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| By FHIAROLD MAC GRATH

 

 

 

 

 

   
 

 

 

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By HAROLD MACGRATH

Author of The Man on the Box, The Puppet Crown
Hearts and Masks, etc.

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY
HARRISON FISHER

INDIANAPOLIS
THE BOBBS-MERRILL COMPANY
PUBLISHERS

M@,

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COPYRIGHT 1906
THE Bopss-MERRILL COMPANY

NovEMBER

SEERZA
woe

x

PRESS OF
BRAUNWORTH & CO.
BOOKBINDERS AND PRINTERS
BROOKLYN, N. Y.

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TO THE MEMORY OF MY MOTHER

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CHAPTER I

It was Warrington’s invariable habit—when no
business or social engagement pressed him to go
elsewhere—to drop into a certain quaint little
restaurant just off Broadway for his dinners. It
was out of the way; the throb and rattle of the
great commercial artery became like the far-off
murmur of the sea, restful rather than annoying.
He always made it a point to dine alone, undis-
turbed. The proprietor nor his silent-footed wait-
ers had the slightest idea who Warrington was.
To them he was simply a profitable customer who
signified that he dined there in order to be alone.
His table was up stairs. Below, there was always
the usual dinner crowd till theater time; and the
music had the faculty of luring his thoughts
astray, being, as he was, fonder of music than of
work. As a matter of fact, it was in this little res-

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taurant that he winnowed the day’s ideas, re-
vamped scenes, trimmed the rough edges of his
climaxes, revised this epigram or rejected this or
that line; all on the backs of envelopes and on the
margins of newspapers. In his den at his bachelor
apartments, he worked; but here he dreamed,
usually behind the soothing, opalescent veil of
Madame Nicotine.

What a marvelous thing a good after-dinner
cigar is! In the smoke of it the poor man sees his
ships come in, the poet sees his muse beckoning
with hands full of largess, the millionaire reverts
to his early struggles, and the lover sees his divin-
ity in a thousand graceful poses.

To-night, however, Warrington’s cigar was
without magic. He was out of sorts. Things had
gone wrong at the rehearsal that morning. The
star had demanded the removal of certain lines
which gave the leading man an opportunity to
shine in the climax of the third act. He had la-
bored a whole month over this climax, and he
revolted at the thought of changing it to suit the
whim of a capricious woman.

Everybody had agreed that this climax was the
best the young dramatist had yet constructed. A
critic who had been invited to a reading had de-

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clared that it lacked little of being great. And at
this late hour the star wanted it changed in order
to bring her alone in the lime-light! It was pre-
posterous. As Warrington was on the first wave
of popularity, the business manager and the stage
manager both agreed to leave the matter wholly
in the dramatist’s hands. He resolutely declined
to make a single alteration in the scene. There
was a fine storm. The star declared that if the
change was not made at once she would leave the
company. In making this declaration she knew
her strength. Her husband was rich; a contract
was nothing to her. There was not another actress
of her ability to be found; the season was too late.
There was not another woman available, nor
would any other manager lend one. As the open-
ing performance was but two weeks hence, you
will realize why Warrington’s mood this night
was anything but amiable.

He scowled at his cigar. There was always
something, some sacrifice to make, and seldom
for art’s sake. It is all very well to witness a play.
from the other side of the footlights; everything
appears to work out so smoothly, easily and with-
out effort. To this phenomenon is due the ama-
teur dramatist—because it looks simple. A play is

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not written ; it is built, like a house. In most casea
the dramatist is simply the architect. The novelist
has comparatively an easy road to travel. The
dramatist is beset from all sides, now the busi-
ness manager—that is to say, the box-office—
now the stage manager, now the star, now the
leading man or woman. Jealousy’s green eyes peer
from behind every scene. The dramatist’s ideal,
when finally presented to the public, resembles
those mutilated marbles that decorate the mu-
seums of Rome and Naples. Only there is this
difference: the public can easily imagine what the
sculptor was about, but seldom the dramatist.

Warrington was a young man, tolerably good-
looking, noticeably well set up. When they have
good features, a cleft chin and a generous nose,
clean-shaven men are good to look at. He had
fine eyes, in the corners of which always lurked
mirth and mischief; for he possessed above all
things an inexhaustible fund of dry humor. His

lines seldom provoked rough laughter; rather,
silent chuckles.

Warrington’s scowl abated none. In business,
women were generally nuisances; they were al-
ways taking impossible stands. He would find
some way out; he was determined not to submit

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ie Page 5

ady in distress ?

]

«« Sir, will you aid a

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to the imperious fancies of an actress, however
famous she might be.

“Sir, will you aid a lady in distress?’ The
voice was tremulous, but as rich in tone as the
diapason of an organ.

Warrington looked up from his cigar to behold
a handsome young woman standing at the side of
his table. Her round, smooth cheeks were flushed,
and on the lower lids of her splendid dark eyes
tears of shame trembled and threatened to fall.
Behind her stood a waiter, of impassive counte-
nance, who was adding up the figures on a check,
his movement full of suggestion.

The dramatist understood the situation at once,
The young lady had ordered dinner, and, having
eaten it, found that she could not pay for it. It
was, to say the least, a trite situation. But what
can a man do when a pretty woman approaches
him and pleads for assistance? So Warrington
rose.

“What may the trouble be?” he asked coldly,
for all that he instantly recognized her to be a
person of breeding and refinement.

“I—I have lost my purse, and I have no money
to pay the waiter.’ She made this confession
bravely and frankly.

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He looked about. They were alone. She inter-
preted his glance rather shrewdly.

“There were no women to appeal to. The
waiter refused to accept my word, and I really
can’t blame him. I had not even the money to send
a messenger home.”

One of the trembling tears escaped and rolled
down the blooming cheek. Warrington surren-
dered. He saw that this was an exceptional case.
The girl was truly in distress. He knew his New
York thoroughly ; a man or woman without funds
is treated with the finished cruelty with which
the jovial Romans amused themselves with the
Christians. Lack of money in one person creates
incredulity in another. A penniless person is in-
variably a liar and a thief. Only one sort of per-
son is pitied in New York: the person who has
more money than she or he can possibly spend.

The girl fumbled in her hand-bag and produced
a card, which she gave to Warrington—“Kath-
erine Challoner.” He looked from the card to the
girl and then back to the card. Somehow, the
name was not wholly unfamiliar, but at that mo-
ment he could not place it.

“Waiter, let me see the check,” he said. It

amounted to two dollars and ten cents. Warring-
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ton smiled. ‘“Scarcely large enough to cause all
this trouble,” he added reassuringly. “I will at-
tend to it.”

The waiter bowed and withdrew. So long as
the check was paid he did not care who paid it.

“Oh, it is so horribly embarrassing! What must
you think of me?” She twisted her gloves with a
nervous strength which threatened to rend them.
“May I give you a bit of friendly advice?’ he
asked.

She nodded, hiding the fall of the second tear.

“Well, never dine alone in public; at any rate,
in the evening. It is not wise for a woman to do
so. She subjects herself to any number of em-
barrassments.”

She did not reply, and for a moment he believed
that she was about to break down completely. He
aimlessly brushed the cigar ashes from the table-
cloth. He hated a scene in public. In the theater
it was different; it was a part of the petty round
of business to have the leading lady burst into
tears when things didn’t suit her. What fools
women are in general! But the girl surprised
him by holding up determinedly, and sinking her
white teeth into her lips to smother the sob which
rose in her throat.

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“Be seated,” he said, drawing out the opposite
chair.

A wave of alarm spread over her face. She
clasped her hands.

“Sir, if you are a gentleman—”

Warrington interrupted her by giving her his
card, which was addressed. She glanced at it
through a blur of tears, then sat down. He
shrugged his shoulders slightly; his vanity was
touched. There was, then, a young woman in
New York who had not heard of Richard War-
rington.

“In asking you to be seated,” he explained, “‘it
was in order that you might wait in comfort while
I despatched a messenger to your home. Doubt-
less you have a brother, a father, or some male
relative, who will come at once to your assist-
ance.” Which proved that Warrington was pru-
dent.

But instead of brightening as he expected she
would, she straightened in her chair, while her
eyes widened with horror, as if she saw some-
thing frightful in perspective.

What the deuce could be the matter now?
he wondered, as he witnessed this inexplicable

change.
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“No, tio! You. must not send a messenger!”
she protested.

“But—”

“No, no!” tears welling into her beautiful eyes
again. They were beautiful, he was forced to
admit.

“But,” he persisted, “you wished the waiter to
do so. I do not understand.” His tone became
formal again.

“T have reasons. Oh, heavens! I am the most
miserable woman in all the world!’ She suddenly
bowed her head upon her hands and her shoulders
rose and fell with silent sobs.

Warrington stared at her, dumfounded. Now
what? He glanced cautiously around as if in
search of some avetiue of escape. The waiter, ever
watchful, assumed that he was wanted, and made
as though to approach the table; but Warrington
warned him off. All distrust in the girl vanished.
Decidedly she was in great trouble of some sort,
and it wasn’t because she could not pay a restau-
rant check. Women—and especially New York
women—do not shed tears when a stranger offers
to settle for their dinner checks.

“Tf you will kindly explain to me what the
trouble is,” visibly embarrassed, “perhaps I can

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help you. Have you run away from home?” he
asked.

A negative nod.

“Are you married?”

Another negative nod.

Warrington scratched his chin. “Have you
done anything wrong?”

A decided negative shake of the head. At any
other time the gesticulation of the ostrich plume,
so close to his face, would have amused him; but
there was something eminently pathetic in the
diapasm which drifted toward him from the
feather.

“Come, come; you may trust me thoroughly.
If you are afraid to return home alone—”

He was interrupted by an affirmative nod this
time. Possibly, he conjectured, the girl had
started out to elope and had fortunately paused at
the brink.

“Will it help you at all if I go home with you?”
he asked.

His ear caught a muffled “Yes.”

Warrington beckoned to the waiter.

“Order a cab at once,” he said.

The waiter hurried away, with visions of hand-
some tips.

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Presently the girl raised her head and sat up.
Her eyes, dark as shadows in still waters, glis-
tened.

“Be perfectly frank with me; and if I can be of
service to you, do not hesitate to command me.”
He eyed her thoughtfully. Everything attached
to her person suggested elegance. Her skin was
as fine as vellum; her hair had a dash of golden
bronze in it; her hands were white and shapely,
and the horn on the tips of the fingers shone rosily.
Now, what in the world was there to trouble a
young woman who possessed these favors, who
wore jewels on her fingers and sable on her shoul-
ders? “Talk to me just as you would to a
brother,” he added presently.

“You will take this ring,” she said irrelevantly.
She slipped a fine sapphire from one of her fingers
and pushed it across the table.

“And for what reason ?” he cried.

“Security for my dinner. I can not accept char-
ity,” with a hint of hauteur which did not in the
least displease him.

“But, my dear young woman, I can not accept
this ring. You have my address. You may send
the sum whenever you please. I see no reason
why, as soon as you arrive home, you can not re-

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fund the small sum of two dollars and ten cents.
It appears to me very simple.”

“There will be no one at home, not even the
servants,” wearily.

Warrington’s brows came together. Was the
girl fooling him, after all? But for what reason?

“You have me confused,” he admitted. “I can
do nothing blindly. Tell me what the trouble is.”

“How can I tell you, an absolute stranger? It
is all so frightful, and I am so young!”

Frightful? Young? He picked up his half-
finished cigar, but immediately let it fall. He stole
a look at his watch; it was seven.

“Oh, I know what you must think of me,” de-
spairingly. “Nobody believes in another’s real
misfortune in this horrid city. There are so many
fraudulent methods used to obtain people’s sym-
pathies that every one has lost trust. I had no
money when I entered here; but outside it was so
dark. Whenever I stopped, wondering where I
should go, men turned and stared at me. Once a
policeman peered into my face suspiciously. And
I dared not return home, I dared not! No, no; I
promise not to embarrass you with any more
tears.” She brushed her eyes with a rapid move-
ment.

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Watrington’s success as a dramatist was due
largely to his interest in all things that passed un-
der his notice. Nothing was too trivial to observe.
The tragic threads of human life, which escaped
the eyes of the passing many or were ignored by
them, always aroused his interest and attention;
and more than once he had picked up one of these
threads and followed it to the end. Out of these
seemingly insignificant things he often built one
of those breathless, nerve-gripping climaxes which
had, in a few years’ time, made him famous. In
the present case he believed that he had stumbled
upon something worthy his investigation. This
handsome young woman, richly dressed, who
dared not go home, who had jewels but no money
—there was some mystery surrounding her, and
he determined to find out what it was. And then,
besides, for all that he was worldly, he was young
and still believed in his Keats.

“Tf, as you say, there is no one at your home,
why do you fear to go there?’ he asked, with
some remnant of caution.

“It is the horror of the place,” shuddering ; “the
horror!” And indeed, at that moment, her face
expressed horror.

“Ts it some one dead ?” lowering his voice.

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“Dead?” with a flash of cold anger in her eyes.
“Yes—to me, to truth, to honor; dead to every-
thing that should make life worth the living. Oh,
it is impossible to say more in this place, to tell
you here what has happened this day to rob me of
all my tender illusions. This morning I awoke
happy, my heart was light; now, nothing but
shame and misery!” She hid her eyes for a space
behind the back of her hand.

“T will take you home,” he said simply.

“You trust me?”

“Why not? I am a man, and can take care of
myself.”

“Thank you!”

What a voice! It possessed a marvelous qual-
ity, low and penetrating, like the voices of great
singers and actresses. Any woman with such a
voice . .

Here the waiter returned to announce that a
cab awaited them in the street below. Warrington
paid the two checks, dropped a liberal tip, rose
and got into his coat. The girl also rose, picked
up his card, glanced carelessly at it, and put it into
her hand-bag—a little gold-link affair worth many
dinners. It was the voice and these evidences of
wealth, more than anything else, that determined

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Warrington. Frauds were always perpetrated for
money, and this exquisite creature had a small
fortune on her fingers.

Silently they left the restaurant, entered the
cab, and went rolling out into Broadway. War-
rington, repressing his curiosity, leaned back
against the cushions. The girl looked dully ahead.

What manner of tragedy was about to unfold
itself to his gaze?

_ The house was situated in Central Park, West.
It was of modern architecture, a residence such as
only rich men can afford to build. It was in utter
gloom; not a single light could be seen at any
window. It looked, indeed, as if tragedy sat en-
throned within. Warrington’s spine wrinkled a
bit as he got out of the cab and offered his hand
to the girl.

Mute and mysterious as a sphinx, the girl
walked to the steps, not even looking around to
see if he was coming after her. Perhaps she knew
the power of curiosity. Without hesitance she
mounted the steps; he followed, a step behind.
At the door, however, she paused. He could hear
her breath coming in quick gasps. Oddly enough,
the recollection of some detective stories flashed
through his mind.

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“What is it?” he asked.

“Nothing, nothing; only I am afraid.”

She stooped; there was a grating sound, a
click, and the door opened. Warrington was a
man of courage, but he afterward confessed that
it took all his nerve force to move his foot across
the threshold.

“Do not be frightened,” she said calmly ; “there
is nothing but ghosts here to frighten any one.”

“Ghosts ?”

“Yes.”

“Have you brought me here to tell me a ghost
story?” with an effort at lightness. What misery
the girl’s tones conveyed to his ears!

“The ghosts of things that ought to, and
should, have been; are not those the most melan-
choly?” She pressed a button and flooded the
hallway with light.

His keen eyes roving met nothing but signs of
luxury. She led him into the library and turned
on the lights. Not a servant anywhere in sight;
the great house seemed absolutely empty. Not
even the usual cat or dog came romping inquisi-
tively into the room. The shelves of books stirred
his sense of envy; what a den for a literary man
to wander in! There were beautiful marbles,

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splendid paintings, taste and refinement visible
everywhere.

Warrington stood silently watching the girl as
she took off her hat and carelessly tossed it on the
reading-table. The Russian sables were treated
with like indifference. The natural abundance of
her hair amazed him; and what a figure, so ele-
gant, rounded, and mature! The girl, without
noticing him, walked the length of the room and
back several times. Once or twice she made a
gesture. It was not addressed to him, but to some
conflict going on in her mind.

He sat down on the edge of a chair and fell to
twirling his hat, a sign that he was not perfectly
at his ease.

“T am wondering where I shall begin,” she said.

Warrington turned down his coat-collar, and
the action seemed to relieve him of the sense of
awkwardness.

“Luxury !’ she began, with a sweep of her hand
which was full of majesty and despair. “Why
have I chosen you out of all the thousands? Why
should I believe that my story would interest you?
Well, little as I have seen of the world, I have
learned that woman does not go to woman in
cases such as mine is.” And then pathetically: “I

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know no woman to whom I might go. Women
are like daws; their sympathy comes but to peck.
Do you know what it is to be alone ina city? The
desert is not loneliness; it is only solitude. True
loneliness is to be found only in great communi-
ties. To be without a single friend or confidant,
when thousand of beings move about you; to pour
your sorrows into cold, unfeeling ears; to seek
sympathy in blind eyes—that is loneliness. That
is the loneliness that causes the heart to break.”’

Warrington’s eyes never left hers; he was fas-
cinated.

“Luxury!” she repeated bitterly. “Surrounding
me with all a woman might desire—paintings that
charm the eye, books that charm the mind, music
that charms the ear. Money!”

“Philosophy in a girl!’ thought Warrington.
His hat became motionless.

“Tt is all a lie, a lie!” The girl struck her hands
together, impotent in her wrath.

It was done so naturally that Warrington, al-
ways the dramatist, made a mental note of the
gesture.

“T was educated in Paris and Berlin; my mu-
sical education was completed in Dresden. Like

all young girls with music-loving souls, I was
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something of a poet. I saw the beautiful in every-
thing; sometimes the beauty existed only in my
imagination. I dreamed; I was happy. I was told
that I possessed a voice such as is given to few.
I sang before the Emperor of Austria at a private
musicale, He complimented me. The future was
bright indeed. Think of it; at twenty I retained
all my illusions! I am now twenty-three, and not
a single illusion is left. I saw but little of my
father and mother, which is not unusual with
children of wealthy parents. The first shock that
came to my knowledge was the news that my
mother had ceased to live with my father. I was
recalled. There were no explanations. My father
met me at the boat. He greeted my effusive ca-
resses—caresses that I had saved for years !—with
careless indifference. This was the second shock.
What did it all mean? Where was my mother?
My father did not reply. When I reached home I
found that all the servants I had known in my
childhood days were gone. From the new ones I
knew that I should learn nothing of the mystery
which, like a pall, had suddenly settled down upon
me.”

She paused, her arms hanging listless at her
sides, her gaze riveted upon a pattern in the rug

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at her feet. Warrington sat like a man of stone;
her voice had cast a spell upon him.

“I do not know why I tell you these things. It
may weary you. I do not care. Madness lay in
silence. I had to tell some one. This morning I
found out all, My mother left my father because
he was . . . a thief!”

“A thief!” fell mechanically from Warrington’s
lips.

“A thief, bold, unscrupulous; not the petty
burglar, no. A man who has stolen funds in-
trusted to him for years; a man who has plun-
dered the orphan and the widow, the most despic-
able of all men. My mother died of shame, and I
knew nothing. My father left last night for
South America, taking with him all the available
funds, leaving me a curt note of explanation. I
have neither money, fricuds, nor home. The
newspapers as yet know nothing; but to-morrow,
to-morrow! The banks have seized everything.”

She continued her story. Sometimes she was
superb in her wrath; at others, abject in her mis-
ery. She seemed to pass through the whole
gamut of the passions.

And all this while it ran through Warrington’s
head—‘‘What a theme for a play! What a voice!”

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He pitied the girl from the bottom of his heart;
but what could he do for her other than offer her
cold sympathy? He was ill at ease in the face of
this peculiar tragedy.

All at once the girl stopped and faced him.
There was a smile on her lips, a smile that might
be likened to a flash of sunlight on a wintry day.
Directly the smile melted into a laugh, mellow,
mischievous, reverberating.

Warrington sat up stiffly in his chair.

“T beg your pardon!” he said.

The girl sat down before a small writing-table.
She reached among some papers and finally found
what she sought.

“Mr. Warrington, all this has been in very bad
taste; I frankly confess it. There are two things
you may do: leave the house in anger, or remain
to forgive me this imposition.”

“T fail to understand.” He was not only an-
gered, but bewildered.

“T have deceived you.”

“You mean that you have lured me here by a
trick? That you have played upon my sympathies
to sratify . . .”

“Wait a moment,” she interrupted proudly, her
cheeks darkening richly. “A trick, it is true; but

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there are extenuating circumstances. What I have
told you has happened, only it was not to-day nor
yesterday. Please remain seated till I have done.
I am poor; I was educated in the cities I have
named ; I have to earn my living.”

She rose and came over to his chair. She gave
him a letter.

“Read this; you will fully understand.”

Warrington experienced a mild chill as he saw
a letter addressed to him, and his rude scribble at
the bottom of it.

Miss CHALLONER—I beg to state that I have nei-
ther the time nor the inclination to bother with
amateur actresses. RIcHARD WARRINGTON.

“Tt was scarcely polite, was it?” she asked, with
a tinge of irony. “It was scarcely diplomatic,
either, you will admit. I simply asked you for
work. Surely, an honest effort to obtain employ-
ment ought not to be met with insolence.”

He stared dumbly at the evidence in his hand.
He recalled distinctly the rage that was in his
heart when he penned this note. The stage man-
ager had lost some valuable manuscript that had
to be rewritten from memory, the notes having
been destroyed.

“For weeks,” said the girl, “I have tried to get

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a hearing. Manager after manager I sought; all
refused to see me. I have suffered a hundred af-
fronts, all in silence. Your manager I saw, but he
referred me to you, knowing that probably I
should never find you. But I was determined. So
I wrote; that was your answer. I confess that at
the time I was terribly angry, for courtesy is a
simple thing and within reach of every one.”

To receive a lesson in manners from a young
woman, when that young woman is handsome and
talented, is not a very pleasant experience. But
Warrington was a thorough gentleman, and he
submitted with grace.

“T know that you are a busy man, that you are
besieged with applications. You ought, at least,
to have formal slips, such as editors have. I have
confidence in my ability to act, the confidence
which talent gives to all persons. After receiving
your letter I was more than ever determined to
see you. So I resorted to this subterfuge. It was
all very distasteful to me; but I possess a vein of
wilfulness. This is not my home. It is the home
of a friend who was kind enough to turn it over
to me this night, relying upon my wit to bring
about this meeting.”

“Tt was neatly done,” was Warrington’s com-

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ment. He was not angry now at all. In fact, the
girl interested him tremendously. “I am rather
curious to learn how you went about it.”

“You are not angry?”

“T was.”

This seemed to satisfy her.

“Well, first I learned where you were in the
habit of dining. All day long a messenger has
been following you. A telephone brought me to
the restaurant. The rest you know. It was
simple.”

“Very simple,” laconically.

“You listened and believed. I have been watch-
ing you. You believed everything I have told you.
You have even been calculating how this scene
might go in a play. Have I convinced you that I
have the ability to act?”

Warrington folded the letter and balanced it on
his palm.

“You have fooled me completely ; that ought to
be sufficient recommendation.”

“Thank you.” But her eyes were eager with
anxiety.

“Miss Challoner, I apologize for this letter. I
do more than that. I promise not to leave this
house till you agree to call at the theater at ten

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to-morrow morning.” He was smiling, and War-
rington had a pleasant smile. He had an idea
besides. “Good fortune put it into my head to
follow you here. I see it all now, quite plainly. I
am in a peculiar difficulty, and I honestly believe
that you can help me out of it. How long would
it take you to learn a leading part? In fact, the
principal part?”

“A week.”

“Have you had any experience?”

“A short season out west in a stock company.”

“Good!”

“And I love work.”

“Do not build any great hopes,” he warned,
“for your chance depends upon the whim of an-
other woman. But you have my word and my
good offices that something shall be put in your
way. You will come at ten?” drawing on his
gloves.

“Promptly.”

“T believe that we both have been wise to-night ;
though it is true that a man dislikes being a fool
and having it made manifest.”

“And how about the woman scorned ?” with an
enchanting smile.

“Tt is kismet,” he acknowledged.

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CHAPTER II

Warrington laid down his pen, brushed his
smarting eyes, lighted his pipe, and tilted back
his chair. With his hands clasped behind his head,
he fell into a waking dream, that familiar pastime
of the creative mind. It was half after nine, and
he had been writing steadily since seven. The
scenario was done; the villain had lighted his last
cigarette, the hero had put his arms protectingly
around the heroine, and the irascible rich uncle
had been brought to terms. All this, of course,
figuratively speaking ; for no one ever knew what
the plot of that particular play was, insomuch as
Warrington never submitted the scenario to his
manager, an act which caused almost a serious
rupture between them. But to-night his puppets
were moving hither and thither across the stage,
pulsing with life; they were making entrances and
exits; developing this climax and that; with wit
and satire, humor and pathos. It was all very real
to the dreamer.

The manuscript lay scattered about the top of

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his broad flat desk, and the floor beside the waste-
basket was flaked with the remains of various
futile lines and epigrams. The ash-pan was littered
with burnt matches, ends of cigars and pipe tobac-
ca, while the ash-crumbs speckled all dark objects,
not excepting the green rug under his feet. War-
rington smoked incessantly while at work, now a
cigarette, now a cigar, now a pipe. Specialists de-
clare with cold authoritative positiveness that the
use of tobacco blunts the thought, dulls the edge
of invention; but Warrington knew better.
Many a night he had thrown his coat over his
smoking-jacket and dashed down the street to the
corner drug-store for a fresh supply of tobacco.
He simply could not work without it. I do not
know that he saw his heroes and heroines any
plainer for the smoke; but I do know that when
their creator held a cigar between his teeth, they
frowned less, and the spirit of malice and irony,
of which he was master, became subdued.
Warrington was thirty-five now. The grey hair
at the temples and the freshness of his complexion
gave him a singularly youthful appearance. His
mouth was even-lipped and rather pleasure-loving,
which, without the balance of a strong nose,
would have appealed to you as effeminate. War-

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rington’s was what the wise phrenologists call the
fighting nose; not pugnacious, but the nose of a
man who will fight for what he believes to be
right, fight bitterly and fearlessly. To-day he was
famous, but only yesterday he had been fighting,
retreating, throwing up this redoubt, digging this
trench; fighting, fighting. Poverty, ignorance and
contempt he fought; fought dishonesty, and vice,
and treachery, and discouragement.

Presently he leaned toward the desk and picked
up a letter. He read it thoughtfully, and his
brows drew together. A smile, whimsically sad,
stirred his lips, and was gone. It was written by a
girl or a very young woman. There was no signa-
ture, no address, no veiled request for an auto-
graph. It was one of those letters which bring to
the novelist or dramatist, or any man of talent, a
real and singular pleasure. It is precious because
honest and devoid of the tawdry gilt of flattery.

