bespoke a countenance prematurely old. The poet espied, pursued and overtook the infant. He observed that apparently she drew her breath lightly and felt her life in every limb, and that presumably her acquaintance with death was of the most superficial character. "I must sit awhile and ponder on that child," murmured the poet. So he knocked her down with his walking-stick and seating himself upon her, he pondered. Long he sat thus in thought. "His heart is heavy," sighed the child. At length he drew forth a note-book and pencil and prepared to write upon his knee. "Now then, my dear young friend," he said, addressing the elfin creature, "I want those lines upon your face. Are you seven?" "Yes, we are seven," said the girl sadly, and added, "I know what you want. You are going to question me about my afflicted family. You are Mr. Wordsworth, and you are collecting mortuary statistics for the Cottagers' Edition of the Penny Encyclopaedia." "You are eight years old?" asked the bard. "I suppose so," answered she. "I have been eight years old for years and years." "And you know nothing of death, of course?" said the poet cheerfully. "How can I?" answered the child. "Now then," resumed the venerable William, "let us get to business. Name your brothers and sisters." "Let me see," began the child wearily; "there was Rube and Ike, two I can't think of, and John and Jane." "You must not count John and Jane," interrupted the bard reprovingly; "they're dead, you know, so that doesn't make seven." "I wasn't counting them, but perhaps I added up wrongly," said the child; "and will you please move your overshoe off my neck?" "Pardon," said the old man. "A nervous trick, I have been absorbed; indeed, the exigency of the metre almost demands my doubling up my feet. To continue, however; which died first?" "The first to go was little Jane," said the child. "She lay moaning in bed, I presume?" "In bed she moaning lay." "What killed her?" "Insomnia," answered the girl. "The gaiety of our cottage life, previous to the departure of our elder brothers for Conway, and the constant field-sports in which she indulged with John, proved too much for a frame never too robust." "You express yourself well," said the poet. "Now, in regard to your unfortunate brother, what was the effect upon him in the following winter of the ground being white with snow and your being able to run and slide?" "My brother John was forced to go," answered she. "We have been at a loss to understand the cause of his death. We fear that the dazzling glare of the newly fallen snow, acting upon a restless brain, may have led him to a fatal attempt to emulate my own feats upon the ice. And, oh, sir," the child went on, "speak gently of poor Jane. You may rub it into John all you like; we always let him slide." "Very well," said the bard, "and allow me, in conclusion, one rather delicate question: Do you ever take your little porringer?" "Oh, yes," answered the child frankly-- "'Quite often after sunset, When all is light and fair, I take my little porringer'-- "I can't quite remember what I do after that, but I know that I like it." "That is immaterial," said Wordsworth. "I can say that you take your little porringer neat, or with bitters, or in water after every meal. As long as I can state that you take a little porringer regularly, but never to excess, the public is satisfied. And now," rising from his seat, "I will not detain you any longer. Here is sixpence--or stay," he added hastily, "here is a cheque for St. Leon water. Your information has been most valuable, and I shall work it, for all I am Wordsworth." With these words the aged poet bowed deferentially to the child and sauntered off in the direction of the Duke of Cumberland's Arms, with his eyes on the ground, as if looking for the meanest flower that blows itself. II:--HOW TENNYSON KILLED THE MAY QUEEN "If you're waking call me early, call me early, mother dear." PART I As soon as the child's malady had declared itself the afflicted parents of the May Queen telegraphed to Tennyson, "Our child gone crazy on subject of early rising, could you come and write some poetry about her?" Alfred, always prompt to fill orders in writing from the country, came down on the evening train. The old cottager greeted the poet warmly, and began at once to speak of the state of his unfortunate daughter. "She was took queer in May," he said, "along of a sort of bee that the young folks had; she ain't been just right since; happen you might do summat." With these words he opened the door of an inner room. The girl lay in feverish slumber. Beside her bed was an alarm-clock set for half-past three. Connected with the clock was an ingenious arrangement of a falling brick with a string attached to the child's toe. At the entrance of the visitor she started up in bed. "Whoop," she yelled, "I am to be Queen of the May, mother, ye-e!" Then perceiving Tennyson in the doorway, "If that's a caller," she said, "tell him to call me early." The shock caused the brick to fall. In the subsequent confusion Alfred modestly withdrew to the sitting-room. "At this rate," he chuckled, "I shall not have long to wait. A few weeks of that strain will finish her." PART II Six months had passed. It was now mid-winter. And still the girl lived. Her vitality appeared inexhaustible. She got up earlier and earlier. She now rose yesterday afternoon. At intervals she seemed almost sane, and spoke in a most pathetic manner of her grave and the probability of the sun shining on it early in the morning, and her mother walking on it later in the day. At other times her malady would seize her, and she would snatch the brick off the string and throw it fiercely at Tennyson. Once, in an uncontrollable