RicHarD WaARRINGTON—You will smile, I know,
when you read this letter, doubtless so many like it
are mailed to you day by day. You will toss it into
the waste-basket, too, as it deserves to be. But it
had to be written. However, I feel that I am not
writing to a mere stranger, but to a friend whom I
know well. Three times you have entered into my
life, and on each occasion you have come by a dif-
ferent avenue. I was ill at school when you first

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appeared to me. It was a poem in a magazine. It
was so full of the spirit of joyousness, so full of
kindliness, so rich in faith and hope, that I cried
over it, cut it out and treasured it, and re-read it
often in the lonely hours when things discouraged
me,—things which mean so little to women but so
much to girls. Two years went by, and then came
that brave book! It was like coming across a half-
forgotten friend. I actually ran home with it, and
sat up all night to complete it. It was splendid.
It was the poem matured, broadened, rounded.
And finally your first play! How I listened to ev-
ery word, watched every move! I wrote you a
letter that night, but tore it up, not having the
courage to send it to you. How versatile you
must be: a poem, a book, a play! I have seen all
your plays these five years, plays merry and gay,
sad and grave. How many times you have mys-
teriously told me to be brave! I envy and ad-
mire you. What an exquisite thing it must be
to hear one’s thoughts spoken across the foot-
lights! Please do not laugh. It would hurt me to
know that you could laugh at my honest admira-
tion. You won’t laugh, will you? I am sure you
will value this letter for its honesty rather than for
its literary quality. I have often wondered what
you were like. But after all, that can not matter,
since you are good and kind and wise; for you can
not be else, and write the lofty things you do.

Warrington put the letter away, placed it care-
fully among the few things he held of value. It
would not be true to say that it left him unaf-
fected. There was an innocent barb in this girlish

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admiration, and it pierced the quick of all that was
good in him.

“Good and kind and wise,” he mused. “If only
the child knew! Heigh-ho! I am kind, sometimes
I’ve been good, and often wise. Well, I can’t dis-
illusion the child, happily; she has given me no
address.”

He rose, wheeled his chair to a window facing
the street, and opened it. The cool fresh April
air rushed in, clearing the room of its opalescent
clouds, cleansing his brain of the fever that beset
it. He leaned with his elbows on the sill and
breathed noisily, gratefully. Above, heaven had
decked her broad bosom with her flickering stars,
and from the million lamps of the great city rose
and floated a tarnished yellow haze. So many
sounds go forth to make the voices of the night:
somewhere a child was crying fretfully, across the
way the faint tinkle of a piano, the far-off rattle
of the elevated, a muffled laugh from a window
above, the rat-tat of a cab-horse, the breeze in the
ivy clinging to the walls of the church next door,
the quarrelsome chirp of the sleepy sparrows; and
then, recurrence. Only the poet or the man in
pain opens his ears to these sounds.

Over on Broadway a child of his fertile brain

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was holding the rapt attention of several hundred
men and women; and across the broad land that
night four other dramas were being successfully
acted. People were discussing his theories, de-
nouncing or approving his conception of life. The
struggle was past, his royalties were making him
rich. And here he was this night, drinking the
cup of bitterness, of unhappiness, the astringent
draft of things that might and should have been.
The coveted grape was sour, the desired apple was
withered. Those who traverse the road with Folly
as boon companion find only emptiness.

And so it was with Warrington. He had once
been good, wholly good and kind and wise, lofty
as a rural poet who has seen nothing of life save
nature’s pure and visible face. In the heat of
battle he had been strong, but success had subtly
eaten into the fibers and loosed his hold, and had
swept him onward into that whirlpool out of
which no man emerges wholly undefiled. It takes
a great and strong man to withstand success, and
Warrington was only a genius. It was not from
lack of will power; rather it was because he was
easy-going and loved pleasure for its own sake.
He had fought and starved,and now for the jingle
of the guinea in his pocket and the junkets of the

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gay! The prodigality of these creative beings is
not fully understood by the laity, else they would
forgive more readily the transgressions. Besides,
the harbor of family ties is a man’s moral bul-
wark; and Warrington drifted hither and thither
with no harbor in view at all.

He had been an orphan since his birth ; a mother
meant simply a giver of life, and a father meant
even less. Until he had read the reverse and
obverse sides of life, his sense of morality had lain
dormant and untilled. Such was his misfortune.
The solitary relative he laid claim to was an aged
aunt, his father’s sister. For her he had purchased
a beautiful place in the town of his birth, vaguely
intending to live out his old age there.

There had been a fight for all he possessed.
Good had not come easily, as it does to some par-
ticularly favored mortals. There was no family
aristocracy to back him up, no melancholy recol-
lections of past grandeur to add the interest of
romance to his endeavors. His father had been a
poor man of the people, a farmer. And yet War-
rington was by no means plebeian. Somewhere
there was a fine strain. It had been a fierce
struggle to complete a college education. In
the summer-time he had turned his hand to all

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sorts of things to pay his winter’s tuition. He had
worked as clerk in summer hotels, as a surveyor’s
assistant in laying street-railways, he had played
at private secretary, he had hawked vegetables
about the streets at dawn. Happily, he had no
false pride. Chance moves quite as mysteriously
as the tides. On leaving college he had secured a
minor position on one of the daily newspapers,
and had doggedly worked his way up to the cov-
eted position of star-reporter. Here the latent
power of the story-teller, the poet and the dram-
atist was awakened ; in any other pursuit the talent
would have quietly died, as it has died in the
breasts of thousands who, singularly enough, have
not stood in the path of Chance.

Socially, Warrington was one of the many no-
bodies; and if he ever attended dinners and ban-
quets and balls, it was in the capacity of reporter.
But his cynical humor, which was manifest even
in his youth, saved him the rancor and envy which
is the portion of the outsider.

At length the great city called him, and the
lure was strong. He answered, and the long
battle was on. Sometimes he dined, sometimes he
slept ; for there’s an old Italian saying that he who
sleeps dines. He drifted from one paper to an-

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other, lived in prosperity one week and in poverty
the next; haggled with pawnbrokers and land-
ladies, and borrowed money and lent it. He never
saved anything; the dreamer never does. Then
one day the end came to the long lane, as it always
does to those who keep on. A book was accepted
and published ; and then followed the first play.
By and by, when his name began to figure in the
dramatic news items, and home visitors in New
York returned to boast about the Warrington
“first nights,” the up-state city woke and began
to recollect things—what promise Warrington
had shown in his youth, how clever he was, and
all that. Nothing succeeds like success, and no-
body is so interesting as the prophet who has
shaken the dust of his own country and found
honor in another. Human nature can’t help itself :
the women talked of his plays in the reading-clubs,
the men speculated on the backs of envelopes what
his royalties were, and the newspaper that had
given him a bread-and-butter pittance for a man’s
work proudly took it upon itself to say that its
columns had fostered the genius in the growing.
This was not because the editors were really proud
of their townsman’s success; rather it was because
it made a neat little advertisement of their own

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particular foresight, such as it was. In fact, in his
own town (because he had refused to live in it!)
Warrington was a lion of no small dimensions.

Warrington’s novel (the only one he ever
wrote) was known to few. To tell the truth,
the very critics that were now praising the dram-
atist had slashed the novelist cruelly. And thereby
hangs a tale. A New York theatrical manager
sent for Warrington one day and told him that
he had read the book, and if the author would
attempt a dramatic version, the manager would
give it a fair chance. Warrington, the bitterness
of failure in his soul, undertook the work, and
succeeded. Praise would have made an indifferent
novelist of him, for he was a born dramatist.

Regularly each year he visited his birthplace
for a day or so, to pay in person his taxes. For all
that he labored in New York, he still retained his
right to vote in his native town,

A sudden desire seized him to-night to return
to his home, to become a citizen in fact and deed.
It was now the time of year when the spring tor-
rents flood the lowlands, when the melting snows
trickle down the bleak hillsides, when the dead
hand of winter lies upon the bosom of awakening

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spring, and the seed is in travail. Heigh-ho! the
world went very well in the springs of old; care
was in bondage, and all the many gateways to the
heart were bastioned and sentineled.

“Sir, a lady wishes to see you.”

Warrington turned. His valet stood respect-
fully in the doorway.

“The name?’ Warrington rose impatiently.
Nobody likes to have his dreams disturbed.

“Miss Challoner, sir.”

“Challoner!” in surprise; “and this time of
night?” He stroked his chin. A moment passed.
Not that he hesitated to admit her; rather he
wished to make a final analysis of his heart before
his eyes fell down to worship her beauty. “Admit
her at once.” He brushed the ashes from his
jacket and smoothed his hair. The valet disap-
peared. “If I only loved the woman, loved her
honestly, boldly, fearlessly, what a difference it
would make! I don’t love her, and I realize that
T never did. She never touched my heart, only my
eye and mind. I may be incapable of loving any
one; perhaps that’s it. But what can have pos-
sessed her to leave the theater this time of night ?”

A swish of petticoats, a rush of cool air with
which mingled an indefinable perfume, and, like a

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' bird taking momentary rest in the passage, she
stood poised on the threshold. A beautiful woman
is a tangible enchantment; and fame and fortune
had made Katherine Challoner beautiful, roguish-
ly, daringly, puzzlingly beautiful. Her eyes
sparkled like stars on ruffled waters, the flame of
health and life burned in her cheeks, and the moist
red mobile mouth expressed emotions so rapidly
and irregularly as to bewilder the man who at-
tempted to follow them. Ah, but she could act;
comedy or tragedy, it mattered not; she was al-
ways superb.

There was a tableau of short duration. Her
expression was one of gentle inquiry, his was
one of interest not unmixed with fascination.
He felt a quick touch of compassion, of embar-
rassment. There had been times when yonder
woman had seemed to show him the preference
that is given only to men who are loved. Even as
the thought came to him, he prayed that it was
only his man’s vanity that imagined it. As he
stared at her, there came the old thrill: beauty is
a power tremendous,

“Dick, you do not say you are glad to see me.”

“Beauty striketh the sage dumb,” he laughed.
“What good fortune brings you here to-night?

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What has happened? How could you find time
between the acts to run over?”

“I am not acting to-night.”

“What?”

“No. Nor shall I be to-morrow night, nor the
thousand nights that shall follow.”

“Why, girl!” he cried, pushing out a chair. He
had not seen her for two weeks. He had known
nothing of her movements, save that her splendid
talents had saved a play from utter ruin. Her
declaration was like a thunderbolt. “Explain!”

“Well, I am tired, Dick; I am tired.” She sat
down, and her gaze roved about the familiar room
with a veiled affection for everything she saw.
“The world is empty. I have begun to hate the
fools who applaud me. I hate the evil smells which
hang about the theater. I hate the overture arid
the man with the drums,” whimsically.

“What’s he done to you?”

“Nothing, only he makes more noise than the
others. I’m tired. It is not a definite reason; but
a wom n is never obliged to be definite.’

“No; I never could understand you, even when
you took the trouble to explain things.”

“Yes, I know.” She drew off her gloves and
rubbed her fingers, which were damp and cold.

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“But, surely, this is only a whim. You can’t
seriously mean to give up the stage when the
whole world is watching you!”

She did not answer him, but continued to rub
her fingers. She wore several rings, among which
was a brilliant of unusual luster. Warrington,
however, had eyes for nothing but her face. For
the past six months he had noted a subtle change
in her, a growing reserve, a thoughtfulness that
was slowly veiling or subduing her natural gaiety.
She now evaded him when he suggested one of
their old romps in queer little restaurants; she
professed illness when he sent for her to join him
in some harmless junketing. She was slowly slip-
ping away from him; no, drifting, since he made
no real effort to hold her. And why had he made
no real effort? Sometimes he thought he could
answer this question, and then again he knew that
he could not. Ah, if he only loved her! What a
helpmeet: cheerful, resourceful, full of good hu-
mor and practical philosophy, a brilliant wit, with
all the finished graces of a goddess. Ah, if indeed
he only loved her! This thought kept running
through his mind persistently; it had done so for
days; but it had always led him back to the start-
ing point. Love is not always reasoning with

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itself. Perhaps—and the thought filled him with
regret—perhaps he was indeed incapable of lov-
ing any one as his poet’s fancy believed he ought
to love. And this may account for the truth of the
statement that genius is rarely successful in love;
the ideal is so high that it is out of the reach of
life as we, genius or clod, live it.

“TIsn’t this determination rather sudden?’ he
asked, when the pause grew insupportable.

“T have been thinking of it for some time,’’ she
replied, smiling. A woman always finds herself
at ease during such crises. ‘Only, I hadn’t exactly
made up my mind. You were at work?” glancing
at the desk.

“Yes, but I’m through for the night. It’s only
a scenario, and I am not entirely satisfied with it.”

She walked over to the desk and picked up a
sheet at random. She was a privileged person in
these rooms, Warrington never had any nervous
dread when she touched his manuscript.

“How is it going to end?” she asked.

“Oh, they are going to marry and be happy ever
after,” he answered, smiling.

“Ah; then they are never going to have any
children?” she said, with a flash of her old-time
mischief,

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“Will you have a cigarette?’ lighting one and
offering her the box.

“No; I have a horror of cigarettes since that
last play. To smoke in public every night, per-
force, took away the charm. I hated that part. An
adventuress! It was altogether too close to the
quick; for I am nothing more or less than an
adventuress who has been successful. Why, the
very method I used to make your acquaintance—
years and years ago, wasn’t it ?—proved the spirit.
“We hate two kinds of people,’ she read, taking
up another page of manuscript; “ ‘the people we
wrong and the people who wrong us. Only, the
hate for those we have wronged is most endur-
ing.’ That isn’t half bad, Dick. How do you think
of all these things ?”

She crossed over to the window to cool her hot
face. She, too, heard the voices of the night; not
as the poet hears them, but as one in pain. “He
never loved me!” she murmured, so softly that
even the sparrows in the vine heard her not. And
bitter indeed was the pain. But of what use to
struggle, or to sigh, or vainly to regret? As things
are written, so must they be read. She readily
held him guiltless ; what she regretted most deeply
was the lack of power to have him and to hold

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him. Long before, she had realized the hopeless-
ness of it all. Knowing that he drank from the
cup of dissipation, she had even sought to hold
him in contempt; but to her he had never ceased
to be a gentleman, tender, manly and kind. It is
contempt that casts the first spadeful in the grave
of love.

“Come, girl,” he said, going to her side; “you
have something to tell me. What is it?”

She turned to find his hand outstretched and a
friendly look in his eyes. Impulsively she gave
him both her hands. He bowed over them with
the grave air of the days of powdered wigs.
There was not a particle of irony in the move-
ment; rather it was a quiet acknowledgment that
he recollected the good influence she had at times
worked upon him in some dark days. As he
brushed her fingers with his lips, he saw. His head
came up quickly.

“Ah!”

“Yes.” Her voice was steady and her eyes were
brave.

He drew her to the lamp and studied the ring.
The ruddy lights dartled as he slowly turned the
jewel around.

“Tt is a beauty. No one but a rich man could

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have given a ring like that. And on your finger it
means but one thing.”

“T am to be married in June.”

“Do you love him?”

“T respect him; he is noble and good and kind.”

Warrington did not press the question. He still
retained the hand, though he no longer gazed at
the ring.

“I have always wanted a home. The stage
never really fascinated me; it was bread and
butter.”

“Ts it necessary to marry in order to have a
home?’ he asked quietly, letting the hand gently
slide from his. “You are wealthy, after a fashion;
could you not build a home of your own?”

“Always to be identified as the actress? To be
looked at curiously, to be annoyed by those who
are not my equals, and only tolerated by those
who are? No! I want a man who will protect me
from all these things, who will help me to forget
some needless follies and the memory that a hun-
dred different men have made play-love to me on
the other side of the footlights.”

“Some men marry actresses to gratify their
vanity ; does this man love you?”

“Yes; and he will make me what Heaven in-

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tended I should be-—a woman. Oh, I have uttered
no deceit. This man will take me for what I am.”

“And you have come here to-night to ask me
to forget, too?’ There was no bitterness in his
tone, but there was a strong leaven of regret.
“Well, I promise to forget.”

“Tt was not necessary to ask you that,” gener-
ously. “But I thought I would come to you and
tell you everything. I did not wish you to mis-
judge me. For the world will say that I am mar-
rying this good man for his money; whereas, if
he was a man of the most moderate circumstances,
I should still marry him.”

“And who might this lucky man be? To win a
woman, such as I know you to be, this man must
have some extraordinary attributes.” And all at
once a sense of infinite relief entered into his
heart : if she were indeed married, there would no
longer be that tantalizing doubt on his part, that
peculiar attraction which at one time resembled
love and at another time was simply fascination.
She would pass out of his life definitely. He per-
fectly recognized the fact that he admired her
above all other women he knew; but it was also
apparent that to see her day by day, year by year,
his partner in the commonplaces as well as in the

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heights, romance would become threadbare quick-
ly enough. “Who is he?” he repeated.

“That I prefer not to disclose to you just yet.
What are you going to call your new play?” with
a wave of her hand toward the manuscript.

“I had intended to call it Love and Money, but
the very name presages failure.”

“Yes, it needs the cement of compatibility to
keep the two together.”

“Well, from my heart I wish you all the best
luck in the world,” he said, the absence of any
mental reservation in his eyes. “You would
make any man a good wife. If I weren’t a born
fool—”

She leaned toward him, her face suddenly tense
and eager.

“__if I weren’t a born fool,” with a smile that
was whimsical, “I’d have married you myself,
long ago. But fate has cut me out for a bachelor.”
He knocked the ash from a cold pipe, filled and
lighted it. “By the way,” he said, “I received a
curious letter to-day.’ Its production would re-
lieve the awkwardness of the moment. “Would
you like to see it?” opening the drawer and hand-
ing the letter to her. “It’s one of the few letters
of the sort I’m going to keep.”

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She accepted the letter, but without any spirit
of interest. For a moment a thought had all but
swept her off her feet; yet she realized instantly
that this thought was futile. Warrington did not
love her; and there was nothing to do but to fol-
low out the course she had planned. She had come
to him that night with a single purpose in mind:
to plumb the very heart of this man who was an
enigma to every woman he met. She had plumbed
it. Warrington loved nobody but Warrington
and pleasure. Oh, he was capable of the grand
passion, she very well knew, but the woman to
arouse it had not yet crossed his path.

“What do you think of it?” he asked.

She came closer to the lamp. It was only pre-
tense, but Warrington was not aware of it. She
had stared at the sheet, reading only her miserable
thoughts. Presently she smiled; the girlish ex-
uberance amused her.

“She has put you quite out of reach. What a
fine thing it must be to have such faith in any
man!’

“And I’m not worth in her esteem an ounce to
the pound.” He was quite frank with himself. “T
would to Heaven J were!”

“And this is the kind of woman that you will

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fall violently in love with, some day, Dick. It will
be your punishment.”” She had fully recovered by
now, and the old-time raillery was in the as-
cendant. “Oh, she has read you fairly well. You
are good and kind and wise, but these virtues are
not of equal weight. Your goodness and wisdom
will never catch up with your abundant kindness.
I’ve a good deal to thank you for, Dick; a good
deal.”

“Nonsense! The shoe is on the other foot. You
have made half my plays what they are to-day.”
He rang and ordered some coffee.

She dropped into his desk-chair and propped her
chin in her palms, viewing him through half-
closed, speculative eyes.

“We've had some jolly larks together,” he said.
“I shall miss you; how much I shall know only
when you are gone. Is he good-looking?”

“Very. He is tall and straight, with a manly
face, fine eyes, and a good nose. You know that
I’m always particular about a man’s nose.”

“And young, of course?” not without some
feeling of jealousy.

“And young.”

“Tell me all about him,” drawing up a chair and
facing her.

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“He is a lucky chap,” he summed up when she
had done.

“That remains to be seen,” lightly. “I may
prove the worst wife possible. Perhaps, when I
have burned my bridges, I shall be mad for the
very publicity I’m trying to escape. Women are
like extinct volcanos; they are most to be dreaded
when written perfectly harmless.”

Warrington shook his head and laughed. Here
the coffee came in. He dismissed his man, and
poured the nectar himself.

“You are the one man I know who never asks
to sweeten my coffee,” she observed.

“And yet I had to learn. You haven’t taught
this other fellow yet, I see. Is he warranted house-
broken, or will he have to be chained ?”

“He will not have to be chained; and a man who
is a recluse seldom has to be broken in.”

“A recluse? What’s his hobby: butterflies,
stones, stamps, or coins ?—No, girl; I don’t mean
that. I’m a little heavy to-night. Do you recollect
the night you donned a suit of mine, bundled your
hair under a felt hat, and visited the studios?
What a romp! Nota soul ever found out who you
were; and if I hadn’t been in the secret, I shouldn’t
have known, either. I shall never forget how

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funny Dolman looked when he started a certain
popular story of his and you shut him up. ‘Gentle-
men,’ you said, ‘neither listen to, nor repeat that
kind of story in the presence of ladies.’ ‘Ladies?’
cried Dolman. ‘T see no ladies.’ ‘But there are
gentlemen,’ you added quickly. Later, Dolman
advised me not to bring any more of my Sunday-
school friends to his studio.”

The woman smiled, but the smile was only on
the lips. All those happy frolics were to be no
more. Heigh-ho! Over the mantel there were sev-
eral photographs of herself. Like all celebrities of
her kind, the camera was a constant source of
amusement. It was not necessarily vanity. The
rose is not vain, yet it repeats its singular beauty
as often as the seasons permit it. Across these pic-
tures she had scrawled numerous signatures,
“Kate” and “Kit” and “Kitty” and “Katherine
Challoner,” with here and there a phrase in French
and Italian.

“You wouldn’t return those under any circum-
stances ?”

“No, indeed! That’s all I’ll have. And besides,
you wouldn’t ask me to give them up?”

Her answer remained unspoken. The valet ap-
peared deferentially.

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“Well?” said Warrington.

“A gentleman to see you, sir. He said he
wouldn’t need any card. Mr. John Bennington,
sir.”

“John Bennington!’ Warrington sprang from
his chair, his face joyous. “Old John here to-
night! Finest chap on earth, Kate; my room-
mate at college, and the only chap in my town who
was my friend when I was a nobody. Old John

“Richard, you must hide me quickly. I mustn’t
be seen here. There is no way of passing him in
the hall.”

“Good Lord!” He did not notice her pallor.
“The butler’s pantry,” he said hastily.

She slipped out of sight noiselessly. Presently
she heard sounds, men’s voices, a hearty greeting,
and for a moment the world seemed gliding from
under her feet. Her gloves! She had forgotten
her gloves!

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CHAPTER III

Men have a way of greeting which is all their
own, It is unlike the kiss and flutter of women,
which may signify frankness or deceit, generosity
or selfishness, some favor to gain, some treachery
to forestall. Men’s likes and dislikes are gener-
ally visible. The dog wags his tail, or he warns
you away with a growl; there is no mistaking his
attitude. On the other hand, the cat purrs and
rubs against your leg, and when you reach down
to smooth her, as likely as not she gives you a dig
for your pains. True, there are always exceptions
to this rule.

With their hands on each other’s shoulders, ‘at
arm’s length they stood, a likely pair to look at,
smiling frankly and joyfully into each other’s
eyes. When it is without self-interest, friendship
between man and man is a fine and noble thing. It
is known ‘best in the stress of storms, in the hour
of sorrow and adversity. Friendship, to be per-
fect, must be without any sense of obligation, for

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obligation implies that one or the other is in debt,
and the debtor is always wondering when he will
have to pay. Between these two men only the
slightest favors had been exchanged. They had
grown up together, one the son of a rich steel-mill
owner, the other the son of a poor farmer. The
one had entered college to the sounding of golden
cymbals, the other had marched in with nothing
but courage in his pocket. It is impossible to de-
scribe how these great friendships come about;
generally they begin with some insignificant trifle,
soon forgotten. Warrington had licked Benning-
ton in the boyhood days; why, I doubt that the
Recording Angel himself remembers. So the
friendship began with secret admiration on one
side and good-natured toleration on the other. One
day Warrington broke a colt for Bennington, and
later Bennington found a passably good market
for Warrington’s vegetables. Friendship, like con-
stancy, finds strange niches. The Bennington fam-
ily were not very cordial to the young vegetable
grower. On the mother’s side there was a long
line of military ancestors. It is impossible that a
cabbage and a uniform should cohere. Warring-
ton’s great-grandsires had won honors in the Rev-
olution, but as this fact did not make cabbages
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grow any faster he kept the faded glory to him-
self.

In college the two lads were as inseparable as
La Mole and Coconnas; they played on the same
teams, rowed on the same crews and danced with
the same girls. The only material difference in
their respective talents lay in one thing: Benning-
ton could not write a respectable rhyme, and I’m
not sure that he wasn’t proud of it. It distin-
guished him from the other members of his class.
As for Warrington, there wasn’t a pretty girl in
the whole college town who couldn’t boast of one
or more of his impassioned stanzas. And you may
be sure that when Warrington became talked
about these self-same halting verses were dug up
from the garret and hung in sundry parlors.

Bennington was handsome, and, but for his
father’s blood, the idleness of his forebears would
have marked him with effeminateness. His head,
his face, the shape of his hands and feet, these
proclaimed the aristocrat. It was only in the eyes
and the broad shoulders that you recognized the
iron-monger’s breed. His eyes were as blue as his
own hammered steel ; but, like the eyes of the eagle
at peace, they were mild and dreamy and deceptive
to casual inspection. In the shops the men knew

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all about those eyes and shoulders. They had been
fooled once, but only once. They had felt the iron
in the velvet.

“I’m mighty glad to see you, boy,” said War-
rington, dropping his arms, “You haven’t changed
a bit.”

“Nor you, Dick; if anything you look younger.”

“How many years is it, John?”

“Six or seven; not very long.”

“Time never seems long to a man who never has
to wait for anything. I have had to reckon time
with hours full of suspense, and those hours have
aged me; perhaps not outwardly, but all the same,
I’m an old man, John.”

“Nonsense!”

“When did you cross?”

“About a year ago, when father died. I had
given up the English end of the concern two years
before, and was just wandering about the conti-
nent. I was dreadfully disappointed when I
learned that you had visited the shops in ninety-
eight. That summer I was in Switzerland. I had
no idea there was going to be war, and never saw
a newspaper till it was nearly over. I should have
enlisted. And another year we passed within two
days of each other.”

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“No!” Bennington exclaimed.

“Yes. It was in Italy, at Sorrento, that I learned
of your nearness. You were off for Amalfi and
I had just come from there. For three days I ran
across your name in the hotel registers. I tried to
find your permanent address, but failed. Cook’s
nor the bankers in Naples knew anything about
you. I tell you what, it was discouraging.”

“What luck! I was having all my mail sent di-
rect to Mentone, where I spent the winter. Say,
what do you think ?”’

“About what?”

“Won five thousand at Monte Carlo in one
play.”

“Pounds ?” exclaimed Bennington.

“Lord, no!—dollars.”

“Ah! But of course you went back and lost it?”
ironically.

“On the contrary, I’ve never staked a dollar
since. Gambling was never a habit of mine,
though I dare say the moral side of the subject
would not have held me back. Simply, I know
that the gambler always loses, and the banker al-
ways wins, in the end. Common sense told me to
quit, and I did, I brought my letter of credit home
practically intact.”

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“You used to play poker,” dubiously.

“Poker isn’t gambling. It’s surreptitiously lend-
ing money to your friends.”’

“You were always good at definitions,” sighed
Bennington.

“T understand you’ve sold your holdings in the
English shops?”

“Yes. I was weary of the people and what they
called their conservatism, which is only a phase of
stupidity. And then, besides, I loved the old home
up there. I’ve been living there about a year now.”

“Tt’s a pity you couldn’t have looked me up be-
fore this,” Warrington complained.

Bennington only laughed affectionately.

“Take a look around the room while I get the
whisky and soda.”

“Don't bother, Dick.”

“Boy, I licked you once, and I’ll do it again if
you don’t sit down. A little extra attention won’t
hurt; and I’ll guarantee the whisky.” Waving his
arms toward all the desirable things in the room,
he vanished beyond the curtain.

Bennington looked about leisurely. It was just
the kind of room he had always imagined; it was
like the man who occupied it. Simplicity and taste
abounded; the artist and the collector, the poet

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and the musician, were everywhere in evidence.
He strolled over to the mantel and took down one
of the pictures signed “Kate.” He smiled. It was
not an indulgent smile, nor the smile of a man who
has stumbled upon another man’s secret. The
smile was rather exultant. He leaned against the
mantel and studied the face in its varied expres-
sions. He nodded approvingly. It was a lovely
face; it was more than lovely,—it was tender and
strong. Presently he returned to his chair and sat
down, the photograph still in his hand. And in
this position Warrington found him.

“Ah, you sly dog!” he hailed, setting down the
glasses and pouring out a liberal bumper. “So I’ve
caught you? Well, you’re not the only man who
has been conquered by that very photograph.” He
had half a notion to go in and bring her out; but
then, women are such finicky beings!

Bennington laid aside the photograph, a certain
reverence in his action that in ordinary times
would not have escaped Warrington’s notice.

“What’s this to be?” asked Bennington, lifting
his glass and stirring the ice.

“Immer und immer, as the German has it,”
Warrington replied.

“For ever and ever, then!”

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And the two lightly touched glasses, with that
peculiar gravity which always accompanies such
occasions.

“When a man drinks your health in bad whis-
ky, look out for him; but this whisky is very
good, Dick.” Bennington set down his glass and
wiped his lips. “It is very good, indeed.”

“Well, how are things up in Herculaneum?”
asked Warrington. “You know, or ought to know,
that I get up there only once a year.”

“Things are not very well. There’s the devil to
pay in politics, and some day I may have a jolly
long strike on my hands,” grimly. “But I shall
know exactly what to do. That man McQuade
owns about all the town now. He controls con-
gressmen, state senators and assemblymen, and the
majority of the Common Council is his, body
and soul, Only recently he gave the traction com-
pany a new right of way. Not a penny went into
the city’s purse. And you know these street-rail-
ways; they never pay their taxes. A franchise
for ninety-nine years; think of it!”

“Why don’t you men wake up and oust Mc-
Quade? I'll tell you right here, Jack, you have no
one to blame but yourself. Scoundrels like Mc-

Quade are always in the minority ; but they remain
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in power simply because men like you think pol-
itics a dirty business and something for an honest
man to keep out of. Run for mayor yourself, if
you want clean politics. Rouse up an independent
party.”

“Do you know what they call me up there?”
Bennington laughed.

“T confess to ignorance.”

“Well, the newspapers say covertly that I’m all
but a naturalized Englishman, a snob, when I’m
only a recluse, a man who dresses every night for
dinner, who dines instead of eats. There are some
things it is impossible to understand, and one is
the interest the newspapers take in the private af-
fairs of men. If they jumped on me as a mill-
owner, there might be some excuse, but they are
always digging me on the private-citizen side.
Every man, in his own house, ought to be allowed
to do as he pleases. They never bothered the gov-
ernor any, when he was alive. I believe they were
afraid of him.”

“T can explain all that, my boy. Buy your
clothes of the local tailors; get rid of your valet;
forget that you have lived in England. They’ll
come around to you, then. You may talk as much
as you like about the friendliness between the Eng-

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lishman and the American. It is simply a case of
two masters who are determined that their dogs
shall be friendly. Let the masters drop out of sight
for a moment, and you will find the dogs at each
other’s throat. And the masters? The dollar on
this side and the sovereign on the other. There is
a good deal of friendship these days that is based
upon three and a half per cent. Get into politics,
my boy.”

“Bah! I’d look nice running for mayor,
wouldn’t I? The newspapers would howl calam-
ity, and the demagogues would preach that I
would soon impose English wages in the shops,
and all that tommyrot. No, thank you; I'll take
trouble as it comes, but I’m not looking for it.”

“T see that I shall have to go back there and
start the ball myself,” said Warrington, jesting.

“Why don’t you? You are not a rank outsider,
The people are proud of you.”

“And always will be, so long as I have sense
enough to remain here in New York,” dryly. “But
ifI livedthere . . . !”

“You are not always going to live in New
York?”

“Not always.”

“You've a beautiful old home up there.”

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“I bought that just to show the people I had
the money,” laughing. “They may never forget
my cabbages, but they’ll forgive them.”

“Nevertheless, you ought to return.”

“Listen,” said Warrington, lifting his hand.
They became silent, and presently the voice of the
city came into the room. “I’m afraid I could not
live away from that. How many times have I
stopped work to listen to it! How many inspira-
tions have I drawn from it! It is the siren’s music,
I know, but I am no longer afraid of the reefs.
Perhaps I have become enamored with noise; it is
quite possible.”

“T have lived in London. I thought it was go-
ing to be hard to break away, but it wasn’t.”

They lighted cigars, and Bennington took up
the photograph again.

“A lovely face,” was his comment.

“With a heart and a mind even more lovely,”
supplemented Warrington. “She is one of the
most brilliant women I have ever met, and what is
more, humorous and good-humored. My word
for it, she may have equals, but she has no supe-
riors on this side of the ocean.”

Bennington looked up sharply.

“Nothing serious?” he asked gently.

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“Serious? No. We are capital friends, but
nothing more. There’s been too much comrade-
ship to admit anything like sentimentality. Ah,
boy, you should see her act!”

“T have. I saw her in London last season. She
was playing your War of Women. She ap-
peared to me enchanting. But about these ac-
tresses =

“T know, I know,” interrupted Warrington.
“Some of them are bad, but some of them are the
noblest creatures God ever put on earth; and yon-
der is one of them. I remember. Often we were
both in debt; plays went wrong; sometimes I
helped her out, sometimes she returned the favor.
We were more like two men. Without her help I
shouldn’t be where I am to-day. I always read
the scenario of a play to her first; and often we’ve
worked together half a night on one scene. I shall
miss her.”

“What! Is she going away?”

“After a fashion. She has retired from the
stage.”

“Do you believe she means it?” asked Ben-
nington. “You know how changeable actresses’
moods are.”

“TI think Miss Challoner will never act again.
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She has always been an enigma to the majority of
the show people. Never any trumpets, jewelry,
petty squabbles, lime-lights, and silks; she never
read criticisms, save those I sent her. Managers
had to knock on her dressing-room door. Oh, I
do not say that she is an absolute paragon, but I
do say that she is a good woman, of high ideals,
loyal, generous, frank, and honest. And I have
often wondered why the devil I couldn’t fall in
love with her myself,” moodily.

Bennington was silent for a moment. Finally
he said: “How does it feel to be famous, to have
plays produced simultaneously in New York and
London ?”

“After the first success there is never anything
but hard work. A failure once in a while acts like
a tonic. And sometimes we get an anonymous let-
ter that refreshes us—a real admirer, who writes
from the heart and doesn’t fish for a letter or an
autograph in return. I received one of these only
a few days ago, and I want you to read it.”” War-
rington produced the missive and tossed it into
Bennington’s hands. ‘‘Read that. It’s worth while
to get a letter like that one.”

Bennington took up the letter, smiling at his
friend’s enthusiasm. A single glance at the grace-

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ful script, however, changed his expression. He
sat back and stared at Warrington.

“What’s the matter ?”

Bennington did not answer, but settled down
to his task, reading carefully and slowly. He did
not look for any signature, for he knew there
would be none. He returned the letter, his face
sober, but his eyes dancing.

“Now, what the deuce do you see that is so
amusing ?”

“Oh, nothing.”

“Don’t tell me there isn’t any romance in the
world. But, hang it, Jack, I’m not worth a letter
like that,” earnestly.

“Of course not.”

“T’m not jesting. I’ve sown wild oats, and God
knows what the harvest will be. There’s a law that
exacts payment. Retribution is the only certain
thing in this world.”

“Oh, you’re no worse than the average man.
But the average man is jolly bad,” Bennington
added gravely. “But you, Dick; I’m not worrying
about you. Perhaps the writer of that letter sees
good in you that you can’t see yourself; good that
is in you but of which you are unconscious. One
thing, you have never besmirched the talents God

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gave you. Everything you have done has been
clean and wholesome—like yourself.”

“I wish I could believe that! But I’ve had no
ties, Jack, none. You can’t keep to a course with-
out a compass. The real good in life, the good that
makes life worth while, is the toil for those you
love. I love nobody, not even myself. But this
girl rather woke me up. I began to look inward,
as they say. So far I’ve not discovered much good.
I’d give a good deal to meet this writer.”

“Doubtless you will find her charming.”

Suddenly Warrington turned upon his friend.
“But what I want to know is, what brought you
around here this time o’ night? I never knew you
to do anything without a definite purpose.”

“That's precisely what I’ve been waiting for
you to lead up to. The truth is—’ Benning-
ton hesitated. His hand, idly trailing over the
desk, came into contact with something smooth
and soft. It was a pair of white kid gloves, a wom-
an’s. Absently he drew them through his hand.
He was only half conscious of his action, and he
did not observe Warrington’s sudden agitation.
“The truth is, I’ve gone and done it. I’m going
to be married in June, and I want you to be my

best man.”
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Warrington’s hand went out impulsively.

“Oh, I felt it in my bones when your card came
in,” he said, rearranging the glasses. “Lucky
woman! Long life to you, Jack, and long happi-
ness!”

“Thank you, Dick.” (Ceremonial recurrence of
drinking a health. )

“Now, out with it. Who is she, and all about
her ?”

“Dick, I’m genuinely sorry, but I’m still under
bond of silence.”

“More mysteries!” cried Warrington, with evi-
dent discontent.

“Only for a week, when, if you say, we'll have
breakfast here in these very rooms.”

“Done. Only I must say you're a bit hard on
me to-night.”

“Tm sorry.”

“Let me see; I'll describe her for you. Beauti-
ful.”

“Yes.”

“Accomplished.”

“Very.”

“A woman who will be both wife and comrade.”

“Exactly.”

“An American.”

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“in all things.”

“You make me envious.”’

“Why don’t you get married yourself?”

“Bah!” Warrington went to the window and
looked down upon the street.

Bennington eyed his broad shoulders sympa-
thetically. He looked down at the limp, smooth
skins in his hand, and sat up stiffly. From the
gloves to Warrington and back again to the
gloves, his gaze traveled. With an impulse rather
mechanical he raised the gloves to his nose. Quick-
ly he dropped them on the desk, took up the photo-
graph, rose and replaced it on the mantel. Hear-
ing him, Warrington turned.

“No, Jack, I doubt if I shall ever be lucky
enough to find the one woman. I’ve been so busy
that I’ve never had time to hunt for happiness.
And those who hunt for it never find it, and those
who wait for it can not see it standing at their
side.”

Bennington wandered about, from object to ob-
ject. Here he picked up a dagger, there a tur-
quoise in the matrix, and again some inlaid wood
from Sorrento. From these his interest traveled
to and lingered over some celebrated autographs.

“Happiness is a peculiar thing,” went on the

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dramatist, “It is far less distinctive than fame or
fortune. They sometimes knock at your door, but
happiness steals in without warning, and often
leaves as mysteriously as it comes.”

Bennington paused to examine a jade cigarette
case, which he opened and closed aimlessly. And
there were queer little Japanese ash-trays that ar-
rested his attention.

“Men like you and me, Jack, never marry un-
less we love. It is never a business transaction.”

“Tt is love or nothing,” said Bennington, turn-
ing his face toward Warrington. The smile he
gave was kindly. “Yes, true happiness can be
sought only in those we love. There is happiness
even in loving some one who does not love you.”
Bennington repressed a sigh. “But, Dick, you'll
be the best man?”

“Depend upon me. What do you say to this
day week for breakfast here?”

“That will be wholly agreeable to me.”

Bennington’s cigar had gone out. He leaned
upon the desk and took his light from the chimney.
Men who have traveled widely never waste
matches.

“Can’t you bunk here for the night? There’s
plenty of room,” said Warrington.

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“Impossible, Dick. I leave at midnight for
home. I must be there to-morrow morning. I’m
afraid of trouble in the shops. The unions are de-
termined to push me to the limit of my patience.”

“Why the deuce don’t you get rid of the
shops ?”

“They’re the handiwork of my father, and I’m
proud to follow his steps.” Bennington’s eyes
were no longer at peace; they sparkled with de-
fiance. ‘“Half-past ten!” suddenly. “I must be
going. My luggage is still at the hotel. God bless
you, Dick!”

Their hands met once again.

“You know, Jack, that I love you best of all
men.”

“You are sure there is no woman?”

Warrington laughed easily. “Ah, if there was
a woman! J expect to be lonely some day.”

Bennington put on his hat and gloves, and
Warrington followed him into the hall. Once the
prospective bridegroom paused, as if he had left
something unsaid ; but he seemed to think the bet-
ter of silence, and went on.

“Tuesday morning, then?”

“Tuesday morning. Good night.”

“Good night, and luck attend you.”

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The door closed, and Warrington went slowly
back to his desk, his mind filled with pleasant
recollections of youth. He re-read the letter, stud-
ied it thoroughly, in hopes that there might be an
anagram. There was nothing he could see, and
he put it away, rather annoyed. He arranged the
sheets and notes of the scenario, marshaled the
scattered pencils, and was putting the glasses on
the tray, when a sound in the doorway caused
him to lift his head. One of the glasses tumbled
over and rolled across the desk, leaving a trail of
water which found its level among the ash-trays.

“Tt is quite evident that you forgot me,” said
the woman, a faint mirthless smile stirring her
lips. “It was very close in there, and I could hear
nothing.” She placed a hand on her forehead,
swayed, and closed her eyes for a second.

“You are faint!’ he cried, springing toward
her.

“Tt is nothing,” she replied, with a repelling
gesture. “John Bennington, was it not?”

“Yes.” His eyes grew round with wonder.

“T was going to keep it secret as long as I
could, but I see it is useless. He is the man I have
promised to marry.” Her voice had a singular
quietness.

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Warrington retreated to his desk, leaning heav-
ily against it.

“Bennington? You are going to marry John
Bennington?” dully.

“Yes.”

He sat down abruptly and stared at her with
the expression of one who is suddenly confronted
by some Medusa’s head, as if in the straggling
wisps of hair that escaped from beneath her hat
he saw the writhing serpents. She was going to
marry John Bennington!

She stepped quickly up to the desk and began
to scatter things about. Her hands shook, she
breathed rapidly, her delicate nostrils dilating
the while.

“Look out!’ he warned, at her side the same
instant. “Your hat is burning!’ He smothered
the incipient flame between his palms.

“Never mind the hat. My gloves, Dick, my
gloves! I left them here on the desk.”

“Your gloves?’ Then immediately he recol-
lected that he had seen them in Bennington’s
hands, but he was positive that the gloves meant
nothing to Bennington. He had picked them up
just as he would have picked up a paper-cutter, a
pencil, a match-box, if any of these had been

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within reach of his nervous fingers. Most men
who are at times mentally embarrassed find re-
lief in touching small inanimate objects. So he
said reassuringly: “Don’t let a pair of gloves
worry you, girl.”

“He bought them for me this morning,” a
break in her voice. “I must find them!”

The situation assumed altogether a different
angle. There was a hint of tragedy in her eyes.
More trivial things than a forgotten pair of
gloves have brought about death and division.
Together they renewed the search. They sifted
the manuscripts, the books, the magazines, bur-
rowed into the drawers; and sometimes their
hands touched, but they neither noticed nor felt
the contact. Warrington even dropped to his
knees and hunted under the desk, all the while
“Jack Bennington, Jack Bennington!” drumming
in his eats. The search was useless. The gloves
were nowhere to be found. He stood up irreso-
lute, dismayed and anxious, keenly alive to her
misery arid to the inferences his best friend might
draw. The desk stood between them, but their
faces were within two spans of the hand.

“T can’t find them.”

“They are gone!” she whispered.

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CHAPTER IV

When the pathfinders came into the territory
which is now called the Empire State, they car-
ried muskets and tripods under one arm and
Greek dictionaries under the other. They sur-
veyed all day and scanned all night, skirmishing
intermittently with prowling redskins. They
knew something about elementary geometry, too,
and you will find evidences of it everywhere, even
in the Dutch settlements. The Dutchman always
made the beauty of geometry impossible. Thus,
nowadays, one can not move forward nor back-
ward fifty miles in any direction without having
the classic memory jarred into activity. Behold
Athens, Rome, Ithaca, Troy; Homer, Virgil,
Cicero; Pompey and Hannibal; cities and poets,
and heroes! It was, in those early days, a liberal
education to be born in any one of these towns.
Let us take Troy, for instance. When the young
mind learned to spell it, the young mind yearned
to know what Troy signified. Then came Homer,
with his heroic fairy-story of gods, demigods and

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mortals. Of one thing you may be reasonably
sure: Helen was kept religiously in the back-
ground. You will find no city named after her;
nor Sappho, nor Aspasia. The explorer and the
geographer have never given woman any recogni-
tion; it was left to the poets to sing her praises.
Even Columbus, fine old gentleman that he was,
absolutely ignored Isabella as a geographical
name.

The city of Herculaneum (so called in honor
of one Hercules) was very well named. To be-
come immortal it had the same number of tasks
to perform as had old Hercules. The Augean
Stables were in the City Hall; and had Hercules
lived in Herculaneum, he never would have sat
with the gods. The city lay in a pleasant valley,
embraced by imposing wooded hills. There was
plenty of water about, a lake, a river, a creek;
none of these, however, was navigable for com-
mercial purposes. But this in nowise hindered
the city’s progress. On the tranquil bosom of the
Erie Canal rode the graceful barges of commerce,
straight and slowly through the very heart of the
town. Like its historic namesake, the city lived
under the eternal shadow of smoke, barring Sun-
days; but its origin was not volcanic, only bitu-

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minous. True, year in and year out the streets
were torn up, presenting an aspect not unlike the
lava-beds of Vesuvius; but as this phase always
implies, not destruction, but construction, mur-
murs were only local and few. It was a prosper-
ous and busy city. It grew, it grows, and will
grow. Long life to it! Every year the city di-
rectory points with pride to its growing bulk. A
hundred thousand people; and, as Max O’Rell
said—“All alive and kicking!’ Herculaneum
held its neighbors in hearty contempt, like the
youth who has suddenly found his man’s strength,
and parades round with a chip on his shoulder.
Three railroad lines ran through the business
section, bisecting the principal thoroughfares.
The passenger trains went along swiftly enough,
but often freights of almost interminable length
drawled through the squares. I say drawled ad-
visedly. Surely the whuff-whuff of the engine
seems to me a kind of mechanical speech; and to
this was often added the sad lowing of cattle.
From time to time some earnest but misdirected
young man would join the aldermanic body, and
immediately lift up his voice in protest. It was
outrageous, and so forth; the railroads must be
brought to their senses, and so forth. Presently a

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meeting would come and go without his voice be-
ing heard, another, and yet another. By and by
he would silently cast his vote for the various
businesses under hand, and go home. The old-
timers would smile. They understood. They
rode on annuals themselves.

All the same, Herculaneum was a beautiful city
in parts. Great leafy maples and elms arched the
streets in the residential quarters, and the streets
themselves were broad and straight. There were
several dignified buildings of ten and twelve
stories, many handsome banks, several clubs, and
two or three passable monuments. There were
at that time five enterprising newspapers, four
frankly partizan and one independent. Personali-
ties entered freely into the editorials, which often
abounded in wit and scholarship. There were
three theaters, and many churches of many de-
nominations; religion and amusement, to thrive,
must have variety. There were great steel shops,
machine-shops, factories and breweries. And
there were a few people who got in touch with
one another, and invented society.

Herculaneum has its counterpart in every state ;
each city is a composite of all the others. A fash-
ion in New York is immediately reproduced in

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every other city on the continent. Conservatism,
day by day, becomes more and more retiring;
presently it will exist only in Webster, side by
side with the word prehistoric.

It was Sunday in Herculaneum, a June Sun-
day, radiant with sunshine. The broad green
leaves of the maples shivered, lacing the streets
with amber and jade, and from a thousand emer-
ald gardens rose the subtle, fragrant incense of
flowers. How still and beautiful this day seems
to us who have hurried hither and thither for six
long days, sometimes in anger, sometimes in ex-
ultation, failure or success! It breathes a peace
and quiet that is tonic. Upon this day there is
truce between us and the enemy.

In Herculaneum they still went to church on a
Sunday morning. Perhaps it was merely habit,
perhaps it was simply formality, perhaps it was
only to parade new clothes; anyhow, they went to
church. At ten-thirty the procession started;
gentlemen in their tiles, ladies in their furbelows,
children stiffly starched. Some rode to church,
but the majority walked. There were many
store-windows to preen before, as in a mirror.
Vanity has something to her credit, after all; it

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is due to her that most of us make an effort to
keep spruce and clean.

Comment passed like the fall of dominoes.
Some woman, ultra-fashionable, would start the
chatter. She never saw anything like the gowns
Mrs. Jones wore; Mrs. Jones touched upon the
impossible feathers of Mrs. Smith’s hat, and Mrs.
Smith in turn questioned the. exquisite com-
plexion of Mrs. Green, who thought Mrs. White’s
children the homeliest in the city. (Can’t you
hear the dominoes going down?)

The men nodded here and there, briefly. Sat-
urday night in a provincial town holds many
recollections.

The high church was a stately pile of granite,
with lofty spire and fine memorial windows.
Doves fluttered about the eaves. Upon this par-
ticular Sunday morning there seemed to be some-
thing in the air that was not a component part of
any of the elements. It was simply a bit of news
which the church-goers had read in the papers that
morning. To many a bud and belle it was a
thunder-clap, a bolt from a cloudless heaven.
They whispered about it, lifted their eyebrows,
and shrugged their shoulders. But their mamas
gave no sign. If the fox of disappointment ate

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into their vitals, they determined, Spartan-like,
that none should know it. An actress! Men
might marry actresses in England, but Hercula-
neum still clung to the belief that actresses were
not eligible.

Some of the men had seen Katherine Challoner
act, and they sighed, retrospectively and intro-
spectively.

“I feel for Mrs. Bennington and her daughter.
It must be a great blow to their pride.” Mrs.
Franklyn-Haldene sat down in her pew-seat and
arranged her silk petticoats. Mrs. Wilmington-
Fairchilds sat down beside her. “You know I
never meddle with scandal.”

Mrs. Fairchilds nodded brightly.

“Never. I never repeat anything I hear. The
Archibald affair was enacted right under my very
nose; but did I circulate what I saw? I think
not! That woman!—but there! I pray for her
every night.”

“Was it really true, then?” asked Mrs. Fair-
childs, breathless. She knew something about the
Archibald affair, but not enough.

“T saw it all with these eyes,” flatly. “But, as
I said, I keep my hands clean of scandal.” Her
hands were white and flabby. “I consider it not

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only wicked to start a scandal, but positively bad
taste. The lightest word sometimes ruins a repu-
tation.”

“Mrs, Archibald—” began Mrs. Fairchilds.

“Not another word, my dear. I’ve said noth-
ing at all; I haven’t even told you what I saw.
But an actress is different. Think of it, my dear!
She will live among us and we shall have to meet
her. Think of the actors who have kissed her in
their make-believe love affairs! It is so horribly
common. I have heard a good many things about
her. She has romped in studios in male attire and
smokes cigarettes. I should not want any son of
mine to be seen with her. I’m not saying a single
word against her, mind you; not a single word.
You know as well as I do what a wild fellow
Warrington is. Well, she has been going around
with him.”

“But they took him up in London,” said Mrs.
Wilmington-Fairchilds.

“London! London society, indeed! It’s the
greatest jumble in the world: nobility hobnobs
with jockeys, piano-players, writers and actors.”

Mrs. Fairchilds shook her head sadly. She
had always believed London society quite the
proper thing, and she had followed the serials of

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“The Duchess” with reverent awe. But Mrs.
Franklyn-Haldene ought to know; she had trav-
eled in Europe several seasons. Mrs. Franklyn-
Haldene was one of the prominent social leaders,
and Mrs. Fairchilds had ambitions. The ready
listener gets along very well in this old world of
ours.

“T always knew that some time or other the ple-
beian Bennington blood would crop out,” went on
Mrs. Haldene. “But we must not criticize the
dead,” benignly,.

“We shall have to receive her.”

“After a fashion,” replied Mrs, Haldene, open-
ing her prayer-book. Her tone implied that
things would not go very smoothly for the inter-
loper. ‘All this comes from assimilating Eng-
lish ideas,” she added.

Mrs. Franklyn-Haldene was one of those for-
tunate persons who always have their names in
the society columns of the Sunday newspapers.
Either she was among those present, or she gave
a luncheon, or she assisted at a reception, or was
going out of town, or coming back. Those who
ran their husbands in debt to get into society al-
ways looked to see what Mrs. Haldene had been
doing the past week. The society reporters, very

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often smug young women of aristocratic but im-
poverished families, called her up by telephone
every day in the week. Mrs. Haldene pretended
to demur, but the reporters found her an inex-
haustible mine of tittle-tattle. Sometimes they
omitted some news which she considered impor-
tant; and, as the saying goes, the hair flew. She
found many contestants for the leadership; but
her rivals never lasted more than a month. She
was president of hospital societies, orphan
asylums, and the auxiliary Republican Club, and
spoke at a bimonthly club on the servant ques-
tion. Everybody was a little afraid of her, with
one exception.

The society columns of the Sunday newspapers
have become permanently established. In every
city and hamlet from New York to San Fran-
cisco, you will find the society column. It is all
tommyrot to the outsider; but the proprietor is
generally a shrewd business man and makes van-
ity pay tribute to his exchequer. The column,
especially in early summer, begins something like
this:

June will be a busy month for brides, and King
Cupid and his gala court will hold sway. The
bridal processions will begin to move this week in

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homes and churches. On Wednesday, at high noon,
the marriage of Miss Katherine Challoner, the well-
known actress, and Mr. John Bennington, of this
city, will be solemnized in New York. Only the
immediate relatives will be present. Richard War-
rington, our own celebrated townsman, will act as
best man. The announcement comes as a great
surprise to society, as Mr. Bennington was looked
upon as a confirmed bachelor.

And again you will find something of this
sort :

April 22—Mrs. Franklyn-Haldene leaves next
week for Washington, where she will be the guest
of Senator Soandso’s wife.

April 29—Mrs. Franklyn-Haldene left yesterday
for Washington.

May 6—Mrs. Franklyn-Haldene, who is visiting
in Washington, will return next week.

May 13—Mrs. Franklyn-Haldene has returned
home from a delightful visit in Washington.