fit of madness, she gave her sister Effie a half-share in her garden tools and an interest in a box of mignonette. The poet stayed doggedly on. In the chill of the morning twilight he broke the ice in his water-basin and cursed the girl. But he felt that he had broken the ice and he stayed. On the whole, life at the cottage, though rugged, was not cheerless. In the long winter evenings they would gather around a smoking fire of peat, while Tennyson read aloud the Idylls of the King to the rude old cottager. Not to show his rudeness, the old man kept awake by sitting on a tin-tack. This also kept his mind on the right tack. The two found that they had much in common, especially the old cottager. They called each other "Alfred" and "Hezekiah" now. PART III Time moved on and spring came. Still the girl baffled the poet. "I thought to pass away before," she would say with a mocking grin, "but yet alive I am, Alfred, alive I am." Tennyson was fast losing hope. Worn out with early rising, they engaged a retired Pullman-car porter to take up his quarters, and being a negro his presence added a touch of colour to their life. The poet also engaged a neighbouring divine at fifty cents an evening to read to the child the best hundred books, with explanations. The May Queen tolerated him, and used to like to play with his silver hair, but protested that he was prosy. At the end of his resources the poet resolved upon desperate measures. He chose an evening when the cottager and his wife were out at a dinner-party. At nightfall Tennyson and his accomplices entered the girl's room. She defended herself savagely with her brick, but was overpowered. The negro seated himself upon her chest, while the clergyman hastily read a few verses about the comfort of early rising at the last day. As he concluded, the poet drove his pen into her eye. "Last call!" cried the negro porter triumphantly. III.--OLD MR. LONGFELLOW ON BOARD THE HESPERUS. "It was the schooner Hesperus that sailed the wintry sea, And the skipper had taken his little daughter to bear him company."--LONGFELLOW. There were but three people in the cabin party of the Hesperus: old Mr. Longfellow, the skipper, and the skipper's daughter. The skipper was much attached to the child, owing to the singular whiteness of her skin and the exceptionally limpid blue of her eyes; she had hitherto remained on shore to fill lucrative engagements as albino lady in a circus. This time, however, her father had taken her with him for company. The girl was an endless source of amusement to the skipper and the crew. She constantly got up games of puss-in-the-corner, forfeits, and Dumb Crambo with her father and Mr. Longfellow, and made Scripture puzzles and geographical acrostics for the men. Old Mr. Longfellow was taking the voyage to restore his shattered nerves. From the first the captain disliked Henry. He was utterly unused to the sea and was nervous and fidgety in the extreme. He complained that at sea his genius had not a sufficient degree of latitude. Which was unparalleled presumption. On the evening of the storm there had been a little jar between Longfellow and the captain at dinner. The captain had emptied it several times, and was consequently in a reckless, quarrelsome humour. "I confess I feel somewhat apprehensive," said old Henry nervously, "of the state of the weather. I have had some conversation about it with an old gentleman on deck who professed to have sailed the Spanish main. He says you ought to put into yonder port." "I have," hiccoughed the skipper, eyeing the bottle, and added with a brutal laugh that "he could weather the roughest gale that ever wind did blow." A whole Gaelic society, he said, wouldn't fizz on him. Draining a final glass of grog, he rose from his chair, said grace, and staggered on deck. All the time the wind blew colder and louder. The billows frothed like yeast. It was a yeast wind. The evening wore on. Old Henry shuffled about the cabin in nervous misery. The skipper's daughter sat quietly at the table selecting verses from a Biblical clock to amuse the ship's bosun, who was suffering from toothache. At about ten Longfellow went to his bunk, requesting the girl to remain up in his cabin. For half an hour all was quiet, save the roaring of the winter wind. Then the girl heard the old gentleman start up in bed. "What's that bell, what's that bell?" he gasped. A minute later he emerged from his cabin wearing a cork jacket and trousers over his pyjamas. "Sissy," he said, "go up and ask your pop who rang that bell." The obedient child returned. "Please, Mr. Longfellow," she said, "pa says there weren't no bell." The old man sank into a chair and remained with his head buried in his hands. "Say," he exclaimed presently, "someone's firing guns and there's a glimmering light somewhere. You'd better go upstairs again." Again the child returned. "The crew are guessing at an acrostic, and occasionally they get a glimmering of it." Meantime the fury of the storm increased. The skipper had the hatches battered down. Presently Longfellow put his head out of a porthole and called out, "Look here, you may not care, but the cruel rocks are goring the sides of this boat like the horns of an angry bull." The brutal skipper heaved the log at him. A knot in it struck a plank and it glanced off. Too frightened to remain below, the poet raised one of the hatches by picking out the cotton batting and made his way on deck. He crawled to the wheel-house. The skipper stood lashed to the helm all stiff and stark. He bowed stiffly to the poet. The lantern gleamed through the gleaming snow on his fixed and glassy eyes. The man was hopelessly intoxicated. All the crew had disappeared. When the missile