Sometimes, when there was no escape from it,
Mr. Franklyn-Haldene’s name also appeared.

From mundane things to the spiritual!

“Yes, I feel for Mrs. Bennington,” continued
Mrs. Haldene. ‘We have to submit to our boys’
running around with actresses; but to marry
them!”

“And married life, I understand, seldom agrees

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with them. They invariably return to the stage.
I wonder if this woman has ever been married
before?”

“T shouldn’t be surprised. For my part, I’m
very glad the ceremony will not be performed in
the church. Hush!’ with a warning glance over
her shoulder.

There was a sudden craning of necks, an agita-
tion among the hats and bonnets. Down the
aisle came a handsome, dignified woman in
widow’s weeds, a woman who was easily fifty-
six, but who looked as if she had just crossed the
threshold of the forties. Her face was serene,
the half-smile on her lips was gentle and sweet,
her warm brown eyes viewed the world peace-
fully. Ah, how well she knew that to-day this
temple of worship was but a den of jackals, ready
to rend her if she so much as hesitated, so much
as faltered in look or speech! Never should they
feed themselves upon her sorrow. She went on,
smiling here and there. The low hum, the pallid
lights, the murmur from the organ, all seemed
cruelly accented. Her pew was third from the
chancel; she was but half-way through the gant-
let of curious eyes.

Following her was a young girl of twenty.

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She was youth in all its beauty and charm and
fragrance. Many a young masculine heart
throbbed violently as she passed, and straightway
determined to win fame and fortune, if for no
other purpose than to cast them at her feet. This
was Patty Bennington.

The two reached their pew without mishap,
and immediately rested their heads reverently
upon the rail in prayer. Presently the music
ceased, the rector mounted the pulpit, and the
day’s service began. I doubt if many could tell
you what the sermon was about that day.

No other place offers to the speculative eye of
the philosopher so many varied phases of hu-
manity as the church. In the open, during the
week-days, there is little pretense, one way or the
other; but in church, on Sunday, everybody, or
nearly everybody, seems to have donned a mask,
a transparent mask, a smug mask, the mask of
the known hypocrite. The man who is a brute to
his wife goes meekly to his seat; the miser, who
has six days pinched his tenants or evicted them,
passes the collection plate, his face benevolent;
the woman whose tongue is that of the liar and
the gossip, who has done her best to smirch the
reputation of her nearest neighbor, lifts her eyes

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heavenward and follows every word of a sermon
she can not comprehend; and the man or woman
who has stepped aside actually believes that his
or her presence in church hoodwinks every one.
Heigh-ho! and envy with her brooding yellow
eyes and hypocrisy with her eternal smirk sit side
by side in church.

Oh, there are some good and kindly people in
this ragged world of ours, and they go to church
with prayer in their hearts and goodness on their
lips and forgiveness in their hands. They wear
no masks; their hearts and minds go in and out
of church unchanged. These are the salt of the
earth, and do not often have their names in the
Sunday papers, unless it is in the matter of their
wills and codicils. Then only do the worldly
know that charity had walked among them and
they knew her not.

Of such was Miss Anna Warrington, spinster-
aunt of Richard. She occupied the other half of
the Bennington pew. Until half a dozen years
ago, when her boy had come into his own, she
had known but little save poverty and disillusion ;
and the good she always dreamed of doing she
was now doing in fact. Very quietly her with-
ered old hand stole over the low partition and

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pressed Mrs. Bennington’s hand. The clasp
spoke mutely of courage and good-will. She
knew nothing of awe, kindly soul; the great and
the small were all the same to her. She remem-
bered without rancor the time when Mrs. Ben-
nington scarcely noticed her; but sorrow had
visited Mrs. Bennington and widened her vision
and broadened her heart; and the two met each
other on a common basis, the loss of dear ones.

The clock is invariably hung in the rear of the
church. The man who originally selected this po-
sition was evidently a bit of a cynic. Perhaps he
wanted to impress the preacher with the fact that
there must be a limitation to all things, even good
sermons; or perhaps he wanted to test the pa-
tience and sincerity of the congregation. The
sermon was rather tedious this Sunday; shiny,
well-worn platitudes are always tedious. And
many twisted in their seats to get a glimpse of
the clock.

Whenever Patty looked around (for youth sits
impatiently in church), always she met eyes, eyes,
eyes. But she was a brave lass, and more than
once she beat aside the curious gaze. How she
hated them! She knew what they were whisper-
ing, whispering. Her brother was going to

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marry an actress. She was proud of her broth-
er’s choice. He was going to marry a woman
who was as brilliant as she was handsome, who
counted among her friends the great men and
women of the time, who dwelt in a world where
mediocrity is unknown and likewise unwelcome.
Mediocrity’s teeth are sharp only for those who
fear them.

Patty was nervous on her mother’s account,
not her own. It had been a blow to the mother,
who had always hoped to have her boy to herself
as long as she lived. He had never worried her
with flirtations; there had been no youthful af-
fairs. The mother of the boy who is always fall-
ing in love can meet the final blow half-way. Mrs.
Bennington had made an idol of the boy, but at
the same time she had made a man of him. From
the time he could talk till he had entered man’s
estate, she had been constant at his side, now with
wisdom and learning, now with laughter and wit,
always and always with boundless and brooding
love. The first lesson had been on the horror of
cruelty; the second, on the power of truth; the
third, on the good that comes from firmness. It
is very easy to make an idol and a fool of a boy;

but Mrs. Bennington always had the future in
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mind. it was hard, it was bitter, that another
should step in and claim the perfected man. She
had been lulled into the belief that now she would
have him all her own till the end of her days.
But it was not to be. Her sense of justice was
evenly balanced; her son had the same right that
his father had; it was natural that he should de-
sire a mate and a home of his own; but, neverthe-
less, it was bitter. That his choice had been an
actress caused her no alarm. Her son was a gen-
tleman; he would never marry beneath him; it
was love, not infatuation; and love is never love
unless it can find something noble and good to
rest upon. It was not the actress, no; the one
great reiterating question was: did this brilliant
woman love her son? Was it the man or his
money? She had gone to New York to meet
Miss Challoner. She had steeled her heart against
all those subtle advances, such as an actress knows
how to make. She had gone to conquer, but had
been conquered. For when Kate Challoner de-
_termined to charm she was not to be resisted.
She had gone up to the mother and daughter and
put her arms around them. “I knew that I should
love you both. How could I help it? And please
be kind to me: God has been in giving me your
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son.” Ah, if she had only said: “I shall love you
because I love him!” But there was doubt,
haunting doubt. If the glamour of married life
wore out, and the craving for publicity returned,
this woman might easily wreck her son’s life and
the lives of those who loved him.

She was very glad when the service came to
an end and the stir and rustle announced the de-
parture of the congregation.

At the door she found Mrs. Franklyn-Haldene.
She rather expected to find her. They were ene-
mies of old.

“Shall I congratulate you?” asked the formid-
able person.

Many of the congregation stopped. They
hadn’t the courage of Mrs. Franklyn-Haldene,
but they lacked none of her curiosity.

“You may, indeed,” returned Mrs. Bennington
serenely. She understood perfectly well; but she
was an old hand at woman’s war. “My son is
very fortunate. I shall love my new daughter
dearly, for she loves my son.”

“She is just splendid!” said Patty, with spark-
ling eyes. How she longed to scratch the powder
from Mrs. Franklyn-Haldene’s beak-like nose!

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Busybody, meddler! “I never suspected John had
such good sense.”

“You are very fortunate,” said Mrs, Franklyn-
Haldene. She smiled, nodded, and passed on
into the street. A truce!

Mr. Franklyn-Haldene, as he entered the car-
riage after his wife, savagely bit off the end of a
cigar.

“What the devil’s the matter with you women,
anyhow ?” he demanded.

“Franklyn!”

“Why couldn’t you leave her alone? You're
all a pack of buzzards, waiting for some heart to
peck at. Church !—bah!”

It was only on rare occasions that Mr. Frank-
lyn-Haldene voiced his sentiments. On these oc-
casions Mrs. Franklyn-Haldene rarely spoke.
There was a man in her husband she had no de-
sire to rouse. Mr. Haldene was the exception
referred to; he was not afraid of his wife.

They rode homeward in silence. As they
passed the Warrington place, Mr. Haldene again
spoke.

“Warrington is home over Sunday. Saw him
on horseback this morning.”

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“There’s one thing I’m thankful for: the wed-
ding will not be in Herculaneum.”

“AHumph!”

“Tt’s disgusting; and we shall have to receive
her. But I do not envy her her lot.”

“Neither do I,” said Haldene. ‘You women
have already mapped out a nice little hell for her.
Why should you be so vindictive simply because
she is an actress? If she is good and honest,
what the deuce?”

“There’s no use arguing with you.”

“[T’m glad you’ve found that out. You'd find
out lots of other things if you stayed home long
enough. I shall treat the woman decently.”

“T dare say all you men will.”

“And you, Madam, shall be among the first to
call on her, Mind that!”

She looked at the man pityingly. Men never
understood. Callon her? Of course, she would
call on her. For how could she make the woman
unhappy if she did not call on her?

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CHAPTER. ¥

Every city has its Fifth Avenue. That which
we can not have as our own we strive to imitate.
Animal and vegetable life simply reproduces it-
self; humanity does more than that, it imitates,
Williams Street was the Fifth Avenue of Hercu-
laneum. It was broad, handsome, and climbed a
hill of easy incline. It was a street of which any
city might be justly proud. Only two or three
houses jarred the artistic sense. These were built
by men who grew rich so suddenly and unexpect-
edly that their sense of the grotesque became ab-
normal. It is an interesting fact to note that the
children of this class become immediately seized
with a species of insanity, an insanity which urges
them on the one hand to buy newspapers with
dollar-bills, and on the other to treat their parents
with scant respect. Sudden riches have, it would
seem, but two generations: the parent who accu-
mulates and the son who spends.

The Warrington home (manor was applied to
but few houses in town) stood back from the

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street two hundred feet or more, on a beautiful
natural terrace. The lawn was wide and crisp and
green, and the oak trees were the envy of many.
The house itself had been built by one of the early
settlers, and Warrington had admired it since
boyhood. It was of wood, white, with green
blinds and wide verandas, pillared after the colo-
nial style. Warrington had purchased it on a bank
foreclosure, and rather cheaply, considering the
location. The interior was simple but rich. The
great fireplace was made of old Roman bricks;
there were exquisite paintings and marbles and
rugs and china, and books and books. Very few
persons in Herculaneum had been inside, but these
few circulated the report that the old house had
the handsomest interior in town. Straightway
Warrington’s income became four times as large
as it really was.

The old aunt and the “girl” kept the house
scrupulously clean, for there was no knowing
when Richard might take it into his head to come
home. The “girl’s” husband took care of the
stables and exercised the horses. And all went
very well.

Warrington seldom went to church. It was not
because he was without belief; there was a strong

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leaven of faith underlying his cynicism. Frankly,
sermons bored him. It was so easy for his imag-
inative mind to reach out and take the thought
from the preacher’s mouth almost before he ut-
tered it. Thus, there was never any suspense, and
suspense in sermons, as in books and plays, is the
only thing that holds captive our interest.

So he stayed at home and read the Sunday pa-
pers. That part not devoted to society and foreign
news was given up wholly to local politics. Both
the Democratic and Republican parties were in
bad odor. In the Common Council they were giv-
ing away street-railway franchises ; gambling-dens
flourished undisturbed, and saloons closed only
when some member of the saloon-keeper’s family
died. The anti-gambling league had succeeded in
suppressing the slot machines for a fortnight; this
was the only triumph virtue could mark down for
herself. There were reformers in plenty, but their
inordinate love of publicity ruined the effective-
ness of their work. A brass band will not move
the criminal half so quickly as a sudden pull at the
scruff of his neck. So the evil-doer lay low, or
borrowed the most convenient halo and posed as
a deeply-wronged man. Warrington, as he read,
smiled in contempt. They had only one real man

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in town, scoundrel though he was. There are cer-
tain phases of villainy that compel our admira-
tion, and the villainy of McQuade was of this
order. The newspapers were evidently subsidized,
for their clamor was half-hearted and hypocrit-
ical. Once or twice Warrington felt a sudden
longing to take off his coat and get into the fight;
but the impulse was transitory. He realized that
he loved ease and comfort too well.

Finally he tossed aside the sheets and signaled
to the dog. It was a bull terrier, old and scarred,
and unchanging in his affections. He loved this
master of his, even if he saw him but once a year.
They understood each other perfectly. He was a
peace-loving animal, but he was a fighter at times
—like his master. He had a beautiful head, broad
punishing jaws, and, for all his age, he had not
run to fat, which is the ignominious end of all
athletes, men or dogs.

“Old boy, this is a jolly bad world.”

Jove wagged his stump of a tail.

“We should all be thieves if it were not for pub-
licity and jail.”

Jove coughed deprecatingly. Perhaps he recol-
lected purloined haunches of aforetime.

“Sometimes I’ve half a mind to pack up and

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light out to the woods, and never look at a human
being again.”

Jove thought this would be fine; his tail said so.

“But I’m like a man at a good play; I’ve simply
got to stay and see how it ends, for the great
Dramatist has me guessing.”

Warrington stared into the kind brown eyes
and pulled the ragged ears. There was a kind of
guilt in the oid dog’s eyes, for dogs have con-
sciences. If only he dared tell his master! There
was somebody else now. True, this somebody
else would never take the master’s place; but what
was a poor dog to do when he was lonesome and
never laid eyes on his master for months and
months? Nobody paid much attention to him in
this house when the master was away. He re-
spected aunty (who had the spinster’s foolish
aversion for dogs and the incomprehensible affec-
tion for cats!) and for this reason never molested
her supercilious Angora cat. Could he be blamed
if he sought (and found) elsewhere affection
and confidence? Why, these morning rides were
as good as a bone. She talked to him, told him her
secrets (secrets he swore on a dog’s bible never to
reveal!) and desires, and fed him chicken, and
cuddled him. There were times when he realized

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that old age was upon him; some of these canters
left him breathless and groggy.

“T’ve been thinking, boy,” the master’s voice
went on. “New York isn’t so much, after all. I
wasn’t city born, and there are times when the
flowing gold of the fields and the cool woods call.
Bah! There’s nothing now to hold me anywhere.
I hope she’ll make him happy; she can do it if she
tries. Heigh-ho! the ride this morning has made
me sleepy. To your rug, boy, to your rug.”

Warrington stretched himself on the lounge
and fell asleep. And thus the aunt found him on
her return from church. She hated to wake him,
but she simply could not hold back the news till
luncheon. She touched his arm, and he woke with
the same smile that had dimpled his cheeks when
he was a babe in her arms. Those of us who have
retained the good disposition of youth never scowl
upon being awakened.

“Aha,” he cried, sitting up and rubbing his
eyes.

“Richard, I wish you had gone to church this
morning.”

“And watched the gossips and scandal-mongers
twist their barbs in Mrs. Bennington’s heart?
Hardly.”

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She gazed at him, nonplussed. There was sure-
ly something uncanny in this boy, who always
seemed to know what people were doing, had done
or were going to do.

“T wouldn’t have believed it of my congrega-
tion,” she said.

“Oh, Mrs. Bennington is a woman of the
world; she understands how to make barbs harm-
less. But that’s why I never go to church. It
doesn’t soothe me as it ought to; I fall too easily
into the habit of pulling my neighbor’s mind into
pieces. Gossip and weddings and funerals; your
reputation in shreds, your best girl married, your
best friend dead. I find myself nearer Heaven
when I’m alone in the fields. But I’ve been think-
ing, Aunty.”

“About what?”

“About coming home to stay.”

“Oh, Richard, if you only would!” sitting be-
side him and folding him in her arms. “I’m so
lonely. There’s only you and I; all the others I’ve
loved are asleep on the hill. Do come home, Rich-
ard; you’re all I have.”

“T’m thinking it over.”

Here the Angora came in cautiously. She saw
Jove and the dog saw her; fur and hair bristled.

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Jove looked at his master beseechingly—‘Say the
word, Dick, say the word, and I’ll give you an en-
tertainment.” But the word did not come.

“There’s your church-goers, Aunty; always
ready to fly at each other. In order to study hu-
manity thoroughly, one must first learn the ways
of the beast.”

“T’m afraid your dog’s a traitor.”

“A traitor?”

“Yes. Half the time he runs over to the Ben-
ningtons’ and stays all night. I don’t see why he
should.”

“Maybe they pet him over there. Perhaps he
wants a hand sometimes, just like human beings
when they’re lonely. If you petted him once in a
while, one pat for every ten you give the cat, the
old boy would be tickled to death.”

“But I’m kind to him, Richard; he has the best
meat I can buy. I’d pet him, too, but I’m afraid
of him. I’m always afraid of dogs. Besides, his
feet are always muddy and his hair falls out and
sticks to everything.”

“Who is his latest love?”

“Patty Bennington. They go out riding to-
gether. I can always tell, for his stomach is in-
variably caked with dried mud.”

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“Patty Bennington? The old dog shows good
taste. And I had forgotten all about Bennington’s
having a sister. I was thunderstruck when I met
her the other week in New York. I had really for-
gotten her. She is charming.”

“She is a dear young girl. Ah, Richard, if only
you would find some one like her.”

“Marriages are made in Heaven, Aunt, and I’m
going to wait till I get there. But I’ll think it over
about coming home to stay.”

“T’ll be so happy!” the old lady cried. “T’m
going right out into the kitchen myself and make
one of those cherry pies you used to rave over.”

She disappeared ; and Warrington laughed, rose
and stretched the sleep from his arms and legs,
and went up stairs to dress. Yes, he would think it
over. There was nothing to hold him in New
York, nothing but the craving for noise and late
hours. Why not settle down here? There would
be plenty to do. Besides, if he lived in Hercula-
neum he could run over to the Bennington home
at any time of day. His cheeks flushed of a
sudden.

“Hang it, am I lying to myself about that girl?
Is it the knowledge that she’ll be my neighbor that
inclines me to live here? I know I shall miss her

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if I stay in New York; I’m honest enough to
admit that. God knows I’ve nothing but honor in
my heart for her. Why, I wouldn’t even kiss her
hand without old Jack’s consent. Well, well; the
scene in the church Wednesday will solve all
doubts—if I have any.”

The Sunday luncheon passed uneventfully. The
aunt said nothing more about his coming home to
stay. She knew her boy; urging would do more
harm than good; so she left him to decide freely.

“Ts the pie good, Richard?” she asked.

“Fine! Can you spare me another piece?”

“T’m glad you'll never be too proud to eat pie,”
she returned.

“Not even when it’s humble,’ laughed War-
rington.

“There are some folks roundabout who do not
think pie is proper,” seriously.

“Not proper? Tommyrot! Pie is an institu-
tion; it is as unassailable as the Constitution of the
country. I do not speak of the human constitu-
tion. There are some folks so purse-proud that
they call pies tarts.”

She looked askance at him. There were times
when she wasn’t quite sure of this boy of hers.
He might be serious, and then again he might be

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quietly laughing. But she saw with satisfaction
that the pie disappeared.

“The world, Richard, isn’t what it was in my
time.” ;

“T dare say it isn’t, Aunty; yet cherries are just
as good as ever and June as beautiful. It isn’t
the world, Aunt o’ mine; it’s the plaguy people.
Those who stay away from church ought to go,
and those who go ought to stay away. I’m going
down to the club this afternoon. J shall dine there,
and later look up the Benningtons. So don’t keep
dinner waiting for me.”

“Cheer her up, Richard; she needs cheering.
It’s been a blow to her to lose her boy. If you’d
only get married, too, Richard, I could die con-
tent. What in the world shall you do when I am
gone?”

“Heaven knows!” The thought of losing this
dear old soul gave a serious tone to his voice. He
kissed her on the cheek and went out into the hall.
Jove came waltzing after him. “Humph! What
do you want, sir? Want to go out with me, eh?
Very well; but you must promise to behave your-
self. I’ll have you talking to no poor-dog trash,
mind.” Jove promised unutterable things. “Come
on, then.”

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He walked slowly down town, his cane behind
his back, his chin in his collar, deep in meditation.
He knew instinctively that Mrs. Bennington
wanted to talk to him about the coming marriage.
He determined to tell her the truth, truth that
would set her mother’s heart at peace.

Jove ran hither and thither importantly. It was
good to be out with the master. He ran into this
yard and that, scared a cat up a tree, chased the
sparrows, and grumbled at the other dogs he saw.
All at once he paused, stiffened, each muscle tense.
Warrington, catching the pose, looked up. A
handsome trotter was coming along at a walk. In
the light road-wagon sat a man and a white bull-
dog. It was easy for Warrington to recognize
McQuade, who in turn knew that this good-look-
ing young man must be the dramatist. The two
glanced at each other casually. They were unac-
quainted. Not so the dogs. They had met. The
white bull teetered on the seat. Jove bared his
strong teeth. How he hated that sleek white brute
up there! He would have given his life for one
good hold on that broad throat. The white dog
was thinking, too. Some day, when the time came,
he would clean the slate. Once he had almost had

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the tan for his own. And he hated the girl who
had beaten him off with her heavy riding-crop.

McQuade drove on, and Warrington resumed
his interrupted study of the sidewalk. Mc _uade
thought nothing more about the fellow who wrote
plays, and the dramatist had no place in his mind
for the petty affairs of the politician. Fate,
however, moves quite as certainly and mysteri-
ously as the cosmic law. The bitter feud between
these two men began with their dogs.

At the club Warrington found a few lonely
bachelors, who welcomed him to the long table
in the grill-room; but he was in no mood for gos-
sip and whisky. He ordered a lithia, drank it
quickly, and escaped to the reading-room to write
some letters.

Down in the grill-room they talked him over.

“T don’t know whether he boozes now, but he
used to be tanked quite regularly,” said one.

“Yes, and they say he writes best when half-
seas over.”

“Evidently,” said a third, “he doesn’t drink
unless he wants to; and that’s more than most of
us can say.”

“Pshaw! Sunday’s clearing-up day; nobody

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drinks much on Sunday. I wonder that War-
rington didn’t marry Challoner himself. He went
around with her a lot.”

Everybody shrugged. You can shrug away a
reputation a deal more safely than you can talk it.

“Oh, Bennington’s no ass. She’s a woman of
brains, anyhow. It’s something better than mar-
rying a little fool of a pretty chorus girl. She'll
probably make things lively for one iron-monger.
If the hair doesn’t fly, the money will. He’s a
good sort of chap, but he wants a snaffle and a
curb on his high-stepper.”

Then the topic changed to poker and the mar-
velous hands held the night before.

Warrington finished his correspondence, dined
alone, and at seven-thirty started up the street to
the Benningtons’. Jove, with the assurance of one
who knows he will be welcomed, approached the
inviting veranda at a gallop. His master, how-
ever, followed with a sense of diffidence. He
noted that there was a party of young people on
the veranda. He knew the severe and critical eye
of youth, and he was a bit afraid of himself.
Evidently Miss Patty had no lack of beaux. Miss
Patty in person appeared at the top of the steps,
and smiled.

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”

“T was half expecting you,
a slim cool hand.

Warrington clasped it in his own and gave it
a friendly pressure:

“Thank you,” he replied. “Please don’t dis-
turb yourselves,’ he remonstrated, as the young
men rose reluctantly from their chairs. “Is Mrs.
Bennington at home?”

“You will find her in the library.” Then Patty
introduced him. There was some constraint on
the part of the young men. They agreed that,
should the celebrity remain, he would become the
center of attraction at once, and all the bright
things they had brought for the dazzlement of
Patty would have to pass unsaid.

she said, offering

To youth, every new-comer is a possible rival;
he wouldn’t be human if he didn’t believe that
each man who comes along is simply bound to fall
in love with the very girl he has his eyes on.

On the other hand, the young girls regretted
that the great dramatist wasn’t going to sit be-
side them. There is a strange glamour about
these men and women who talk or write to us
from over the footlights. As Warrington disap-
peared into the hallway, the murmur and fre-
quent laughter was resumed.

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Mrs, Bennington was very glad to see him.
She laid aside her book and made room for him
on the divan. They talked about the weather, the
changes that had taken place since the fall, a
scrap of foreign travel of mutual interest, each
hoping that the other would be first to broach the
subject most vital to both. Finally, Mrs. Ben-
nington realized that she could fence no longer.

“Tt was very good of you to come. I have so
many things to ask you.”

wees

“My boy’s determination to marry has been
very sudden. I knew nothing till a month ago.
I love him so, and my whole heart hungers for
one thing—the assurance that he will be happy
with the woman of his choice.”

“My dear Mrs. Bennington, Jack will marry a
woman who is as loyal and honest as she is bril-
liant and beautiful. Miss Challoner is a woman
any family might be proud to claim. She num-
bers among her friends many of the brilliant
minds of the age; she compels their respect and
admiration by her intellect and her generosity.
Oh, Jack is to be envied. I can readily understand
the deep-rooted antagonism the actress still finds
among the laity. It is a foolish prejudice. I can

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point out many cases where the layman has mar-
ried an actress and has been happy and contented
with his lot.”

“But on the obverse side?” with a smile that
was sad and dubious.

“Happiness is always in the minority of cases,
in all walks of life. Happiness depends wholly
upon ourselves; environment has nothing to do
with it. Most of these theatrical marriages you
have read about were mere business contracts.
John is in love.”

“But is he loved?”

“Miss Challoner has a very comfortable for-
tune of her own. She would, in my opinion, be
the last person in the world to marry for money
or social position, the latter of which she already
has.”

But she saw through his diplomacy.

“Perhaps she may desire a home?”

“That is probable; but it is quite evident to me
that she wants John with it.”

“There are persons in town who will do their
best to make her unhappy.”

“You will always find those persons; but I am
confident Miss Challoner will prove a match for
any of them. There is no other woman in the

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world who knows better than she the value of
well-applied flattery.”

“She is certainly a charming woman; it is im-
possible not to admit that frankly. But you, who
are familiar with the stage, know how unstable
people of that sort are. Suppose she tires of John?
It would break my heart.”

“Ah, all that will depend upon Jack. Doubt-
less he knows the meaning of ‘to have and to
hold.’ To hold any woman's love, a man must
make himself indispensable; he must be her part-
ner in all things: her comrade and husband when
need be, her lover always. There can be no going
back to old haunts, so attractive to men; club life
must become merely an incident. Again, he must
not be under her feet all the time. Too much or
too little will not do; it must be the happy be-
tween.”

“You are a very wise young man.”

Warrington laughed embarrassedly. “I have
had to figure out all these things.”

“But if she does not love him!”

“How in the world can she help it?”

She caught up his hand in a motherly clasp.

“We mothers are vain in our love. We make
our sons paragons; we blind ourselves to their

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faults; we overlook their follies, and condone
their sins. And we build so many castles that
one day tumble down about our ears. Why is it
a mother always wishes her boy to marry the
woman of her choice? What right has a mother
to interfere with her son’s heart-desires? It may
be that we fear the stranger will stand between
us. A mother holds, and always will hold, that
no woman on earth is good enough for her son.
Now, as I recollect, I did not think Mr. Benning-
ton too good for me.” She smiled drolly.

Lucky Jack! If only he had had a mother like
this! Warrington thought.

“T dare say he thought that, too,” he said. “My-
self, I never knew a mother’s love. No doubt I
should have been a better man. Yet, I’ve often
observed that a boy with a loving mother takes
her love as a matter of course, and never realizes
his riches till he has lost them. My aunt is the
only mother I have known.”

“And a dear, kind, loving soul she is,’
Mrs. Bennington. “She loves you, if not with
mother-love, at least with mother-instinct. When
we two get together, we have a time of it; I, laud-
ing my boy; she, praising hers. But I go round
and round in a circle: my boy. Sons never grow

III

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up; they are always our babies; they come to us
with their heartaches, at three or at thirty; there
is ever one door open in the storm, the mother’s
heart. If she loves my boy, nothing shall be too
good for her.”

“I feel reasonably sure that she does.” Did
she? he wondered. Did she love Jack as he ( War-
rington) wanted some day to be loved?

“As you say,” the mother went on, “how can
she help loving him? He is a handsome boy; and
this alone is enough to attract women. But he is
so kind and gentle, Richard; so manly and strong.
He has his faults; he is human, like his mother.
John is terribly strong-willed, and this would
worry me, were I not sure that his sense of jus-
tice is equally strong. He is like me in gentle-
ness; but the man in him is the same man I loved
in my girlhood days. When John maps out a
course to act upon, if he believes he is right, noth-
ing can swerve him—nothing. And sometimes
he has been innocently wrong. I told Miss Chal-
loner all his good qualities and his bad. She told
me that she, too, has her faults. She added that
there was only one other man who could in any
manner compare with John, and that man is you.”

“TI?” his face growing warm.

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“Yes. But she had no right to compare any-
body with my boy,” laughing.

“There isn’t any comparison whatever,” ad-
mitted Warrington, laughing too. “But it was
very kind of Miss Challoner to say a good word
for me.” And then upon impulse he related how,
and under what circumstances, he had first met
the actress.

“It reads like a story,—a versatile woman.
This talk has done me much good. I know the
affection that exists between you and John, and I
am confident that you would not misrepresent
anything. I shall sleep easier to-night.”

The portiéres rattled, and Patty stood in the
doorway.

“Everybody’s gone; may I come in?”

Warrington rose. “I really should be very
glad to make your acquaintance,” gallantly. “It’s
so long a time since I’ve met young people—”

“Young people!” indignantly. “I am not
young people; I am twenty, going on twenty-
one.”

“T apologize.” Warrington sat down.

Thereupon Miss Patty, who was a good sailor,
laid her course close to the wind, and with few
tacks made her goal, which was the complete sub-

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jugation of this brilliant man. She was gay,
sad, witty and wise; and there were moments
when her mother looked at her in puzzled sur-
prise. As for Warrington, he went from one
laugh into another.

Oh, dazzling twenty; blissful, ignorant, confi-
dent twenty! Who among you would not be
twenty, when trouble passes like cloud-shadows
in April; when the door of the world first opens?
Ay, who would not trade the meager pittance,
wrested from the grinding years, for one fleet,
smiling dream of twenty?

“Tt is all over town, the reply you made to
Mrs. Winthrop and that little, sawed-off, witty
daughter of hers.”

“Patty!”

“Well, she is sawed-off and witty.”

“What did I say?” asked Warrington, blush-
ing. He had forgotten the incident.

“Mrs. Winthrop asked you to make her daugh-
ter an epigram, and you replied that Heaven had
already done that.”

“By the way,” said Warrington, when the
laughter subsided, “I understand that my old dog
has been running away from home lately. I hope
he doesn’t bother you.”

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“Bother, indeed! I just love him,” cried Patty.
“He’s such a lovable animal. We have such good
times on our morning rides. We had trouble last
week, though. A white bulldog sprang at him.
Jove was so tired that he would have been
whipped had I not dismounted and beaten the
white dog off. Oh, Jove was perfectly willing to
contest the right of way. And when it was all
over, who should come along but Mr. McQuade,
the politician. It was his dog. And he hadn’t even
the grace to make an apology for his dog’s ill
manners.”

“May I not ride with you to-morrow morn-
ing?” he asked. He had intended to leave Her-
culaneum at noon; but there were many later
trains.

“That will be delightful! I know so many
beautiful roads; and we can lunch at the Coun-
try Club. And Jove can go along, too.”

“Where is the traitor?”

“He is sound asleep on the veranda rugs.”

“Well, it’s long past his bedtime. I must be
going.”

“Some time I hope you will come just to call
on me.”

“T shall not need any urging.”

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They followed him to the door, and good
nights were said.

“Oh, Patty, he has lifted so much doubt!” said
the mother, as the two returned to the library.
'“He has nothing but praise for Miss Challoner.
‘It is quite possible that John will be happy.”

“It is not only possible, mother darling, but
probable. For my part, I think her the most
charming, most fascinating woman I ever met.
And she told me she rides. What jolly times
we'll have together, when John settles down in
the new house!”

“The new house!” repeated the mother, biting
her lips. “How the word hurts! Patty, why
could they not come here? We'll be so lonely.
Yet, it is the law of Heaven that a man and his
wife must live by and for themselves.”

Warrington walked home, lightened in spirit.
He swung his cane, gave Jove a dozen love-taps,
and whistled operatic airs. What a charming
young creature it was, to be sure! The brain of a
woman and the heart of achild. And he had for-
gotten all about her. Now, of course, his recol-
lection became clear. He remembered a mite of
a girl in short frocks, wonder-eyes, and candy-

smudged lips. How they grew, these youngsters!
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He went into the house, still whistling. Jove
ran out into the kitchen to see if by some possible
miracle there was another piece of steak in his
grub-pan. <A dog’s eyes are always close to his
stomach. Warrington, finding that everybody
had gone to bed, turned out the lights and went
up stairs. He knocked on the door of his aunt’s
bedroom,

“Ts that you, Richard ?”

“Yes. May I come in?”

“Certainly.”

He entered quietly. The moonlight, pouring
in through the window, lay blue-white on the
counterpane and the beloved old face.

“What is it?” she asked.

He sat down on the edge of the bed and patted
her hands.

“Aunty, old lady, I’m through thinking. I’m
going to come home just as soon as I can fix up
things in New York.”

“Richard, my boy!’ Her arms pulled him
downward. “I knew it when you came in. I’ve
prayed so long for this. God has answered my
prayers. I’m so happy. Don’t you remember
how you used to tell me all your plans, the plots
of your stories, the funny things that had come to

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you during the day? ‘You used to come home
late, but that didn’t matter; you’d always find
some pie and cheese and a glass of milk on the
kitchen table—the old kitchen table. I’m so
glad!”

“It may be a month or so; for I'll have to sell
some of the things. But I’m coming home, I’m
coming home.” He bent swiftly and kissed her.
“Good night.”

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CHAPTER VI

Warrington was up and about at six the next
morning. He had never really outgrown the nat-
ural habit of waking at dawn, but he had fallen
upon the evil way of turning over and sleeping
till half after nine. He ate a light breakfast and
went out to the stables and moved among the
stalls, talking affectionate nonsense to the horses.
A man can not talk baby-talk, that is the undis-
puted prerogative of the woman; but he has a
fashion of his own which serves. “Aha, old boy!
handsome beggar!” or—‘‘How’s the little lady
this morning, eh?” or yet again—‘‘Rascal! you’ve
been rubbing the hair off your tail!” In the box-
stall Warrington’s thoroughbred Irish hunter
nozzled his palm for loaf-sugar, and whinnied
with pleasure when he found it. One of the first
things Warrington had done, upon drawing his
first big royalty check, was to buy a horse. ‘As a
boy on the farm he had hungered for the posses-
sion of one of those sleek, handsome animals
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he bought, sold and traded horses, for the mere
pleasure it gave him to be near them. Finally he
came to Herculaneum with two such saddle-horses
as made every millionaire in town (and there were
several in Herculaneum) offer fabulous sums
whenever they ran across the owner. Next, he
added two carriage-horses, in their way quite
equal to the hunters. Men offered to buy these,
too, but Warrington was a property owner now,
and he wanted the horses for his own. In New
York one of his wealthy friends had given him
free use of his stables: so Warrington rode, at
home and abroad. His income, ranging from
twenty to thirty thousand the year, gave him that
financial independence which neither the clerk nor
the millionaire knew or understood. In the phrase-
ology of the day, he carried his business under his
hat: in other words, he had no business cares or
responsibilities whatever.

Warrington made it a rule to saddle and bridle
his own horses; grooms become careless. One or
two men of his acquaintance had gone to their
death for the want of care and a firm buckle.
Besides, he enjoyed the work, and it accustomed
the horses to his touch. He saddled his favorite
hunter and led the eager animal into the open.

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He mounted and whistled for the dog; but Jove
for once did not respond ; doubtless he was out of
hearing. Thereupon Warrington started for the
Benningtons’ and found Patty already in the
saddle. It was not that the dramatist was blasé,
but he had come into contact with so many beau-
tiful women that his pulse rarely stirred out of its
healthy, measured beat. But this morning he was
conscious of a slight thrill. The girl was really
beautiful; more than that, she was fresh with
youth and gaiety, gaiety which older women find
necessary to repress. She was dressed in a dark
grey riding-habit and wore a beaver cocked-hat.

“Good morning,” he said, touching his cap with
his crop. “I hope I haven’t kept you waiting.”

“Only a moment.” The truth is, she wanted to
prove to him that there was one woman who did
not keep men waiting. “Shall I pick the going?”

“I’m afraid I’ve lost track of the good country
roads.”

“Follow me, then.”

They walked their horses to the city limits.
You never saw either of them galloping over
brick or asphalt, which quickly ruins the surest-
footed horse; neither did they permit any fox-
trotting, which, while it shows off a spirited horse,

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decreases his value in the ring. All of which is to
say, these two, like their mounts, were thorough-
breds.

“Where is Jove?” she asked presently.

“The rogue is missing. I dare say he is galli-
vanting around some neighbor’s back yard. I
haven’t laid eyes on him this morning. I believe
he realizes that he will see me frequently here-
after, and has not bothered his head to look me

”

up.

“Frequently?” She turned her head.

“Yes. I am coming home to live. Of course,
this is my place of residence; my voter’s bed, as
the politicians say, is here in Herculaneum. But
I mean to live here now in deed as well as in
thought.”

“I am sure we shall be delighted to have you
with us.” This was said gravely. A thought,
which she would have repelled gladly, sprang into
being. “I know John will be glad. He’s always
talking about you and your exploits at college.”

“Our exploits,” he corrected, laughing. ‘Shall
we give them a little exercise now?” he asked,
with a gesture toward the long brown road.

She nodded, and they started off at a sharp trot,
and presently broke into a canter. So he was com-

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ing home to live? She felt a hot wave of sudden
anger sweep over her, and her hands tightened
on the reins. It was true, then? She loved her
brother. What right had this man at her side to
threaten her brother’s happiness? Had Katherine
Challoner signified her desire not to leave New
York, would Warrington have decided to return
to Herculaneum? Her hands relaxed. What a
silly little fool she was! She, who despised and
contemned gossip, was giving it ready ear. Had
she ever found gossip other than an errant, cow-
ardly liar? Gossip, gossip! Ah, if gossip, when
she had made her round, would not leave suspicion
behind her; suspicion, hydra-headed! What sig-
nified it that Warrington intended to come home
to live? What signified it that her brother’s wife
would live across the way? She was ashamed of
her evil thought ; presently she would be no better
than Mrs. Franklyn-Haldene, or any of those
women who get together to tear somebody apart.
As if Warrington could compare with her big,
handsome, manly brother! It was all impossible.
She would punish herself for even entertaining
such a thought as had been hers but a moment
gone.

She stole a glance at Warrington. He was rid-

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ing easily, his feet light in the stirrups, his head
thrown back, his eyes half closed, and was breath-
ing deeply of the cool air, which was heavy with
the smell of sweet clover and dew-wet earth. It
was a good, clean, honest face. Indeed, it was all
impossible. Dissipation writes plainly upon the
human countenance, and it had left no visible
sign on Warrington’s face. It may be that dissi-
pation sometimes whimsically neglects to write
at all.

They thundered over a wooden bridge. The
spirit of the morning was in the horses; they be-
gan to race. An unexpected curve in the road
discovered a road-builder and his gang of Italians.
‘A low barrier ran across the road. It was not ex-
actly needed, as they were not digging, but laying
crushed stone. The obstruction was simply for
the convenience of the boss, who desired to work
unhampered.

“Shall we?” cried Warrington, mischief in his
eyes. :

“Yes.” There was no fear in this girl.

On they went, in a cloud of dust. The Italians
made for the ditches, but the boss stood in the
road and waved his arms in warning. Presently
he, too, ducked.

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Hep! and over the pair went, landing clean and
sound on the other side of the barrier. Before the
surprised boss could express himself, they were
far down the road. A curse was hurled after
them, but they heard it not. They hadn’t hurt the
road at all, but the authority of the boss had suf-
fered. He knew the girl, little snob! He would
find out who the man was, soon enough. And if
he had any influence in the City Hall, as he be-
lieved he had, he would make it tolerably warm
for yonder vanishing parties.

He had put up that barrier to signify that the
road was closed; very well, they'd see. Dirt
under their feet, huh? All right. How he hated
them all, with their horses and carriages and
dances and dinners and clubs! Bah! He took a
flask from his pocket and drank. Then he cursed
the laggard Italians, and mourned that a year and
a half must pass before he could sell their votes
again. Bolles contracted for Italian labor and
controlled something more than eight hundred
votes. McQuade sublet various small contracts
to him, and in return used the Italians during
elections,

That jump, harmless enough in itself, was to
prove a bad inspiration on Warrington’s part.

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But it is always these seemingly inconsequent
things that bear the heaviest reckoning.

Half a mile onward they drew down to a walk,
flushed and breathless.

“Perhaps we oughtn’t to have done that,” she
said doubtfully, working the numbness from her
fingers. “No thoroughfare” had hitherto been re-
ligiously respected by her; this was her first trans-
gression, and she wasn’t entirely satisfied with
herself.

“Pshaw! There’s no harm done. There was no
earthly reason why we should have turned back to
the fork and added two miles to our ride. Don’t
let anything like that worry you; we went by too
fast to be recognized. Look! here’s a big clover
patch. I never pass clover without wanting to get
down and hunt for four-leaves. Shall we?”

She was out of the saddle before the query had
left his lips.

“T believe it would be a good idea to arm our-
selves against bad luck,” she replied, gently moy-
ing aside the clover heads with her crop.

“You believe in four-leaf clover, then?”

She nodded.

“T do. I also am very careful,” he added, “to
catch the money-patches on my coffee.”

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She laughed. After all, there was something
old-fashioned about this man. ‘And I never think
of plucking a five-leaf. That’s bad luck.”

“The worst kind of bad luck. I remember,
when I was a kid, I never played hooky without
first hunting up my four-leaved amulet, IfI got a
licking when I returned home, why, I consoled
myself with the thought that it might have been
ten times worse but for the four-leaf.”

They moved about, looking here and there,
while the horses buried their noses in the wet grass
and threatened never to return to the road again.
After a diligent search Patty found a beautiful
four-leaf clover. She exhibited it in triumph.

“You've better luck than I,” said Warrington.
“We shall have to go on without my finding one.”

“You may have this one,” she replied; “and I
hope it will bring you all sorts of good luck.”

He took out his card-case and made room for
the little amulet.

“Tt is impossible not to be fortunate now,’ he
said, with a gravity that was not assumed.

She looked at him dubiously. No, there was no
laughter in his eyes; he was perfectly serious.

They walked the horses over a small hill, then
mounted. It was a very pleasant morning for

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Warrington. It had been years since he had
talked to a young woman who was witty and un-
worldly. He had to readjust himself. He had
written down that all witty women were worldly,
but that all worldly women were not witty. But
to be witty and unsophisticated was altogether
out of his calculations,

At the Country Club they stabled the horses and
wandered about the golf links. Luncheon was
served on the veranda; and presently Warrington
found himself confiding in this young girl as if
he had known her intimately all his life. The girl
felt a thrill of exultation. It flattered her young
vanity to hear this celebrity telling her about his
ambitions.

“Everything becomes monotonous after a
while,” he said. “And I have just begun to grow
weary of living alone. Day after day, the same
faces, the same places, the same arguments, the
same work. I’ve grown tired. I want to live like
other human beings. Monotony leads very quickly
into folly, and I confess to many acts of folly.
And no folly is absolutely harmless.” He stirred
his tea and stared into the cup.

“Why, I should think you ought to be the most
contented of men,” she cried. “You are famous,

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wealthy, courted. And when you return to Her-
culaneum, every girl in town will set her cap for
you. I warn you of this, because I’ve taken a
friendly interest in you.”

“Tt is very good of you. Come,” he said, drain-
ing his cup; “surely you tell fortunes in tea-cups;
tell mine.”

“Four-leaf clovers and tea-grounds,”’ she mused.
“You strike me as being a very superstitious
young man.”

“Lam.”

She passed the cup back to him. “Pour a little
fresh tea in, spill it gently, turn the cup against
the saucer and twirl it three times. That’s the in-
cantation.”

He followed the directions carefully, and she
extended her hand for the cup.

“There is always a woman in a man’s tea-cup,””
she began. ‘There are two in this one.”

“Good gracious!”

“Yes. Do you see that?” pointing to a cluster
of leaves.

“Looks like a camel. Am I going to be thirsty ?”

“That always indicates scandal,” she declared
soberly.

“Scandal?” He smiled skeptically.

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“Scandal and disappointment. But happily
these do not appear as having permanency.”

“Thanks,” piously. “Disappointment? I can
readily believe that. Disappointment has always
been my portion. But scandal has never lifted her
ugly head.”

“We are all far-sighted when scandal is in our
immediate vicinity. This cup says scandal. There
is plenty of money about you. See that? That
means an enemy, strong, implacable. Disappoint-
ment and scandal are in his zone, which means he
will probably be the cause of all your trouble.
Have you an enemy?”

“None that I know of, save myself. But don’t
you think something is the matter with the tea?
It seems impossible that those harmless grounds

. Why, I shan’t sleep o’ nights after this.”

“You are laughing. Yet, this man is there. And
here is a lie, too. It’s a very bad cup, Mr. War-
rington. I’m sorry.”

“So am I,” gaily. “By the way, when do you
and your mother start for New York?’

“We leave to-night.”

“Good. Do you mind if I take the same train
down?”

“Mother and I’ll be glad to have you with us.”

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The servant cleared the table, and Warrington
lighted a cigar. A trolley-car rolled up in front of
the club, and several golf enthusiasts alighted.
They knew Patty, and bowed; they weren’t quite
certain who her escort was.

At two o’clock they began the journey home.
There wasn’t much loitering by the way. Patty
had a tea; she must have time to rest and dress.
All told, it was an enjoyable day for Warrington.
More than ever he set his face against the great
city and looked with satisfaction on the hills of
his childhood. It would be a pleasant pastime to
sit on Patty’s veranda and talk, become, and act
like one of the young people. He was growing
old; his youth must be renewed soon, or he would
lose it utterly. This young man had been surfeited
with noise and light, with the sham and glitter
of hotels, clubs and restaurants. He was not to
the manner born; thus he could easily see how
palpably false life is in a great city. To those
who have lived in the abnormal glamour of
city life, absolute quiet is a kind of new excite-
ment.

Warrington found that he was a bit stiff from
the long ride.

Patty, however, rode nearly every day; so she

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was but slightly fatigued. Nevertheless, she was
conscious of not wanting to dress for the tea. But
there was a very good reason why she must attend
the function (as applied by the society reporter) ;
they would naturally discuss her brother’s coming
marriage, but if she was present, the discussion
would not rise above whispers. She wanted to
meet the old busybodies in the open; she wasn’t
afraid. As she dressed, she caught herself doing
aimless things, such as approaching the window
and watching the clouds, or thoughtfully studying
her face in the mirror, or patting the rug impa-
tiently, or sighing. She shook herself vehemently,
and went resolutely about the intricate business
known as toilet.

“T simply can’t believe it. I know he isn’t that
kind of man. This can’t be such a wicked world.
But if she dares to make John unhappy, I shall
hate her. Why must we hear these things that
make us doubt and ponder and hesitate?”

At the tea the ladies greeted her sympathet-
ically. Sympathy! Hypocrites! Heads came to-
gether ; she could see them from the corner of her
eyes. She saw Mrs. Franklyn-Haldene, like a vast
ship of the line, manceuvering toward her. There
were several escapes, but Patty stood her ground.

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“You are looking charming, my dear,” said
Mrs. Haldene.

“Thank you.”

“You go to the wedding, of course.”

“Yes; mother and I leave to-night for New
York. I am so excited over it. To think of John’s
being married to a celebrity!”

Patty was excited, but this excitement did not
find its origin in anything exultant. It was on the
tip of her tongue to tell Mrs. Franklyn-Haldene to
mind her own business. There was something
primitive in Patty. Her second thoughts were due
to cultivation, and not from any inherent caution.

Mrs. Haldene smiled and went on. It was a
wonderful smile; it never changed; it served for
all emotions, anger, hate, love, envy and malice.
Mrs. Haldene never flew into passions or ecsta-
sies. She was indeed preserved; and from the
puckering taste she left in her wake, it might be
suspected that she was pickled.

Before Patty arrived, two things had been fully
discussed: the Bennington wedding and the re-
port that Warrington was coming home to live.
Shrugs, knowing glances, hypocritical resigna-
tion. Too bad, too bad! Warrington was coming
home to live; young Mrs. Bennington would live

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across the street. When two and two make four,
what more need be said?

But Patty had her friends, and they stood by
her loyally.

New York. Clamor, clamor; noise, noise; the
calling of cabmen, the clanging of street-cars, the
rumbling of the elevated, the roaring of the drays,
the rattling of the carts; shouting, pushing, hur-
rying, rushing, digging, streaming, pell-mell; the
smell of coal-gas, of food cooking, of good and
bad tobacco, of wet pavements, of plaster; riches
and poverty jostling; romance and reality at war;
monoliths of stone and iron; shops, shops; signs,
signs; hotels; the tower of Babel; all the nations
of the world shouldering one another; Jews and
Gentiles, Christians and Turks; jumble, jumble.
This is New York. There is nothing American
about it; there is nothing English, French, Ger-
man, Latin or Oriental about it. It is cosmopoli-
tan; that is to say, it represents everything and
nothing.

Warrington, Patty and her mother alighted
from the train in the gloomy, smoky cavern called
the Grand Central Station and walked toward the
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scarcely noticeable through the blackened canopy
overhead.

“There’s John!” cried Patty, seizing her moth-
er’s arm. “And Miss Challoner, too!”

A moment later the son was holding his mother
in a fond embrace. Mrs. Bennington gave the ac-
tress her hand, who ignored it, put her arms
around the mother and kissed her. There was not
the slightest affectation in the act; it was done
naturally and sweetly. Mrs. Bennington was well
pleased. But Patty, Miss Challoner hugged Patty
and whispered: ‘“My sister!” If Patty had any
doubts, they disappeared like summer mists in
sunshine.

“T’m a rank outsider,” Warrington grumbled.

“Surely you did not expect to be kissed!” Patty
retorted.

“A man never gives up hoping. Well, Bene-
dick,” to John, “I suppose you’ve a nice breakfast
waiting for us somewhere.”

“That I have!” John thwacked Warrington on
the shoulder. “It was good of you to come down
with the folks.”

“No trouble at all.”

They all followed John, who announced that he
had a carriage waiting, large enough to carry

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them all comfortably. As they crossed over to the
street exit Warrington covertly glanced at Miss
Challoner. She was radiant; there was color on
her cheeks and lips; she was happy. Heigh-ho!
Warrington sighed. She was gone, as completely
as though she had died. He grew angry at the
heaviness of his heart. Was he always to love
no one but Warrington? It is fine to be a bachelor
when one is young; but when the years multiply,
when there are no new junkets and old ones grow
stale, when scenes change, when friends drop out
one by one, when a younger generation usurps the
primrose path of dalliance, ah! the world becomes
a dreary place. The old bachelor is the loneliest
and most pathetic of men.

Once inside the carriage, the women began a
light, friendly chatter; smiles and laughter; little
jests about Benedicks, about the servant question,
about coming home late o’ nights; antenuptial
persiflage. There was little that was spontaneous;
each jest was an effort; but it sufficed to relieve
what might have been awkward silence.

“Tt’s up to you, now, Dick,” said John. “Think
of the good times we four could have together !”

“And who’d marry an old man like me?” asked
Warrington plaintively.

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“Bosh!” said John.

“Nonsense!” said Patty.

“You are a young man,” said the mother.

“There are plenty setting their caps for you, if
you but knew it,” said Miss Challoner.

“Aha! I smell a conspiracy!” laughed War-
rington. “You are putting your heads together to
get me off your hands.”

The breakfast awaited them at Bennington’s
hotel. This passed off smoothly. Then Warring-
ton excused himself. He had a business engage-
ment down town. It was arranged, however, that
they were to be his guests that evening at dinner
and a box-party at the summer opera. On
Wednesday, at ten, they were to breakfast in his
apartment. From his rooms they would go
straight to the parson’s, the “Little Church
Around the Corner.”

When Warrington had gone, John turned to
his sister.

“Tsn’t he the finest chap?”

“He isn’t to be compared with you,” Patty an-
swered.

“Nobody is,” said Miss Challoner.

John colored with pleasure.

“Mr. Warrington is a thorough gentleman, and

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I like him very much,” said Mrs. Bennington. “T
have heard things about him; I can see that there
has been some exaggeration. I shall be very glad
to have him for a neighbor.”

“A neighbor ?” said Miss Challoner.

“Yes. He is coming back to Herculaneum to
live.”

“That is news to me.” The actress stirred her
coffee and smiled at Patty. “I understand you’ve
been riding together. He is really a splendid
horseman.”

“He has the dearest old dog,” replied Patty.

The day passed quickly for all concerned: the
dinner and box-party left nothing to be desired.

The wedding-breakfast would have provoked
envy in the heart of Lucullus; for Warrington
was a man of the world, thoroughly polished;
there was nothing Stoic about him (though, in the
early days he had been a disciple of this cult per-
force) ; he was a thoroughgoing epicure.

Patty was delighted. Warrington guided her
about the rooms on a tour of inspection. He point-
ed out all the curios and told the history of each.
But the desk was the article which interested her
most.

“And this is where you write? Upon this desk

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plays have grown up? Won't you give mea single
sheet of manuscript to take home with me?”

“T certainly shall.”

He pulled out a drawer and found some old
manuscript. He selected a sheet, signed it, and
gave it to her.

“T am rich!” the girl exclaimed. “Signed man-
uscript from a real live author! I suppose that you
receive tons of letters, some praising, some argu-
ing, some from mere autograph fiends.”

“Tt’s a part of the day’s work.” His face bright-
ened. He searched his pockets. “Here is one out
of the ordinary. It is unsigned, so I feel no qualms
of conscience in letting you read it.”

Patty took the envelope with suppressed eager-
ness. She drew out the letter and read it slowly.

“Do you receive many like that?” she asked,
folding the letter and returning it.

“Very few; that’s why I treasure it. I should
like to meet the writer; but that’s impossible. I
have read and re-read it fifty times.”