thrown by the captain had glanced off into the sea, they glanced after it and were lost. At this moment the final crash came. Something hit something. There was an awful click followed by a peculiar grating sound, and in less time than it takes to write it (unfortunately), the whole wreck was over. As the vessel sank, Longfellow's senses left him. When he reopened his eyes he was in his own bed at home, and the editor of his local paper was bending over him. "You have made a first-rate poem of it, Mr. Longfellow," he was saying, unbending somewhat as he spoke, "and I am very happy to give you our cheque for a dollar and a quarter for it." "Your kindness checks my utterance," murmured Henry feebly, very feebly. A, B, and C THE HUMAN ELEMENT IN MATHEMATICS The student of arithmetic who has mastered the first four rules of his art, and successfully striven with money sums and fractions, finds himself confronted by an unbroken expanse of questions known as problems. These are short stories of adventure and industry with the end omitted, and though betraying a strong family resemblance, are not without a certain element of romance. The characters in the plot of a problem are three people called A, B, and C. The form of the question is generally of this sort: "A, B, and C do a certain piece of work. A can do as much work in one hour as B in two, or C in four. Find how long they work at it." Or thus: "A, B, and C are employed to dig a ditch. A can dig as much in one hour as B can dig in two, and B can dig twice as fast as C. Find how long, etc. etc." Or after this wise: "A lays a wager that he can walk faster than B or C. A can walk half as fast again as B, and C is only an indifferent walker. Find how far, and so forth." The occupations of A, B, and C are many and varied. In the older arithmetics they contented themselves with doing "a certain piece of work." This statement of the case however, was found too sly and mysterious, or possibly lacking in romantic charm. It became the fashion to define the job more clearly and to set them at walking matches, ditch-digging, regattas, and piling cord wood. At times, they became commercial and entered into partnership, having with their old mystery a "certain" capital. Above all they revel in motion. When they tire of walking-matches--A rides on horseback, or borrows a bicycle and competes with his weaker-minded associates on foot. Now they race on locomotives; now they row; or again they become historical and engage stage-coaches; or at times they are aquatic and swim. If their occupation is actual work they prefer to pump water into cisterns, two of which leak through holes in the bottom and one of which is water-tight. A, of course, has the good one; he also takes the bicycle, and the best locomotive, and the right of swimming with the current. Whatever they do they put money on it, being all three sports. A always wins. In the early chapters of the arithmetic, their identity is concealed under the names John, William, and Henry, and they wrangle over the division of marbles. In algebra they are often called X, Y, Z. But these are only their Christian names, and they are really the same people. Now to one who has followed the history of these men through countless pages of problems, watched them in their leisure hours dallying with cord wood, and seen their panting sides heave in the full frenzy of filling a cistern with a leak in it, they become something more than mere symbols. They appear as creatures of flesh and blood, living men with their own passions, ambitions, and aspirations like the rest of us. Let us view them in turn. A is a full-blooded blustering fellow, of energetic temperament, hot-headed and strong-willed. It is he who proposes everything, challenges B to work, makes the bets, and bends the others to his will. He is a man of great physical strength and phenomenal endurance. He has been known to walk forty-eight hours at a stretch, and to pump ninety-six. His life is arduous and full of peril. A mistake in the working of a sum may keep him digging a fortnight without sleep. A repeating decimal in the answer might kill him. B is a quiet, easy-going fellow, afraid of A and bullied by him, but very gentle and brotherly to little C, the weakling. He is quite in A's power, having lost all his money in bets. Poor C is an undersized, frail man, with a plaintive face. Constant walking, digging, and pumping has broken his health and ruined his nervous system. His joyless life has driven him to drink and smoke more than is good for him, and his hand often shakes as he digs ditches. He has not the strength to work as the others can, in fact, as Hamlin Smith has said, "A can do more work in one hour than C in four." The first time that ever I saw these men was one evening after a regatta. They had all been rowing in it, and it had transpired that A could row as much in one hour as B in two, or C in four. B and C had come in dead fagged and C was coughing badly. "Never mind, old fellow," I heard B say, "I'll fix you up on the sofa and get you some hot tea." Just then A came blustering in and shouted, "I say, you fellows, Hamlin Smith has shown me three cisterns in his garden and he says we can pump them until to-morrow night. I bet I can beat you both. Come on. You can pump in your rowing things, you know. Your cistern leaks a little, I think, C." I heard B growl that it was a dirty shame and that C was used up now, but they went, and presently I could tell from the sound of the water that A was pumping four times as fast as C. For years after that I used to see them constantly about town and always busy. I never heard of any of them eating or sleeping. Then owing to a long absence from home, I lost