“Evidently it was written in good faith.” Patty
was not very enthusiastic.

“There’s not the least doubt of that. I am glad
of one thing: I can’t disillusion her.”

“What do you mean?”

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“Oh, this young woman thinks I must be a
paragon of virtues. I’m not; I’m a miserable im-
postor. She takes it for granted that I am good
and kind and wise.”

“Aren’t you?” asked Patty gravely.

“As men go. I always try to be kind; some-
times I am good, and sometimes I am wise.”

“T’m afraid you are one of those young men
who try to be bad and can’t. They are hopeless.”

Warrington laughed.

“But I am superstitious about that letter. I’ve
carried it in my pocket for weeks. It’s a kind of
mentor. Whenever some fool thing comes into
my head, I stop and think of the letter.”

“That is good. The writer hasn’t wasted her
time.”

“T love you!” whispered John.

Miss Challoner smiled into his eyes. The smile
encouraged him, and he raised her hand to his lips.

Ah, if it were not for those gloves! Why did
he not say something? She was positive that he
had them. To smile and laugh and talk; to face
the altar, knowing that he possessed those hateful
gloves! To pretend to deceive when she knew that
he was not deceived! It was maddening. It was

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not possible that Warrington had the gloves; he
would never have kept them all this while. What
meant this man at her side? What was he going
to do? She recollected a play in which there was
a pair of gloves. The man had thrown them at
the woman’s feet, and, at the very altar, turned
and left her. But she knew that men did not do
such things in life. She was innocent of any
wrong; this knowledge sustained her.

“A honeymoon in Switzerland: it has been the
dream of my life.” This time he drew her arm
through his and crossed the room to his mother’s
side. “Mother mine, we shall be gone only three
months; then we shall come home to stay.”

“T shall miss you so; you have been away so
much that I am hardly acquainted with you.”

The woman who was to become her daughter
suddenly dropped on her knees beside the chair.

“Please love me, too. I have been so lonely all
my life.”

“My daughter!” Mrs. Bennington laid her
hand on the splendid head.

“T shall never marry,” said Patty decidedly.

“What? Young lady, don’t let any one hear
you make such a remark. One of these fine days
somebody will swoop you up and run off with you.

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I don’t know but that I could play the part fairly
well.” Warrington laughed.

“Indeed! You'd have a time of it.”

“T dare say. But there’s the breakfast waiting.”

Toasts and good wishes, how easy they are to
give!

At the church the women cried a little. Women
cry when they are happy, they cry when they are
not; their tears keep a man guessing year in and
year out. But this is no place for a dissertation on
tears. There’s time enough for that.

The bride and groom left immediately for Bos-
ton, from which city they were to sail for Europe
the following day. In the carriage John drew his
bride close to his heart.

“Mine!” he said, kissing her. “God grant that
I may make you happy, girl.”

“John, you are the finest gentleman in the
world!”

His hand stole into his coat pocket and gently
dropped something into her lap. She looked
down and saw through her tears a crumpled pair
of white kid gloves. Then she knew what man-
ner of man was this at her side.

“Tt was not because I doubted you,” he said
softly : “it was because they were yours.”

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CHAPTER VII

Spring came round again in Herculaneum.
People began to go to the tailor and the dress-
maker and the hatter. There were witty editorials
in the newspapers on house-cleaning and about
the man who had the courage to wear the first
straw hat. The season (referring to the winter
festivities) had been unusually lively. There had
been two charity balls by rival hospital boards, re-
ceptions, amateur dramatics, dinners and dances,
not to omit the announcement of several engage-
ments.

The new Bennington mansion had its house-
warming in November. The reception, followed
by a dinner-dance in the evening, was, according
to the society columns, “one of the social events of
the season. The handsomest house in town was a
bower of smilax and hothouse roses.” Every-
body went to the reception, for everybody was
more or less curious to meet the former cele-
brated actress. The society reporters, waiting for
their cues, were rather non-committal in their de-

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scription of the mistress. There was reason. They
did not care, at this early stage of the game, to
offend the leader by too much praise of a new-
comer who had yet to establish herself. Besides,
they realized how little their paragraphs would
mean to a woman whose portrait had appeared in
nearly all the illustrated magazines in the world.
Thus, the half-heartedness of the newspapers was
equally due to self-consciousness. Society itself,
however, was greatly pleased with the beautiful
Mrs. Bennington, for she entered with zest into
all society’s plans. In fact, she threatened to be-
come very popular. The younger element began
to call her Mrs. Jack.

Kate was in her element, for to live after this
fashion was the one ambition that had survived
all seasons. She was like a child with some won-
derful new French doll. There was always a
crowd of young married people about her, which
is a healthy sign. She and Patty became insep-
arable comrades. They shopped together, went to
the matinées, and drove and rode together.

Everything went along smoothly, too smoothly.
Fate never permits anything like this to prosper
long.

For the first time in her career Mrs. Franklyn-

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Haldene saw her position menaced. The younger
set no longer consulted her as formerly. When,
like Mrs. Franklyn-Haldene, a woman has noth-
ing more serious to live for than to organize so-
cial affairs, the slightest defection from her ranks
is viewed in the light of a catastrophe. She had
called on Mrs. Bennington the second, armed with
all those subtle cruelties which women of her
caliber know so well how to handle. And behold!
she met a fencer who quietly buttoned the foils
before the bout began. She had finally departed
with smiles on her lips and rage in her heart. This
actress, whom she had thought to awe with the
majesty of her position in Herculaneum, was not
awed at all. It was disconcerting ; it was humiliat-
ing. She had condescended to tolerate and was
tolerated in turn. Katherine adored Patty, and
Patty had told her that she hated Mrs, Franklyn-
Haldene. Naturally Katherine assumed the de-
fensive whenever she met the common enemy.

But Mrs. Haldene could wait. She had waited
before this. She had made certain prophecies, and
it embittered her to learn that so far none of these
prophecies had come true. She could wait. Some-
thing was destined to happen, sooner or later.
She knew human nature too well not to be expec-

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tant. To Mrs. Haldene the most gratifying phrase
in the language was: “I told you so!” Warring:
ton had disappointed her, too. He behaved him-
self. He did not run after young Mrs. Benning-
ton; he never called there alone ; he was seen more
frequently at the old Bennington place. The truth

‘is, Patty was busy reforming the wayward drama-
tist, and Warrington was busy watching the re-
sult. There were those who nodded and looked
wise whenever they saw the two together.

Oh, Herculaneum was a city to be desired, so-
cially. Everybody was on his or her best behavior.
It was only from among the poor that scandal
gleaned her items for the newspapers. The shoot-
ing of such a man by such a woman’s husband
aroused only the mildest comment. But that class
of people, don’t you know, is so primeval. To
kill a man from jealousy! It was ridiculous. Why
did they not go to court, like civilized human
beings?

Of course there is always scandal in politics;
everybody understands that this is unavoidable.

, Another franchise had slipped out of the Common
Council into the transit company’s pocket, and
even the partizan papers mildly belabored the al-
dermanic body. The Evening Call, however,

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slashed the ward representatives vigorously. It
wound up its editorial with the query: “How
much longer will the public stand this sort of
thing?” The Call was the only independent sheet
in town, and did about as it pleased.

Warrington found himself taking more than
normal interest in the situation. Occasionally, on
Monday nights, he wandered into the City Hall
and listened to the impassioned speeches of the
aldermen. Many a tempestuous scene passed un-
der his notice. Ordinances were passed or blocked,
pavement deals were rushed through or side-
tracked. And once, when the gas company was
menaced with dollar-gas, the city pay-roll was held
up for two months by the lighting company’s
cohorts. Only Heaven knows how much longer it
might have been held back, had not an assembly-
man come to the mayor’s help by rushing up to
the capital and railroading through a law that
required only a two-thirds vote.

The Democrats had remained in power for six
years, and Herculaneum was essentially a Repub-
lican city. On the Democratic side was McQuade,
on the Republican side was ex-Senator Hender-
son. These men were bosses of no ordinary type.
The first was from the mass, the second from the

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class; and both were millionaires. The political
arena was a pastime for these two men; it was a
huge complex game of chess in which recently the
senator had been worsted. The public paid, as it
invariably does, to watch this game on the check-
erboard of wards. The senator had been unfor-
tunate in his candidates. He had tried young men
and old, lawyers and merchants; but he had failed
to nominate a man who was popular with class
and mass.

The present mayor was a shrewd Democrat
who understood the diplomacy of petty politics.
He shook the grimy hand of toil in preference to
the gloved hand of idleness. He was thoroughly
a politician. He never disregarded public opinion
openly. He never sailed close to the wind, but
spent his time in safe tacks to whatever harbor he
desired. He was McQuadrc’s man just so long as
McQuade made the business worth while. He had
opened up many new streets, abolished needless
nuisances, and these concessions gave him a
strong hold on the independent voter. He was
a king over frogs which had changed much since
/Esop’s time, for now they let well enough alone.

Nevertheless, things were going from bad to
worse. Three terms are likely to cause a man to

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grow careless or indifferent, and Donnelly was
making frequent bad breaks. The senator, ever
watchful, believed he saw a chance to sweep Mc-
Quade off the board.

McQuade had an able lieutenant in Alderman
Martin, whom the sporting fraternity followed
loyally. Martin owned and ran the most dis-
reputable hotel in the city. It occupied a position
of unusual prominence on one of the principal
business streets. There was a saloon and a cheap
restaurant on the ground floor. On the second
floor were wine-rooms and a notorious gambling-
den. Above this was the hotel. The guests stole
in at midnight and stole out at dawn.

This gambling-den was frequently the bone of
contention between energetic ministers of the gos-
pel and the police department. Regularly the
police swore that gambling did not exist in town,
and regularly the ministers went on a still hunt
for proofs. Singularly enough, they never found
any. A hint from headquarters, and the den
would close up till after the excitement was over.
All the newspapers understood that the police
lied ; but the editors were either afraid or indiffer-
ent; and the farce was played over yearly for the
benefit of the ministerial association.

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The place was run honestly enough. When the
stakes are small, the professional gambler does
not have to be dishonest. All the same, this kind
of gambler is the most despicable of men. He
lures the wage of the poor; clerks, bookkeepers,
traveling salesmen, laborers, college boys, men
who drink too much of a Saturday night, all these
come to the net. Nobody ever wins anything ; and
if perchance one does make a small winning, it
goes quickly over the bar. Women wait and won-
der at home; it is their common lot. The spirit of
the gambler is in us all, and we might as well con-
fess it here and now. It is in the corpuscles : some-
thing for nothing, something for nothing!

Martin was a power in the Common Coun-
cil. He could block or put through any measure.
He always carried a roll of gold-bills in his pock-
ets—for what purpose no one had the temerity to
inquire. His following was large and turbulent;
it came from the shops and the factories and the
streets. In his ward no candidate had ever de-
feated him. “Nice people’ had very little to do
with Mr. Martin; the laborer who was honest
had little to do with him, either. He was a pariah,
but a very formidable one. Yet, no one, though
many accused him, caught him in a dishonest deal.

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On the other hand, Senator Henderson’s party
had the cloak of respectability on its shoulders.
His lieutenants were prominent business men who
went into politics as a light diversion, young men
of aristocratic families who were ambitious to go
to Albany or Washington, and lawyers. The sen-
ator was a shrewd politician, with an unreadable
face, clean-shaven but for a stubby mustache, and
keen blue eyes that saw everything. He was loyal
to his party and above dishonesty.

This was the political situation in Herculaneum.

One May evening the senator called up War-
rington. He was told that Mr. Warrington was
at the club. The senator drove to the club forth-
with. He found the dramatist in the reading-
room, and greeted him pleasantly.

“My boy, I want half an hour of your time.”

“You are welcome to an hour of it, Senator,”
replied Warrington, curious to know what the
senator had to say to him.

“Come into a private dining-room, then.” Once
seated at the table, the senator reached over and
touched Warrington mysteriously on the arm.
“Young man, I heard you speak the other night at
the Chamber of Commerce banquet. You’re a
born orator, and what is better than that, you’ve

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common sense and humor. How would you like
to be mayor of Herculaneum next fall?”

“Mayor?” gasped Warrington.

“yes.”

“T’d make a fine mayor,” with forced laughter,
but thinking rapidly. “Aren’t you jollying me,
Senator ?”

“T’m dead in earnest, Warrington. There is not
another available man in sight. By available I
mean a man who can pull the party out of the bog.
There are a hundred I could nominate, but the
nomination would be as far as they could go. We
want a man who is fresh and new to the people,
so far as politics goes; a man who can not be in-
fluenced by money or political emoluments. There
are thousands of voters who are discontented, but
they’d prefer to vote for Donnelly again rather
than to vote for some one they know would be no
better. You are known the world over. A good
many people would never have known there was
such a place as Herculaneum but for you. It is
the home of the distinguished playwright.”

“But I know practically nothing about political
machinery,” Warrington protested.

“You can leave the machinery to me,”’ said the
senator wisely. “I'll set the wheels going. It will

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be as easy as sliding down hill. T’ll give you my
word, if you land in the City Hall, to send you to
Washington with the next Congress. Will you
accept the nomination, in case I swing it around
to you in September? It’s a big thing. All you
literary boys are breaking into politics. This is
your chance.”

“T’ll take the night to think it over,” said War-
rington. He was vastly flattered, but he was none
the less cautious and non-committal.

“Take a week, my boy; take a week. Another
thing. You are intimate with young Bennington.
He’s a hard-headed chap and doesn’t countenance
politics in his shops. The two of you ought to
bring the hands to their senses. If we can line up
the Bennington steel-mills, others will fall in.
Bennington owns the shops, but our friend Mc-
Quade owns the men who work there. Take a
week to think it over; I can rely on your absolute
secrecy.”

“T shall be silent for half a dozen reasons,”
Warrington replied. “But I shan’t keep you wait-
ing a week. Call me up by phone to-morrow at
any time between five and six. I shall say yes or
no, direct.”

“T like to hear a man talk like that.”

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“I can’t get the idea into my head yet. I never
expected to meddle with politics in this town.”

“We'll do the meddling for you. Even if you
accept, we shall require silence till the convention.
It will be a bomb in the enemy’s camp. You'll
come around to the idea. Between five and six,
then?”

“T shall have your answer ready. Good night.”

The senator took himself off, while Warring-
ton ordered a bottle of beer and drank it thought-
fully. Mayor! It would be a huge joke indeed to
come back to Herculaneum to rule it. He chuckled
all the way home that night; but when his head
struck the pillow he saw the serious side of the
affair. He recalled the old days when they sneered
at him for selling vegetables; and here they were,
coming to him with the mayoralty. It was mighty
gratifying. And there was the promise of Wash-
ington. But he knew the world: political prom-
ises and pie-crusts. What would the aunt say?
What would Patty say? Somehow, he was always
thinking of Patty. He had not thought as yet to
make any analysis of his regard for Patty. He
held her in the light of an agreeable comrade,
nothing more than that. Would she be pleased to
see him mayor of Herculaneum? Bah! He

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couldn’t sleep. He got out of bed, found a pipe
and lighted it, and sat in the rocker by the win-
dow. Jove, hearing him moving about the room,
woke up and came trotting in to inquire.

“Ha, old boy, what do you think ?”

Jove laid his head on his master’s knees.

“They want to make a mayor out of me.”

Jove signified his approval.

“They have forgiven us our daily vegetables.
But shall 1? Will it be worth while? Well, we'll
take a ride into the hills in the morning, and we'll
think it all out. Mayor of Herculaneum; sounds
good, doesn’t it? Nothing like success, Jove.”

Warrington smoked till the fire in his pipe died.
He turned in, and this time he won sleep.

Early the next morning he was off on his horse,
and he did not return till noon. But he had his
answer.

At three that afternoon he had callers. Patty
and Kate had just run over to see how the new
play was getting on. Warrington confessed that
he was doing only desultory work, but promised
to read the scenario to them when it was done.

“You are becoming lazy,” said Kate rebuk-
ingly.

“No; only a country gentleman.”

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“Patty, did you hear that? He calls Hercula-
neum a country village.”

“Nothing of the sort. One may live in a city
and be a countryman still.”

“Mr. Warrington probably misses New York,”
said Patty.

“Not the veriest particle,” promptly. Certainly
Patty was growing more charming every day.

The Angora cat, with feline caution, peeped
into the room. Patty, who loved cats, made a dash
for the fluffy animal, which turned tail and bolted
for the kitchen, Patty a close second.

For the first time since the marriage Kate and
Warrington were alone together. He gazed at
her, mildly speculative.

“Well, what do you see?” she asked.

“You are certainly one of the most beautiful
women in the world,” he declared, sighing.

“You say ‘one of?” frowning. ‘There was a
time when it was not general; you used the defi-
nite article.”

“T know it.”

“Then there must be somebody else,” quickly.

“I’m not a marrying man,” he said evasively.

“Ts it Patty, Dick? Oh, if it were only Patty!”

“T’m not good enough for Patty, Kate. The

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Lord knows, though, that I wish I were. She em-
barrasses me at times with her implicit faith in
my goodness.”

“Ah, Richard, what a terrible past yours was!”
mockingly. “Nonsense!” briskly. “You are guilty
of nothing but innocuous villainies. If there were
fairies I should ask one to make you fall violently
in love with Patty.”

“No fairies need apply,’ ambiguously. “But
you; you seem to be happy.”

“There can not be a happier woman in the
world. Let me confess. The confession may hurt
your vanity. I love my husband better than I
dreamed I could love. He is so just, so tender and
strong. And isn’t he handsome? I am madly
jealous of every woman that comes near him.
And once upon a time I believed that I was in love
with Mr. Richard.” There was no coquetry in
this frank statement.

“Any one can see that you are happy.”

“T want every one to see it. I want to tell every-
body, too. You have no idea how strong he is,
Dick. Yesterday I was in the shops with him. A
rail was in the way; the men about did not see it;
or refused to see it. John stooped, picked it up
with his bare hands, and dropped it to one side.

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There are but two men in the shops who can do
that. But I have a horror of those great bars of
twisting white iron. They terrify me. I do not
understand, but the men are always sullen when I
am there. John says it’s my imagination.”

“Tt probably is. Perhaps the begrimed faces
have something to do with it.”

“TI can read the human countenance too well,”
she said. “Is it because I have been on the stage?
Have these men a base opinion of me?”

“Impossible!”

“And they seem to dislike John, too.”

“John can take care of himself. He'll wait a
long while, but when he moves forward nothing
can stop him. Don’t you ever miss the glare of the
lights?” he asked, his endeavor being to interest
her in something foreign to the shops.

“Dick, I have almost forgotten that I ever acted.
You will remember that I refused to assist in the
amateur theatricals last winter. Act? I hate the
word. It suggests the puppet, the living in other
people’s worlds, parrot-wise, in imitation.”

“Come, come, Kate; it’s the greatest gift of all,
and you know it. Think! The power to make
people laugh and cry, to make either happiness or
misery perfectly real!"

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“Oh, there was pleasure :n it at times,’’ she ad-
mitted reluctantly. “Do you remember my gloves,
Dick? John had them.”

“He knew you were in my rooms that night?”

“Yes. I told him the simple truth, and he be-'
lieved me. How could I help loving a man as
loyal as that ?”

“Tt is fine. But Jack was always a thorough
man. I don’t blame you for loving him. I call
him all sorts of names to Patty, and it is fun to
watch her eyes flash.”

Kate gave him a curious smile.

““What’s the matter?”

“Nothing.”

“You smiled.”

“T had a happy thought.”

“Probably about that house-broken John of
yours.”

“Who’s calling John house-broken?” Patty
stood in the doorway, the Angora struggling un-
der her arm.

“Well, isn’t he house-broken?’ asked War-
rington with gentle malice: “Gentle and war-
ranted to stand ?”

Patty, for reasons of her own, permitted him
to believe that he succeeded in teasing her.

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“Kate, let us be going. I can not listen to Mr.
Warrington’s remarks regarding my brother.
He treats John as if he were a horse.”’

“Just as you say, dear. We shall punish Mr.

, Warrington by not making informal calls in the
future.”

“Wait till I get my hat,” cried Warrington,
“and I'll walk over to the house with you.”

“Tf you do that,” said Patty, “we shall be com-
pelled to ask you to remain to dinner.”

“Oh, I should refuse. I’ve a telephone engage-
ment between five and six.”

“But we never serve dinner till seven,” replied
Patty, buttoning her coat austerely.

Kate laughed merrily.

“Tf you will ask me over to dinner,” said War-
rington, “T’ll tell you a secret, a real dark politi-
cal secret, one that I’ve promised not to tell to a
soul.”

The two women stopped abruptly. The cast

“was irresistible, and they had to rise to it.

Yet Patty murmured: “How like a woman he
is!”

“Tt simply shows what high regard I have for
your discretion. It is a secret some men would
pay a comfortable fortune to learn.”

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“Will you please come and dine with us this
evening?” asked Patty.

“T shall be very happy.”

**And now, the secret,” said Mrs. Jack.

“Between five and six I expect a call on the
*phone from Senator Henderson.”

“Senator Henderson!” exclaimed the women in
unison.

“I shall say but a single word. It will be yes.”

“But the secret! Mercy alive, you are keep-
ing us waiting!”

Warrington glanced around with mock cau-
tion. He went mysteriously to the portiéres
and peered into the hall; he repeated this per-
formance at the dining-room door, then turned, a
finger upon his lips.

“Senator Henderson is looking for a candidate
for mayor this fall. Mind, not a word to a soul,
not even to John,” this warning addressed prin-
cipally to Mrs. Jack.

“The Honorable Richard Warrington,” said
Patty, musing. She rolled the words on her
tongue as if testing the sound of them.

“That’s it,” laughed Warrington. “The Hon-
orable Richard Warrington!—sounds like Lord
Mayor of London!”

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Every Eden has its serpent, sooner or later.
Thus, having futilely tried the usual gates by
which he enters Eden to destroy it, this particu-
lar serpent found a breach in the gate of politics.

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CHAPTER VIII

McQuade and Martin entered a café popular
for its noon lunches. It was hot weather in
July, and both were mopping their bald foreheads,
their faces and necks, The white bulldog trotted
along behind, his tongue lolling out of his mouth
and his eyes heavy. The two men sat down in a
corner under an electric fan; the dog crawled un-
der the table, grateful for the cold stone tiling.

“What do you know about this fellow War-
rington?” asked McQuade, tossing his hat on one
of the unoccupied chairs.

“The fellow who writes plays?”

“Yes. What do you know about him?”

“Why, he used to peddle vegetables and now
he owns a swell place on Williams Street.”

“Gamble?”

“Not that I know of. I never go into Pete’s
myself. It wouldn’t be good business. But they
tell me Warrington used to drop in once in a
while, when he was a reporter, and choke his
salary to death over the roulette table.”

“Doesn’t gamble now ?”

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“Not in any of the joints around town.”

“Drink ?”

“Oh, I guess he boozes a little; but he’s hard-
headed and knows how to handle the stuff.”

“Women ?—Roast beef, boiled potatoes and
musty ale for two.”

“Actresses.—Say, make mine a beer.—A gay
buck in New York, I understand. Used to chase
around after the Challoner woman who married
Bennington.”

“Nothing here in town?”

“Fiaven’t paid any attention to him. I guess
he’s straight enough these days.”

“Tip Pete off to-day. The police will make a
raid Saturday night. The ministers have been
shouting again, and two or three losers have
whined.”

“All right. But what’s all this about War-
rington?” asked Martin, whose curiosity was
aroused.

“T’ll tell you later.” The waiter returned with
the platters of food, and McQuade ate without
further comment or question.

Martin ate his meat in silence also, but he
was busy wondering. Warrington? What had
interested the boss in that swell? Humph!

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These men ate quickly and digested slowly.
McQuade took out two fat black cigars and
passed one to Martin, who tore off the end with
his teeth.

“T want to find out all there is to know about
Warrington. I can’t explain why just now; too
many around.”

“Set Bolles after him. Bolles used to be with a
private detective bureau. If there’s anything to
learn, he'll learn it. There he is now. Hey,
waiter, ask that gentleman looking for a vacant
table to come over. Hello, Bolles!”

“How do you do, Mr. Martin. Hot day, Mr.
McQuade.”

“Sit down,” said McQuade, with a nod of invi-
tation toward the remaining vacant chair. “Cigar
or a drink?”

“Bring me a little whisky——no, make it an old-
fashioned cocktail. That’ll be about right.”

“Mr. McQuade has a job for you, Bolles, if
you're willing to undertake it.”

“I’ve got some time on my hands just now,”
replied Bolles. “Contract work?”

“After a fashion,” said McQuade grimly. “Eat
your dinner and we'll go up stairs to my office.
What I have to say can’t be said here.”

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“All right, Mr. McQuade. If it’s dagos, I'll
have plenty in hand in November.”

“T shall want you to go to New York,” said
McQuade.

“New York or San Francisco, so long as some
one foots the bills.”

“T’ll foot ’em,” agreed McQuade. “Hustle
your dinner. We'll wait for you at the bar.”

Bolles ordered. A job for McQuade that took
him to New York meant money, money and a
good time. There were no more contracts till
September, so the junket to New York wouldn’t
interfere with his regular work. He had sublet
his Italians. He was free. A few minutes later
he joined McQuade, and the trio went up stairs
in a cloud of tobacco smoke. McQuade nodded
to the typewriter, who rose and left the private
office. The three men sat down, in what might
be described as a one-two-three attitude: domina-
tion, tacit acceptance of this domination, and ser-
vility.

“Do you know Richard Warrington, the play-
writer?”

“That snob? Yes, I know who he is, and I’d
like to punch his head for him, too.”

McQuade smiled. This manifest rancor on

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Bolles’ part would make things easier than he
thought.

“Well, listen. I've just been tipped that big
things are going to happen this fall. That fool
Donnelly has queered himself, and is making a:
muddle of everything he touches. Senator Hen-
derson is a shrewd man, but he wasn’t shrewd
enough this time. He should have conducted his
little conspiracy in his own home and not at a
club where servants often find profit in selling
what they hear. Henderson is going to put War-
rington up for mayor.”

“The hell he is!’ said Bolles.

Martin’s jaw dropped, and the cigar ashes
tumbled down his shirt bosom.

“Tt’s no joke,” went on McQuade. “Tf he is
nominated, he'll win. The people are wanting a
change. If the Henderson people get into the
City Hall, I stand to lose a fortune on contracts.
You both know what that means. Warrington
must never get a chance to accept.”

Bolles looked at Martin. McQuade saw the
look, and, interpreting it, laughed.

“These are no dime-novel days. We don’t kill
men to get ’em out of the way. We take a look
into their past and use it as a club.”

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“T begin to see,” said Martin. “Warrington
must be side-tracked before the convention. Good.
That'll be simple.”

“Not very,” McQuade admitted. “It’s going
to be a devilish hard job. You, Bolles, pack up
and go to New York. I want some information
regarding this young fellow’s past in New York.
It’s up to you to get it. No faking, mind you;
good substantial evidence that can be backed up
by affidavits. Get the idea? Five hundred and
expenses, if you succeed; your expenses anyhow.
Five hundred is a lot of money these days. But
if you go on a bat, I'll drop you like a hot brick,
for good and all. Think it over. Pack up to-
night, if you want to. Here’s a hundred to start
with. Remember this, now, there must be a
woman.”

“A woman?” -

“Yes. A man has no past, if there isn’t a wom-
an in it.”

“T can land that five hundred,” Bolles declared
confidently. “I can find the woman. I'll write
you every other day.”

“Well, then, that’s all. Good luck. No booz-
ing while you’re on the job. ‘Afterward I don’t
care what you do. By-by.”

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Bolles took his dismissal smilingly. Five hun-
dred. It was easy.

“Tf it’s possible, he’ll do it,” said Martin. “But
what’s your campaign?”

“Donnelly must remain another term. After
that, oblivion. There'll be bids this fall. If Hen-
derson’s man wins, there'll be new aldermen.
These bids of mine must go through and gas must
be kept at a dollar-fifty. [I’m a rich man, but at
present I’m up to my neck in southern contracts
that aren’t paying ten cents on the dollar. Her-
culaneum’s got to foot the bill.”

“Flow’d you find out about Henderson’s coup?”

“One of the waiters at his club said he had
some information. I gave him ten dollars for
something I’d have given ten hundred for just as
quickly. If Henderson had sprung Warrington
in September, we’d have been swamped. Now we
have a good chance to hang on.”

“Force him to back down and withdraw ?”

McQuade nodded:

“It’s simply got to be done. I didn’t give Hen-
derson credit for so clever a move as this. A new
man, famous and wealthy, under no obligations
to his party; the voters would follow him just for
the novelty of the thing. Besides, there are other

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reasons, but I’m keeping them to myself. How
about that pavement deal in John Street?”

John Street possessed but three or four houses.
The paving would be a ten-thousand-dollar job.
As a witty political speaker once said, they paved
Herculaneum in the concrete and in the abstract.

“It will go through Monday night, smooth as
butter.”

“Canvassed the boys?”

“More than three-fourths vote. Sure.”

“T’m depending upon you.”

“Will you turn down Donnelly at the conven-
tion?”

“T tell you he’s got to run again. I'll bring
him to order, after a little heart-to-heart talk.
He’s the only man in sight.”

“Why not play the same game as Henderson?”

“T’ve thought it all out. There’s no one but
Donnelly. Pick up anything you can about War-
rington.”

“Allright. By the way, the boys want to know
if you think we can pull off those ten-round bouts
this winter.”

“T’m going down to the capital to see.”

Martin telephoned for his team, and twenty
minutes later he was driving countryward. Mc-

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Quade dictated a few letters, one of which he di-
rected to be sent by messenger. Then he left the
office and called upon the editor of the Times.
This conference lasted an hour. McQuade was
chief owner of the Times.

Warrington was greatly surprised when, at
three-thirty, a message was brought to him re-
questing him briefly and politely to do Mr. Mc-
Quade the honor to call on him between four and
five that afternoon. He had met McQuade at the
Chamber of Commerce dinner. The introduction
had been most formal. What the deuce did Mc-
Quade wish to see him about? Should he go? A
natural aversion to the man said no; but policy
urged him as well as curiosity. He went to the
telephone and called up McQuade’s office. Mr.
McQuade was not in, but would return at four.
Ah! It was the typewriter who spoke. Would she
kindly notify Mr. McQuade on his return that
Mr. Warrington would be at his office at four-
thirty? She would. Thanks.

Warrington smoked uneasily. He had no de-
sire to meet McQuade. Their ways were widely
separated and reached nothing in common. But
he readily recognized the fact that McQuade was

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not a man such as one might heedlessly antag-
onize. What could the politician want of the lit-
erary man? McQuade dabbled in racing horses;
perhaps he had a horse to sell. In that event,
they would meet on common ground. But his
belief in this possibility was only half-hearted.
He filled his pockets with cigars, whistled for the
dog, and departed. Both of the Bennington
houses were closed; the two families were up
north in the woods.

Promptly at four-thirty Warrington and his
dog entered the elevator of the McQuade Build-
ing and were dislodged on the third floor. They
went along the dim corridor, scrutinizing doors,
each hunting for one of his kind. Jove couldn't
read, but he could smell. Finally Warrington

came to a stand. Upon the glass panel of the door
he read:

 

DanteEL McQuape & Co.
GENERAL CONTRACTORS

 

 

 

He did not knock. He opened the door and
walked in. It is a sign of weakness for a man to
knock on the door of a business office, unless it is
marked private. Nevertheless, the dingy glass

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had known the knock of many knuckles. A girl
was hammering on the typewriting machine. She
ceased only when she completed the page. She
looked up. Her expression, on seeing who the
visitor was, changed instantly, It was not often
that a man like this one entered the office of
Daniel McQuade and Company, General Con-
tractors.

“T have an appointment with Mr. McQuade,”
said Warrington pleasantly ; “would you mind an-
nouncing me?”

“Just a moment,” answered the girl, rising and
entering the private office. She returned at once.
“Mr. McQuade will see you.”

Warrington walked quietly into the lion’s den.

“Glad to see you, Mr. Warrington,” said Mc-
Quade, pointing toward a chair. He did not offer
his hand; something told him not to make that
mistake.

From under the desk McQuade’s dog emerged,
stiff and bristling. On his side, Jove stood
squarely on his legs, head on, as they say, his lips
writhing and quivering with rage. Warrington
touched the chair that had been offered him.
Jove begged. But the master was obdurate. Jove
jumped up, but turned quickly. The white dog

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stopped. He recognized that he was at a com-
plete disadvantage.

McQuade watched these proceedings with an
amused twinkle. It was a clever manceuver. So
far as he was concerned, a good dog fight would
not have been to his distaste.

“Tt doesn’t hurt the brutes to fight once in
awhile. But, of course,” he added, “your dog is
old.”

“Nothing is old till it is useless.”

“An epigram from one of your plays?”

“No; but it sounds good enough to use. Jove
has strong teeth, however, and he comes from a
fighting family. But for my part, I had much
rather see two men pummel each other.”

“So would I, for that matter.” McQuade
pushed the match-box toward Warrington, but
Warrington drew out his own and struck a light.
McQuade shrugged.

“Mr. McQuade, I am interested to learn what
is back of your note. Horses?”

“No; not horses.”

McQuade viewed the young man through half-
closed eyes. The contractor was a big hulk of a
man, physically as strong as a bull, with reddish
hair, small twinkling eyes, a puffy nose mottled

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with veins, thin lips shaded by a bristling red
mustache, and a heavy jaw. The red fell of hair
on his hands reminded Warrington of a sow’s
back. Everything about McQuade suggested
strength and tensity of purpose. He had begun
work on a canal-boat. He had carried shovel and
pick. From boss on a railway section job he had
become a brakeman. He took a turn at lumber-
ing, bought a tract of chestnuts and made a good
penny in railroad ties. He saved every dollar
above his expenses. He bought a small interest
in a contracting firm, and presently he became its
head. There was ebb and tide to his fortunes, but
he hung on. A lighting contract made him a rich
man. Then he drifted into politics; and now, at
the age of fifty, he was a power in the state. The
one phase of sentiment in the man was the long-
ing to possess all those obstacles that had beset his
path in the days of his struggles. He bought the
canal-boat and converted it into a house-boat; he
broke the man who had refused him a job at the
start; he bought the block, the sidewalk of which
he had swept; every man who stood in his way
he removed this way or that. He was dishonest,
but his dishonesty was of a Napoleonic order.
He was uneducated, but he possessed that exact
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knowledge of mankind that makes leaders; and
his shrewdness was the result of caution and sus-
picion. But like all men of his breed, he hated
with peculiar venom the well-born; he loved to
grapple with them, to wrest their idleness from
them, to compel them to work for a living, to hu-
miliate them. The fiber in McQuade was coarse;
he possessed neither generosity nor magnanimity ;
the very men who feared him held him in secret
contempt,

“No, Mr. Warrington, I haven’t any horses for
sale to-day,” he began. “Not very long ago you
met Senator Henderson at your club. He offered
you the nomination for mayor this fall, and you
accepted it.”

Warrington could not repress a start of sur-
prise. He had not quite expected this. He was
annoyed.

“That is true. What mystifies me,” he supple-
mented, “is how this knowledge came to your
ears.”

“T generally hear what’s going on. My object
in asking you to call is to talk over the matter on
a friendly basis.”

“I can not see what good that will do. Po-
litically we have nothing in common.”

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“Politically or socially. But the point is this,
What have you done that you should merit this
honor? I'll talk frankly. What have you done
toward the building up of your city? What have
you done toward its progress in manufacturing
and building? You have done nothing but buy
a house on the fashionable street and pay the
taxes.”

“You might add that I once peddled vege-
tables,” said Warrington.

It was McQuade’s turn to be surprised. From
what he had observed of fashionable people, espe-
cially the new-rich, they endeavored to submerge
altogether the evidences of past manual and menial
labor.

“Then you are not ashamed of the fact that you
sold vegetables ?”

“Tn truth, ’'m rather proud of it. It was the
first step in the fight. And I tell you honestly,
Mr. McQuade, that I have fought every inch of
the way. And [I shall continue to fight, when
there’s anything worth fighting for. I’m not a
manufacturer or a builder, but I am none the less
eligible for public office. What little money I
have was made honestly, every penny of it. It
was not built on political robbery and the failures

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of others. But let us come to the point. You
have something to say.”

“Yes. I have. And it is this: I don’t pro-
pose to have you meddle with the politics of this
city. I hope we can come to a peaceful under-
standing. I don’t want to war against you.”

“Mr. McQuade, you talk like a man out of his
senses. Who’s going to prevent me from accept-
ing the nomination?”

“T am,” answered McQuade, bringing a fist
down on his desk.

The dogs growled. They seemed to realize that
war of some kind was in the air.

“How?” asked Warrington. The man was a
fool!

“You will go to Senator Henderson and tell
him that you have reconsidered.”

Warrington laughed. “TI believed I knew all
phases, but this one surpasses any I ever heard of.
You have the nerve to ask me, of the opposition
party, to refuse the nomination for mayor ?”

“T have.”

“Are you afraid of me?”

“Not of you, my lad,’’ McQuade answered sar-
donically, spreading out his great hands. “Do I
look like a man afraid of anything? But the

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thought of a stranger becoming mayor of Hercu-
laneum rather frightens me. Let us have peace,
Mr. Warrington.”

“T ask nothing better.”

“Withdraw.”

“I never withdraw. I am not afraid of any-
thing. I even promise to be good-natured enough
to look upon this meeting as a colossal joke.”
Warrington’s cigar had gone out. He relighted
it coolly. “If the nomination is offered me, I
shall accept it; and once having accepted it, I'll
fight, but honorably and in the open. Look here,
McQuade, don’t be a fool. You’ve something
against me personally. What is it? If I recol-
lect, I ran across you once or twice when I was a
newspaper man.”

McQuade’s eyes narrowed again.

“Personally, you are nothing to me,” he replied;
“politically, you are a meddler, and you are in my
way.”

“Oh, Iam in your way? That is to say, if I
am elected, there’ll be too much honesty in the
City Hall to suit your plans? I can readily be-
lieve that. If you can convince me that I ought
not to run for mayor, do so. I can accept any
reasonable argument. But bluster will do no

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good. For aman of your accredited ability, you
are making a poor move, even a fatal one.”

“Will you withdraw?”

“Emphatically no!”

“All right. Whatever comes your way after
this, don’t blame me. I have given you a fair
warning.”

“You have threatened.”

“T can act also. And you can put this in
your pipe, Mr. Warrington, that before October
comes round, when the Republican convention
meets, you will withdraw your name quickly
enough. This is not a threat. It’s a warning.
That’s all. I’m sorry you can’t see the matter
from my standpoint.”

“Come, boy,” said Warrington to his dog.
“You had better keep your animal under the
table.”

McQuade did not move or answer. So War-
rington grasped Jove by the collar and led him
out of the private office. McQuade heard the
dramatist whistle on the way to the elevator.

“So he'll fight, eh?’ growled McQuade.
“Well, I'll break him, or my name’s not Mc-
Quade. The damned meddling upstart, with his
plays and fine women! You're a hell of a dog,

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you are! Why the devil didn’t you kill his pup
for him?”

McQuade sent a kick at the dog, who dodged it
successfully, trotted out to the typewriter and
crawled under the girl’s skirts.

Warrington went home, thoroughly angry with
himself. To have bandied words and threats with
aman like McQuade! He had lowered himself to
the man’s level. But there were times when he
could not control his tongue. Education and
time had not tamed him any. Withdraw? It
would have to be something more tangible than
threats.

“Richard, you are not eating anything,” said
his aunt at dinner that evening.

“Tm not hungry, Aunty. It’s been one of those
days when a man gets up wrong.”

“I’m sorry. Doesn’t the play go along
smoothly ?”

“Not as smoothly as I should like.”

“There was a long-distance call for you this
afternoon. The Benningtons want you to come
up at once instead of next week.”

Warrington brightened perceptibly. He went
to work, but his heart wasn’t in it. The inter-
view with McQuade insisted upon recurring.

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Why hadn’t he walked out without any comment
whatever? Silence would have crushed Mc-
Quade. He knew that McQuade could not back
up this threat; it was only a threat. Bah! Once
more he flung himself into his work.

Half an hour later the door-bell rang.

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CHAPTER IX

Character is a word from which have descend-
ed two meanings diametrically opposed to each
other, We say a man has a character, or we say
he is one. The first signifies respect ; the second,
a tolerant contempt: There exists in all small
communities, such as villages, towns, and cities
of the third class, what is known as a character.
In the cities he is found loafing in hotel lobbies
or in the corridors of the City Hall; in the hamlet
he is usually the orator of the post-office or the
corner grocery. Invariably his wife takes in
washing, and once in a while he secures for her
an extra order. If he has any children, they live
in the streets. He wears a collar, but seldom adds
a tie. He prides himself on being the friend of
the laboring man, and a necktie implies the wor-
ship of the golden calf. He never denies him-
self a social glass. He never buys, but he always
manages to be introduced in time. After the first
drink he calls his new friend by his surname; after
the second drink it is “Arthur” or “John” or

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“Henry,” as the case may be; then it dwindles
into “Art” or “Jack” or “Hank.” No one ever
objects to this progressive familiarity. The stran-
ger finds the character rather amusing. The char-
acter is usually a harmless parasite, and his one
ambition is to get a political job such as entails
no work. He is always pulling wires, as they
say; but those at the other end are not sensi-
tive to the touch. On dull days he loiters around
the police court and looks mysterious. Cub re-
porters at first glance believe him to be a detective
in disguise.

Herculaneum had its character. He was a
pompous little man to whom the inelegant ap-
plied the term of runt. He never could have
passed the army examination, for he had no in-
step. He walked like a duck, flat-footed, minus
the waddle. He was pop-eyed, and the fumes of
strong drink had loosened the tear-ducts so that
his eyes swam in a perennial mist of tears. His
wife still called him William, but down town he
was Bill. He knew everybody in town, and every-
body in town knew him. There was a time when
he had been on intimate terms with so distin-
guished a person as Mrs. Franklyn-Haldene. He
will tell you to this day how he was wont to dan-

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dle her on his knee. Bill was one of those indi-
viduals of whom it is said: “He means well.” In
other words, he was a do-nothing, a ne’er-do-well.
He had been comparatively rich once, but he had
meant well with his money. One grand splurge,
and it was all over. Herculaneum still recollects
that splurge. When in his cups, Bill was always
referring to those gorgeous days. Afterward,
Bill and his family lived from hand to mouth.
Occasionally, at Christmas, some of his old
friends who felt sorry for him sent him a purse.
Did Bill purchase turkey and coal and potatoes?
No, indeed. He bought useless French toys for
the children, who went hungry. Another time,
when heartless winter returned and the price of
coal went up, a church social was arranged for
Bill’s benefit. It netted him nearly a hundred dol-
lars. But Bill didn’t pay his landlord and grocer;
not he! He came down town the following day
with a shiny plug-hat and a gold-headed cane.
Bill was a first-class genealogist. He could tell
you the history of every leading family in town.
It took Bill to expose the new-rich; he did it
handsomely. The way these breakfast million-
aires lorded and landaued it highly amused him.
Who were they, anyhow? Coal-heavers, hod-
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carriers, stock-speculators, riffraff, who pos-
sessed an ounce of brains and a pound of luck.
Why, they didn’t even know how to spend their
money when they got it. But what could be ex-
pected of people who put iron dogs and wooden
deers on their front lawns? But the Benningtons,
the Haldenes, and the Winterfields, and the Park-
ers,—they had something to brag about. They
were Bunker Hillers, they were; they had always
had money and social position. As for the Mil-
lens, and the Deckers, and the McQuades—pah!

Bill had a wonderful memory; he never forgot
those who laughed at him and those who nodded
kindly. He was shiftless and lazy, but he had
a code of honor. Bill could have blackmailed
many a careless man of prominence, had he been
so minded. But a man who had once dined a
governor of the state could do no wrong. His
main fault was that he had neglected to wean
his former greatness; he still nursed it. Thus, it
was beneath his dignity to accept a position as a
clerk in a store or shop. The fact that his pris-
tine glory was somewhat dimmed to the eyes of
his fellow citizens in no wise disturbed Bill.
Sometimes, when he was inclined to let loose the

flood-gates of memory, his friends would slip a
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quarter into his palm and bid him get a drink,
this being the easiest method of getting rid of
him.

Bill marched into the Warrington place jaun-
tily. He wore a tie. Jove ran out and sniffed the
frayed hems of his trousers. But like all men of
his ilk, he possessed the gift of making friends
with dogs. He patted Jove’s broad head, spoke
to him, and the dog wagged what there was left
of his tail. Bill proceeded to the front door and
resolutely rang the bell. The door opened pres-
ently.

“Ts Richard in?” Bill asked. He had had only
two drinks that evening.

“Mr. Warrington is in,” answered the valet,
with chilling dignity. “What is your business?”

‘Mine!’ thundered Bill, who had a democratic
contempt for a gentleman’s gentleman. “I have
important business to transact with your master.
Take this card in to him. He’ll see me.”

The valet looked at the greasy card. The name
was written in ink; the card was of the kind one
finds in hotels for the convenience of the guests.

“I will take the card to Mr. Warrington,” the
valet promised reluctantly. There was, however,

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a barely perceptible grin struggling at the corners
of his mouth. He was not wholly devoid of the
sense of humor, as a gentleman’s gentleman
should at all times be.

“William Osborne? What the deuce does he
want here?’ asked Warrington impatiently.

“He said his business was important, sir. If it
is half as important as he acts—”

“No comments, please. Show Mr. Osborne

in.”
Warrington turned all his mail face-downward.
He knew Bill of aforetime, in the old newspaper
days. Bill had marvelously keen eyes, for all
that they were watery. The valet ushered him
into the study. He wore his usual blasé expres-
sion. He sat down and drew up his chair to the
desk.

“Well, Mr. Osborne, what’s on your mind to-
night?’ Warrington leaned back.

“The truth is, Richard,’ began William, “TI
found this letter on the pavement this afternoon.
Guess you'd been down to the hotel this after-
noon, and dropped it. I found it out in front.
There was no envelope, so I couldn’t help read-
ing it.”

Warrington seized the letter eagerly. It was

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the only letter of its kind in the world. It was
enchanted.

“Mr. Osborne, you’ve done me a real service.
I would not take a small fortune for this letter.
I don’t recollect how I came to lose it. Must
have taken it out and dropped it accidentally.
Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it, my boy.” Very few called
him Mr. Osborne.

“It is worth a good deal to me. Would you be
offended if I gave you ten as a reward?”

“Td feel hurt, Richard, but not offended,” a
twinkle in the watery eyes.

Warrington laughed, drew out his wallet and
handed William a crisp, crackly bank-note. It
went, neatly creased, into William’s sagging vest-
pocket.

“Have a cigarette?” asked Warrington.

“Richard, there’s one thing I never did, and
that’s smoke one of those coffin-nails. Whisky
and tobacco are all right, but I draw the line at
cigarettes.”

Warrington passed him a cigar. William bit
off the end and lighted it. He sniffed with evi-
dent relish.

“Seems impossible, Richard, that only a few

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years ago you were a reporter at the police sta-
tion. But I always said that you’d get there some
day. You saw the dramatic side of the simplest
case. I knew your father. He was one of the
best farmers in the county. But he didn’t know
how to invest his savings. He ought to have left
you rich.”

“But he didn’t. After all, it’s a fine thing to
make for the good things in life and win them
yourself.”

“That’s true. You're a different breed from
some of these people who are your neighbors.
We're all mighty proud of you, here in Hercu-
laneum. What you want to do is to get into poli-
tics.” Here Bill winked mysteriously. “You've
money and influence, and that’s what counts.”

“T’m seriously thinking the thing over,’ re-
turned Warrington, not quite understanding the
wink.

“Everything’s on the bum in town; it wants a
clean bill. McQuade must go. The man never
keeps a promise. Told me in the presence of wit-
nesses, last election, that he’d give me a job on
the new police board; and yet after election he
put in one of those whipper-snappers who know
nothing. Of course, you’ve been in town long

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enough to know that Donnelly is simply Mc-
Quade’s creature. I never had any luck.”

“Oh, it may change by and by.” Warrington,
at that moment, felt genuinely sorry for the out-
cast.

Bill twirled his hat. “You’ve never laughed at
me, Richard; you’ve always treated me like a gen-
tleman, which I was once. I didn’t mail that let-
ter because I wanted to see if you had changed
any. If you had become a snob, why, you could
fight your blamed battles yourself; no help from
me. But you’re just the same. I’ve brought
something that'll be of more use to you than that
letter, and don’t you forget it.”

“What?” asked Warrington skeptically.

Suddenly Bill leaned forward, shading his
voice with his hand. “I was in Hanley’s for a
glass of beer this noon. I sat in a dark place.
The table next to me was occupied by Martin,
McQuade, and a fellow named Bolles.”

“Bolles ?”

“You’ve been away so Jong you haven’t heard
of him. He handles the dagos during election.
Well, McQuade was asking all sorts of questions
about you. Asked if you gambled, or drank, or
ran around after women.”

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Warrington no longer leaned back in his chair.
His body assumed an alert angle.

“They all went up to McQuade’s office. The
typewriter is a niece of mine. McQuade has
heard that the senator is going to spring your
name at the caucus. But that’s a small matter.
McQuade is going to do you some way or other.”

“What do you mean?”

“Why, he sees that his goose is cooked if you
run. He’s determined that he won’t let you.”

Warrington laughed ; there was a note of battle
in his laughter. “Go on,” he said.

“Nobody knew anything about your habits.
So McQuade has sent Bolles to New York. He
used to be a private detective. He’s gone to New
York to look up your past there. I know Bolles;
he'll stop at nothing. McQuade, however, was
wise enough to warn him not to fake, but to get
real facts.”

This time Warrington’s laughter was genuine.

“He’s welcome to all he can find.”

“But this isn’t all. I know a printer on the
Times. To-morrow the whole story about your
accepting the senator’s offer will come out. They
hope the senator will be forced to change his
plans. They think the public will lose interest in
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your campaign. Surprise is what the public
needs. I’ll tell you something else. Morris, who
died last week, had just sold out his interest in
the Telegraph to McQuade. This means that
McQuade has the controlling interest in every
newspaper in town. I never heard of such a thing
before; five newspapers, Democratic and Repub-
lican, owned by a Democratic boss.”

Warrington smoked thoughtfully. This man
McQuade was something out of the ordinary.
And he had defied him.

“IT am very much obliged to you, Osborne. If
I win out, on my word of honor, I’ll do something
for you.”

“You aren’t afraid of McQuade?” anxiously.

“My dear Mr. Osborne, I am not afraid of the
Old Nick himself. Ill give this man McQuade
the biggest fight he has ever had. Bolles will
have his pains for nothing. Any scandal he can
rake up about my past will be pure blackmail;
and I know how to deal with that breed.”

“McQuade will try something else, then. He’s
sworn to stop you. I’m glad you aren’t afraid of
him.”

“T can’t thank you enough.”
“{ wander about town a good deal; nobody

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pays much attention to me; so lots of things fall
under my notice. I'll let you know what I hear.
You'll find all the decent people on your side, sur-
prise or no surprise. They’re tired of McQuade
and Donnelly: Some of these paving deals smell.
Well, I’m keeping you from your work.” Bill
rose.

“Help yourself to these cigars,” said Warring-
ton gratefully, passing the box.

Bill took three.

“Good night, Richard.”

“Good night, Mr. Osborne. If by any good
luck I become mayor of Herculaneum, I’ll not
forget your service to-night.”

“That’s all that’s necessary for me;”’ and Bill
bowed himself out. He layed his course for his
familiar haunts.

Warrington turned to his work again. But
the news he had just received disturbed all con-
nected thought, so he put the manuscript away.
So the first gun had been fired! They had sent
a man to hunt up his past in New York. He
looked back, searching this corner and that, but
he could not recall anything that would serve Mc-
Quade’s purpose. No man is totally free from
folly. True, there was a time when he drank,

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but he had stopped that idiocy nearly two years
before. This could not be tallied against him
with effect. And, thank God, there had been no
women. His gambling had been of the innocuous
kind. Well, let them hunt; much good it would
do them.

He picked up the letter which Osborne had so
fortunately come upon. He was often amused at
the fascination it held for him. He would never
meet the writer, and yet not a day passed that he
did not strive to conjure up an imaginative like-
ness. And he had nearly lost it. The creases
were beginning to show. He studied it thorough-
ly. He held it toward the light. Ah, here was
something that had hitherto escaped his notice.
It was a peculiar water-mark. He examined the
folds. The sheet had not been folded originally,
letter-wise, but had been flat, as if torn from a
tablet. He scrutinized the edges and found signs
of mucilage. Here was something, but it led him
to no solution. The post-office mark had been
made in New York. To trace a letter in New
York would be as impracticable as subtracting
gold from sea-water. It was a tantalizing mys-
tery, and it bothered him more than he liked to
confess. He put the letter in his wallet, and went

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into the sewing-room, where his aunt was knit-
ting. The dear old lady smiled at him.

“Aunty, I’ve got a secret to tell you.”

“What is it, Richard?”

“Tm going to run for mayor.”

The old lady dropped her work and held up her
hands in horror.

“You are fooling, Richard!”

“T am very serious, Aunty.”

“But politicians are such scamps, Richard.”

“Somebody’s got to reform them.”

“But they'll reform you into one of their kind.
You don’t mean it!’

“Yes, I do. I’ve promised, and I can’t back
down now.”

“No good will come of it,” said the old lady
prophetically, reaching down for her work. “But
if you are determined, I suppose it’s no use for
me to talk. What will the Benningtons say?”

“They rather approve of the idea. I’m going
up there early to-morrow. I'll be up before you’re
down. Good night.” He lightly kissed the wrin-
kled face.

“Have a good time, Richard; and God bless
my boy.”

He paused on the threshold and came back.

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Why, he did not know. But having come back,
he kissed her once again, his hands on her cheeks.
There were tears in her eyes.

“You're so kind and good to an old woman,
Richard.”

“Pshaw! there’s nobody your equal in all the
world. Good night;” and he stepped out into the
hall.