sight of them. On my return I was surprised to no longer find A, B, and C at their accustomed tasks; on inquiry I heard that work in this line was now done by N, M, and O, and that some people were employing for algebraica jobs four foreigners called Alpha, Beta, Gamma, and Delta. Now it chanced one day that I stumbled upon old D, in the little garden in front of his cottage, hoeing in the sun. D is an aged labouring man who used occasionally to be called in to help A, B, and C. "Did I know 'em, sir?" he answered, "why, I knowed 'em ever since they was little fellows in brackets. Master A, he were a fine lad, sir, though I always said, give me Master B for kind-heartedness-like. Many's the job as we've been on together, sir, though I never did no racing nor aught of that, but just the plain labour, as you might say. I'm getting a bit too old and stiff for it nowadays, sir--just scratch about in the garden here and grow a bit of a logarithm, or raise a common denominator or two. But Mr. Euclid he use me still for them propositions, he do." From the garrulous old man I learned the melancholy end of my former acquaintances. Soon after I left town, he told me, C had been taken ill. It seems that A and B had been rowing on the river for a wager, and C had been running on the bank and then sat in a draught. Of course the bank had refused the draught and C was taken ill. A and B came home and found C lying helpless in bed. A shook him roughly and said, "Get up, C, we're going to pile wood." C looked so worn and pitiful that B said, "Look here, A, I won't stand this, he isn't fit to pile wood to-night." C smiled feebly and said, "Perhaps I might pile a little if I sat up in bed." Then B, thoroughly alarmed, said, "See here, A, I'm going to fetch a doctor; he's dying." A flared up and answered, "You've no money to fetch a doctor." "I'll reduce him to his lowest terms," B said firmly, "that'll fetch him." C's life might even then have been saved but they made a mistake about the medicine. It stood at the head of the bed on a bracket, and the nurse accidentally removed it from the bracket without changing the sign. After the fatal blunder C seems to have sunk rapidly. On the evening of the next day, as the shadows deepened in the little room, it was clear to all that the end was near. I think that even A was affected at the last as he stood with bowed head, aimlessly offering to bet with the doctor on C's laboured breathing. "A," whispered C, "I think I'm going fast." "How fast do you think you'll go, old man?" murmured A. "I don't know," said C, "but I'm going at any rate."--The end came soon after that. C rallied for a moment and asked for a certain piece of work that he had left downstairs. A put it in his arms and he expired. As his soul sped heavenward A watched its flight with melancholy admiration. B burst into a passionate flood of tears and sobbed, "Put away his little cistern and the rowing clothes he used to wear, I feel as if I could hardly ever dig again."--The funeral was plain and unostentatious. It differed in nothing from the ordinary, except that out of deference to sporting men and mathematicians, A engaged two hearses. Both vehicles started at the same time, B driving the one which bore the sable parallelopiped containing the last remains of his ill-fated friend. A on the box of the empty hearse generously consented to a handicap of a hundred yards, but arrived first at the cemetery by driving four times as fast as B. (Find the distance to the cemetery.) As the sarcophagus was lowered, the grave was surrounded by the broken figures of the first book of Euclid.--It was noticed that after the death of C, A became a changed man. He lost interest in racing with B, and dug but languidly. He finally gave up his work and settled down to live on the interest of his bets.--B never recovered from the shock of C's death; his grief preyed upon his intellect and it became deranged. He grew moody and spoke only in monosyllables. His disease became rapidly aggravated, and he presently spoke only in words whose spelling was regular and which presented no difficulty to the beginner. Realizing his precarious condition he voluntarily submitted to be incarcerated in an asylum, where he abjured mathematics and devoted himself to writing the History of the Swiss Family Robinson in words of one syllable. Acknowledgments Many of the sketches which form the present volume have already appeared in print. Others of them are new. Of the re-printed pieces, "Melpomenus Jones," "Policeman Hogan," "A Lesson in Fiction," and many others were contributions by the author to the New York Truth. The "Boarding-House Geometry" first appeared in Truth, and was subsequently republished in the London Punch, and in a great many other journals. The sketches called the "Life of John Smith," "Society Chit-Chat," and "Aristocratic Education" appeared in Puck. "The New Pathology" was first printed in the Toronto Saturday Night, and was subsequently republished by the London Lancet, and by various German periodicals in the form of a translation. The story called "Number Fifty-Six" is taken from the Detroit Free Press. "My Financial Career" was originally contributed to the New York Life, and has been frequently reprinted. The Articles "How to Make a Million Dollars" and "How to Avoid Getting Married," etc. are reproduced by permission of the Publishers' Press Syndicate. The wide circulation which some of the above sketches have enjoyed has encouraged the author to prepare the present collection. The author desires to express his sense of obligation to the proprietors of the above journals who have kindly permitted him to republish the contributions which appeared in their columns. END