The next morning he left town for the Ben-
ningtons’ bungalow in the Adirondacks. He car-
ried his fishing-rods, for Patty had told him that
their lake was alive with black bass. Warrington
was an ardent angler. Rain might deluge him,
the sun scorch, but he would sit in a boat all day
for a possible strike. He arrived at two in the
afternoon, and found John, Kate and Patty at the
village station. A buckboard took them into the
heart of the forest, and the penetrating, resinous
perfumes tingled Warrington’s nostrils. He had
been in the woods in years gone by; not a tree or
a shrub that he did not know. It was nearly a
two hours’ drive to the lake, which was circled
by lordly mountains.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” asked Patty, with a kind
of proprietary pride.

“Tt is as fine as anything in the Alps,” War-

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rington admitted. “Shall we go a-fishing in the
morning ?”

“If you can get up early enough.”

“Trust me!” enthusiastically.

“T netted one this morning that weighed three
pounds.”

“Fish grow more rapidly out of water than in,”
railingly.

“John, didn’t that bass weigh three pounds?”
Patty appealed.

“Tt weighed three and a half.”

“T apologize,” said Warrington humbly.

“How's the politician?’ whispered Kate, ea-
gerly.

“About to find himself in the heart of a great
scandal. The enemy has located us, and this
afternoon the Times is to come out with a broad-
side. I haven’t the least idea what it will say, nor
care.”

“That’s the proper way to talk,” replied Kate
approvingly. “We climbed that bald mountain

yesterday. Patty took some beautiful photo-
graphs.”

“The tip of your nose is beginning to peel,”
said Warrington irrelevantly.

“Tt’s horrid of you to mention it. I’m not used

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to the sun, but I love it. Patty is teaching me
how to bait a hook.”

“T’d like to see a photograph of that,’ War-
rington cried. ‘Say, John, is there any way of
getting to-night’s newspapers up here?”

“Nothing till to-morrow morning. The boat
leaves the mail at night. But what’s this talk
about politics?” John demanded.

Warrington looked at Patty and Kate in honest
amazement.

“Do you two mean to tell me,” he asked, “that
you have really kept the news from John?”

“You told us not to tell,” said Kate reproach-
fully.

“Well, I see that I shall never get any nearer
the truth about women. I thought sure they’d
tell you, Jack, that I’m going to run for mayor
this fall.”

“No!”

“Truth, And it’s going to be the fight of my
life. I accepted in the spirit of fun, but I am
dead in earnest now. Whichever way it goes, it
will be a good fight. And you may lay to that,
my lad, as our friend Long John Silver used to
say.”

He said nothing, however, of his interview

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with McQuade. That was one of the things he
thought best to keep to himself.

“Tl harangue the boys in the shops,” volun-
teered John, “though there’s a spirit of unrest I
don’t like. I’ve no doubt that before long I shall
have a fight on my hands. But I shall know ex-
actly what to do,” grimly. “But hang business!
These two weeks are going to be totally outside
the circle of business. I hope you'll win, Dick.
We'll burn all the stray barrels for you on election
night.”

“There'll be plenty of them burning. But I
shall be nervous till I see the Times.”

“You'll have it in the morning.”

Warrington sighed. Half an hour later the
bungalow came into view.

The elder Bennington knew the value of hygi-
enic living. He kept his children out of doors,
summer and winter. He taught them how to ride,
to hunt, to fish; he was their partner in all out-of-
door games; he made sport interesting and im-
parted to them his own zest and vitality. So they
grew up strong and healthy. He left their mental
instruction to the mother, knowing full well that
she would do as much on her side as he had done
on his. Only one law did he lay down: the chil-

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dren should go to public schools till the time for
higher education arrived, Then they might
choose whatever seat of learning they desired.
He had the sound belief that children sent to pri-
vate schools rarely become useful citizens.

The rosal glow of dawn tipped the mountains,
and a russet haze lay on the still bosom of the
lake. Warrington made a successful cast not far
from the lily-pods. Zing! went the reel. But by
the pressure of his thumb he brought the runa-
way to a sudden halt. The tip of the rod threat-
ened to break! Hooked! Patty swung round
the canoe, which action gave the angler freer
play. Ah, wasn’t that beautiful! Two feet out of
the water! Here he comes, but not more swiftly
than the reel can take him. Off he goes again—
take care for the unexpected slack. Another leap,
like a bronze flame, and then a dash for the shal-
low bottom. He fought gallantly for his life and
freedom. Patty reached for the net. Inch by
inch Warrington drew him in. Twice he leaped
over the net, but Patty was an old hand. The
third effort landed him.

“Two pounds,” said Patty. “Plenty for break-
fast now.”

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“Tell you what, this is sport. How many have
we?”

“Seven in half an hour.” Patty began using
her paddle.

“Finest sport in the world!” Warrington set-
tled down on the cushion and leisurely watched
the brown arms of his guide.

“You're a good fisherman. And I like to see a
good fisherman get excited. John is like a statue
when he gets a strike; he reels them in like a ma-
chine. He becomes angry if any one talks. But
it’s fun to watch Kate. She nearly falls out of
the boat, and screams when the bass leaps. Isn’t
it beautiful?”

“It is a kind of Eden. But I’m so restless. I
have to be wandering from place to place. If I
owned your bungalow, I should sell it the second
year. All the charm would go the first season.
God has made so many beautiful places in this
world for man that man is the only ungrateful
creature in it. What’s that smoke in the dis-
tance?”

“That’s the mail-boat, with your newspaper.
It will be two hours yet before it reaches our dock.
It has to zigzag to and fro across the lake. I’m

hungry.”
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“So am I. Let me take the paddle.”

The exchange was made, and he sent the canoe
over the water rapidly. Patty eyed him with
frank admiration.

“Ts there anything you can’t do well?”

“A good many things,” he acknowledged.

“T should like to know what they are.”

Neither spoke again till the canoe glided
around the dock and a landing was made. War-
rington strung the fish, and together he and
Patty went toward the kitchen. At seven-thirty
the family sat down to a breakfast of fried bass,
and Patty told how the catch had been made.

“He’s a better fisherman than you, John.”

“Just as you say, Patty. I care not who
catches bass, so long as I may eat them,” in hu-
morous paraphrase.

There was no little excitement over the arrival
of the mail-boat. They were all eager to see what
the Times had to say. There was a column or
more on the first page, subheaded. Warrington’s
career was rather accurately portrayed, but there
were some pungent references to cabbages. In
the leader, on the editorial page, was the master-
hand.

“In brief, this young man is to be the Republican

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candidate for mayor. Grown desperate these half-
dozen years of ineffectual striving for political pap,
Senator Henderson resorts to such an expedient.
But the coup falls flat; there will be no surprise at
the convention; the senator loses the point he seeks
to score. Personally, we have nothing to say against
the character of Mr. Warrington. After a fashion
he is a credit to his native town. But we reaffirm,
he is not a citizen, he is not eligible to the high office.
If he accepts, after this arraignment, he becomes
nothing more than an impertinent meddler. What
has he done for the people of Herculaneum? Noth-
ing. Who knows anything about his character, his
honor, his worth? Nobody. To hold one’s franchise
as a citizen does not make that person a citizen in
the honest sense of the word. Let Mr. Warrington
live among us half a dozen years, and then we shall
see. The senator, who is not without some wisdom
and experience, will doubtless withdraw this abor-
tive candidate. It’s the only logical thing he can do.
We dare say that the dramatist accepted the honor
with but one end in view: to find some material for
a new play. But Herculaneum declines to be so hon-
ored. He is legally, but not morally, a citizen. He
is a meddler, and Herculaneum is already too well
supplied with meddlers. Do the wise thing, Mr.
Warrington; withdraw. Otherwise your profit will
be laughter and ridicule; for the Republican party
can never hope to win under such equivocal leader-
ship. That’s all we have to say.”

Warrington, who had been reading the articles
aloud, grinned and thrust the paper into his
pocket.

“What shall you do?” asked John curiously.
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“Do? Go into the fight tooth and nail. They
dub me a meddler ; P'll make the word good.”

“Hurrah! cried Kate, clapping her hands.
She caught Patty in her arms, and the two
waltzed around the dock.

The two men shook hands, and presently all
four were reading their private letters. War-
rington received but one. It was a brief note
from the senator. “Pay no attention to Times’
story. Are you game for a fight? Write me at
once, and I'll start the campaign on the receipt of
your letter.”

“Patty, where do you write letters?” he asked.
He called her Patty quite naturally. Patty was
in no wise offended.

“Tn the reading-room you will find a desk with
paper and pens and ink. Shall I go with you?”

“Not at all. I’ve only a note to scribble to
Senator Henderson.”

Warrington found the desk. Upon it lay a
tablet. He wrote hurriedly:

“Start your campaign; I am in it now to the last
ditch.”

As he re-read it, he observed a blur in the grain
of the paper. On closer inspection he saw that it
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was a water-mark. He had seen one similar, but
where? His heart began thumping his ribs. He
produced the inevitable letter. The water-mark
was identical. He even laid the letter unfolded on
the tablet. It fitted exactly.

“Patty!” he murmured in a whisper.

Patty had never written him a single line;
whenever she had communicated to him her com-
mands, it had been by telephone. Patty Benning-
ton! The window was at his elbow. He looked
out and followed the sky-line of the hills as they
rolled away to the south. Patty! It was a very
beautiful world, and this was a day of days. It
all came to him in that moment of discovery. He
had drifted along toward it quite unconsciously,
as a river might idle toward the sea. Patty! The
light of this knowledge was blinding for a space.
So Warrington came into his own romance. It
was not the grand passion, which is always me-
teoric; it was rather like a new star, radiant,
peaceful, eternal.

“Patty!” He smiled.

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CHAPTER X

It was only when the whistle of the returning
boat sounded close by that he realized he had been
sitting there for nearly an hour. He roused him-
self, sealed and addressed his letter to the sen-
ator, and hurried down to the dock. Patty was
alone, mending some tackle.

“It must be a long letter,’ she remarked, stand-
ing up and shaking her skirts.

“Why, this is only the beginning of it,” he re-
plied ambiguously. “It is never going to end.”

“Mercy! It must be a postscript.”

He had no retort handy, so he contented him-
self with watching the approach of the boat.

“Some men are never satisfied,” she said owl-
ishly. “If I were a successful dramatist, such as
you are, a public office would look rather tawdry.”

“But it’s real, Patty; it’s life and not mum-
mery.”

“T don’t know,” doubtfully ; “from what I have
read, there are more puppets in and about a City
Hall than ever dangled in the puppet booth. Did

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I give you permission to call me Patty?” de-
murely.

“Not that I recollect.” The boat came sweep-
ing up to the dock, and he tossed the senator’s
letter to the boy. The boat went on with a mu-
sical gurgle. “But when I especially like any-
thing, I usually appropriate it.”

“T can see that you will make a good politi-
cian.”

He laughed happily.

“Evidently you like the name. You have ap-
plied it to me three times this morning.”

“Like it? Why, I think it is the most charm-
ing name I ever heard. It smells of primroses,
garden-walls, soldiers in ragged regimentals, of
the time when they built houses with big-col-
umned porches.”

“My!”

“May I not call you Patty?”

“Oh, if you ask my permission, you may.”

“i do.”

“That is better.”

“Patty ?”

“Well.”

“Do you ever look in your mirror?”

“The idea! Of course I do. I look in it every

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morning and every night. And as often as I find
the time. Why?”

“Nothing; only, I do not blame you.”

“What’s all this leading to?” frowning.

“Heaven knows! But I feel sentimental this
morning. There is so much beauty surrounding
me that I feel impelled to voice my appreciation
of it.”

“There is no remedy, I suppose.”

“None, save the agony of extemporization.”

“T have never heard you talk like this before.
What is the matter?”

“Perhaps it is the exhilaration I feel for the
coming fight. Would you like to see me mayor?”

“Indeed I should. Think of the circus tickets
you'd have to give away each year! You know
they always give the mayor a handful for his per-
sonal use. No, Mr. Warrington, I shall be very
proud of you when you are mayor.”

“What’s the matter with your calling me Rich-
ard or Dick?”

“We must not advance too suddenly.”

“Ts there anything the matter with the name?”

“Oh, no; Richard is quite musical in its way.
But I am always thinking of the humpbacked
king. If I called you anything it would be Dick.”

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“Richard was not humpbacked. Moreover, he
was a valiant king, greatly maligned by Mr.
Shakespeare.”

“I see that I shall not dare argue with you on
the subject; but we can not banish on so short a
notice the early impressions of childhood. Rich-
ard Third has always been a bugaboo to my mind.
Some day, perhaps, I'll get over it.”

“Make it Dick, as a compromise.”

“Some day, when I have known you a little
longer. Has John ever told you about Mr. Mc-
Quade?”

“McQuade?” Warrington realized that he had
been floating on a pleasant sea. He came upon
the hidden shore rather soundly. “McQuade?”
he repeated.

“Yes. He had the audacity to propose to
mother shortly after father’s death. Think of it!
John wrote to him very definitely that his pres-
ence in the house would no longer be welcomed
or tolerated. Father had some slight business
transactions with Mr. McQuade, and he came up
to the house frequently. He continued these vis-
its after father’s death. We treated him decently,
but we simply could not make him feel wel-
come. The third time he called he proposed.

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Mother left the room without even replying. He
understood. A few minutes afterward we heard
the door slam. John wrote him the next morn-
ing. Did you ever hear of anything to equal the
cold-bloodedness of it?”

Warrington looked at her in absolute amaze-
ment.

“Well, of all the nerve! Why the deuce didn’t
John punch his head?” savagely.

“Mr. McQuade is not a gentleman; John is,”
simply. “But Mr. McQuade hasn’t forgotten;
not he. He pays no attention to any of us; but
that is no sign that he does not think a good deal.
However, we do not worry. There is no possible
chance for him to retaliate; at least John declares
there isn’t. But sometimes I grow afraid when I
think it all over. To his mind I can see that he
considers himself badly affronted; and from what
I know of his history, he never lets an affront
pass without striking back in some manner.”

“Don’t you worry your head about McQuade.
What do you think? He is so anxious to get me
out of the political arena that he has sent a man
down to New York to look into my past. Isn’t
that droll?”

Patty stooped again to the fishing-tackle.

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“Such men as McQuade can invent. I should
be very careful, if I were you. Your own con-
science may prove you guiltless of scandal, but
there are certain people who would rather believe
bad than good—scanda! than truth; and these are
always in the majority. Don’t laugh, but watch.
That’s my advice to you, Mr. Meddler.” She
smiled brightly at him as she threaded the line
through the guides of the rod.

“IT may not have lived as cleanly as I might
have,” he said soberly. “I have been knocked
about so much. There were times when I grew
tired of fighting. But I have never done any-
thing that will not stand daylight: There was a
time, Patty, when I came near making a fool of
myself.” He sat down, his legs swinging over
the water. “I drank more than was good for
me.” He stared into the brown water and
watched the minnows as they darted hither and
thither. “I was alone; things went wrong, and
I was cowardly enough to fall into the habit.
But it was only periodically. You remember that
letter I showed you?”

“Yes.” Patty’s voice was low.

“I believe I have read it a thousand times. It
has caused me a great many regrets. I should

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like, some day, to meet the writer and disillusion
her. One thing she may be sure of: I have never
belittled the talent God has given me. I have
striven for the ideal; I have even fought for it.
That part of my life holds no stain.”

“But the habit?” hesitant.

“It is gone, where all fool-habits go, when a
man has will power to rid himself of them. Pride
has something to do with it; and I have my share
of pride. I shall never go back.”

His head was turned away, but she could see
the muscles in the jaws harden.

“You will never go back, I am sure, Richard.”

That she had at last pronounced his given name
did not stir him; in fact, it passed over his head
and hearing. Like a dragon-brood, he saw in
fancy his past follies springing up about him.
Not yet could he tell this clean-minded, gentle-
bred girl that he loved her. He must prove him-
self still further before he might utter what so
thoroughly filled his heart and mind.

“Your brother’s wife brought me to my senses.
What I am to-day she in part has made. That is
why I think so much of her; that is why I am
happy to see that she is happy and has realized
her heart’s desire. Heigh-ho! I believe I am mak-

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ing you my confessor.” He turned his face to-
ward her now, and his smile was rather sad.
“When I recall the worry I have given my poor
old aunt, who loves me so, I feel like a contempti-
ble scoundrel. How many countless sacrifices has
she made for me, in the days when we had noth-
ing! But she shall have all the comforts now,
and all the love and kindness I am capable of giv-
ing her. I shall never leave her again.”

There were tears in Patty’s eyes. “It is never
too late to mend; and when a man is penitent,
truly and honestly penitent, much shall be for-
given him. It is only those who are by nature
coarse who do not eventually surmount tempta-
tion. What you have told me I have known this
long while.”

“You have known?” he cried with sinking
heart.

“Yes. We live in a city where gossip travels
quickly and thoroughly. Mrs. Franklyn-Haldene
was telling mother one afternoon that you drank.
I suppose she felt it her duty.”

“To be sure,” bitterly. ‘Was it while I have
been living at home?”

“No; when the rumor came that you were com-
ing.

”

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He shrugged expressively. ‘I ought to have
known.”

“But come; you are up here to be cheered, not
lectured. Let us play billiards. I can hear John
and Kate playing now. We'll play sides; and
if we win against those two, I promise to call you
Richard once a day while you are up here. Or,
would you rather I played and sang?”

“Much rather,” brightening up a bit. ‘There
is always time to play billiards. But first, I want
you to come with me into the reading-room. I
have something to show you; I had almost for-
gotten.”

“The reading-room?” puzzled.

“Yes. Will you come?”

She nodded her assent, and the two entered the
house. Warrington, having arrived at the writ-
ing-desk, bade her sit down. He had an idea.
Patty sat down.

“I want you to write something for me,” he
said, pushing the pen and tablet toward her.

“What's the matter with your hand?” she de-
manded.

“Nothing.”

“Then why do you want me to write?”

“IT have never seen your handwriting. I’m

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something of an expert in that line. I'll read
your future.”

“But I don’t want my future read,” rebel-
liously.

“Well, then, your past.”

“Much less my past. Come; you are only beat-
ing about the bush. What is it you want?”

“T want to know,” he said quietly, “why you
have kept me in ignorance all this while.” He
laid the letter on the desk, and placed a finger on
the water-mark. “It wasn’t fair to let me com-
pose panegyrics over it all the while you were
laughing in your sleeve. Ah, I’ve caught you.
You can’t get away this time, Patty.”

“T haven’t the slightest idea what you are talk-
ing about.” But she looked at the letter and not
at him.

“Do you see those water-marks? he de-
manded.

“Yes. You will find them in a thousand tablets
like this. I bought a dozen of them in New
York; cheap and handy.”

Warrington’s confidence in his discovery be-
gan to shake. He braced himself and took a bold
course.

“Patty, you wrote that letter; you know you

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did. You wrote it in New York, the day you
bought the tablets.”

| P?

“Yes. Confess.”

“My dear Mr. Warrington, you must prove it,”
lightly. “It would not be proper for me to admit
that I had been so foolish as to write a letter like
that.”

“But you've praised it!”

“Simply because praising it would please you;
for no other reason.”

“Did you, or did you not write it?”

“Find out. You must prove that I wrote it.
Certainly I have nothing to confess.”

“You will not answer me one way or the
other ?”

“No.”

“Tf you had not written it you would.”

“T don’t believe I shall sing this morning,” ris-
ing.

“And I have wondered a thousand times who
could have written it. And all the time it was
you.”

“Nor play billiards,’ went on Patty.

“If only I were all you hitherto believed me to
be!”

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“Nor fish to-morrow morning.”

“This letter has been like an anchor, Immedi-
ately upon receiving it I began to try to live bet-
ter.”

“Nor fish the day after to-morrow.”

“And I had forgotten all about Jack’s having a
sister !”’

“Something I shall neither forget nor forgive.
And if you persist in accusing me of writing that
letter, I promise not to fish again while you are
here.” She walked toward the door, her chin held
high.

“You wrote it. Come and sing. Ill say noth-
ing more about it. There’s nothing more to be
said.” He carelessly picked up a book and looked
at the fly-leaf. “From Sister Patty to Brother
John,” he read. There was no mistake now. He
laughed. Patty turned. “The writing is the
same.””

“Ts it?”

“Will you sing?”

No answer.

“Please.”

Patty stood between the door that led to the
veranda and the door that led to the music-room
—between Charybdis and Scylla, as it were, for

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she knew he would follow her whichever way she
went. She turned into the music-room.

“Thanks,” he said.

The days passed all too quickly for Warring-
ton. He walked in the golden glow of his first ro-
mance, that romance which never leaves us till
life itself departs. He spoke no word of his love,
but at times there was something in his voice that
thrilled Patty and subdued her elfish gaiety.
Some girls would have understood at once, but
Patty was different. She was happy one mo-
ment, and troubled the next, not knowing the
reason. She was not analytical; there was no
sophistry in her young heart. She did not dream
that this man loved her; she was not vain enough
for that.

John and Kate watched them approvingly.
They knew the worth of the man; they were not
at all worried over what was past. They saw
their own romance tenderly reflected. Mrs. Ben-
nington was utterly oblivious. Mothers never real-
ize that their daughters and sons must some day
leave them; they refuse to accept this natural
law; they lament over it to-day as they lamented
in the days of the Old Testament. The truth is,
children are always children to the parents; pa-

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ternal and maternal authority believes its right
indefinite.

By this time all the newspapers, save the Tele-
graph, had made readable copy out of Warring-
ton’s candidacy. Why the Telegraph remained
mute was rather mystifying. Warrington saw
the hand of McQuade in this. The party papers
had to defend the senator, but their defense was
not so strong as it might have been. Not a single
sheet came out frankly for Warrington. The
young candidate smoked his pipe and said noth-
ing, but mentally he was rolling up his sleeves a
little each day. He had not yet pulled through
the convention. Strong as the senator was, there
might yet be a hitch in the final adjustment. So
far nothing had come of Bolles’ trip to New
York, Occasionally newspapers from the near-
by towns fell into Warrington’s hands. These
spoke of his candidacy in the highest terms, and
belabored the editors of Herculaneum for not ac-
cepting such a good chance of ridding itself of
McQuadeism.

Meantime, there was fishing, long trips into
the heart of the forests, dancing at the hotel at
the head of the lake, billiards and music. War-
rington was already deeply tanned, and Patty’s

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nose was liberally sprinkled with golden freckles.

One evening Kate and John sat on the veranda
from where they could easily watch Warrington
and Patty in the music-room.

“What do you think of it, John?”

“There’s not a finer chap in the world. But I
don’t think Patty realizes yet.”

“Dear Patty!’ Kate reached over and took his
hand in hers, laying it against her cold cheek.
“What is it, John? You have been worried all
day.”

“Nothing ; nothing to bother you with.”

“The shops? It worries me when you don’t
confide in me in everything.”

“Well, dear, the trouble I’ve been expecting for
months is about to come. You know that young
Chittenden, the English inventor, has been exper-
imenting with a machine that will do the work of
five men. They have been trying to force him to
join the union, but he has refused, having had
too many examples of unionism in his own coun-
try to risk his independence here. Well, I re-
ceived a letter from the general manager this
morning. Either Chittenden must join or go;
otherwise the men will go out September first.”

“What shall you do?”

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*

“T shall keep Chittenden. I am master there,’
striking the arm of his chair; “master in every-
thing. If they go out in September, it will be for
good. I shall tear down the shops and build model
tenements.”

“John!”

“T am sick and tired, dear. I have raised the
wages all over the district; my men work less
than any other hands in town. I have built a
gymnasium for them, given them books, pool-
tables, and games, to say nothing of the swim-
ming-tank. J have arranged the annual outings.
I have established a pension-list. But all this
seems to have done no good. I am at the end of
the rope. Oh, the poor devils who work are all
right; it’s the men outside who are raising all this
trouble; it’s the union, not the men. There’s no
denying the power these men can wield, for
wrong or right. Ignorance can not resist the
temptation to use it at all times and for all pur-
poses. But I am master at the Bennington shops;
injustice shall not dictate to me. They’ll use it
politically, too. After all, ’'m glad I’ve told
you.”

“But, John, ’m afraid for you. They may
hurt you.”

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John answered with a sound that was more of
a growl than a laugh.

“Don’t you worry about me, honey; I’m no
weakling. I wish Dick could be with me when
the fight comes, but he will have his hands full,
and the strike will not help him any: Don’t you
worry. Father always felt that there would be
trouble some day. He held a large bundle of
bank-stock and railroad bonds, and the income
from these alone will take care of us very com-
fortably. There’s a good deal of real estate, too,
that may be reckoned on. If the crash does come,
we'll pack up, take the mother, and go abroad
for a year or so. But before J’m done I'll teach
local unionism a lesson it will not forget soon.
Don’t you worry,” he repeated again; “you just
leave it to me.”

She did not speak, but kissed his hand. She
knew that no pleading could move him; and be-
sides, he was in the right.

“T don’t understand the lukewarmness of the
party papers,” he said. “They ought to hurrah
over Dick. But perhaps the secret machinery is
being set to work, and they’ve been told that there
will be trouble at the convention. The senator
never backs down, and I’ve never seen anybody

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that could frighten Dick. There'll be some inter-
esting events this fall. Herculaneum will figure
in the newspapers from Maine to California, for
everybody is familiar with Warrington’s name
and work. It’s a month yet before the delegates
get together; either Warrington will run or he
won't. Calling him a meddler is good. If the
Times isn’t a meddler, I never saw one and have
misunderstood the meaning of the word.”

In the music-room Patty was playing Grieg
and MacDowell, and Warrington was turning the
pages. The chords, weird and melancholy,
seemed to permeate his whole being; sad, haunt-
ing music, that spoke of toil, tears, death and
division, failure and defeat, hapless love and
loveless happiness. After a polonaise, Patty
stopped.

“Tf music were only lasting, like a painting, a
statue, a book,” she said; “but it isn’t. Why,
these things haunt me every day, but I can recol-
lect nothing; I have to come back to the piano.
It is elusive.”

“And the most powerful of all the arts that
arouse the emotions. Hang it! when I hear a
great singer, a great violinist, half the time I find
an invisible hand clutching me by the throat.

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Patty, honestly now, didn’t you write that
letter ?”’

“Yes,” looking him courageously in the eyes.
“And I hope you were not laughing when you
said all those kind things about it.”

“Laughing? No,” gravely, “I was not laugh-
ing. Play something lively; Chaminade; I am
blue to-night.”

So Patty played the light, enchanting sketches.
In the midst of one of them she stopped suddenly.

“What is it?” he asked.

“I thought I heard the boat’s whistle. Listen.
Yes, there it is. It must be a telegram. They
never come up to the head of the lake at night for
anything less. There goes John with a lantern.”

“Never mind the telegram,” he said; “play.”

A quarter of an hour later John and Kate came
in,

“A telegram for you, Dick,” John announced,
sending the yellow envelope skimming through
the air.

Warrington caught it deftly. He balanced it
in his hand speculatively.

“Tt is probably a hurry-call from the senator.
I may have to go back to town to-morrow. I
have always hated telegrams.”

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He opened it carelessly and read it. He read
it again, slowly; and Patty, who was nearest to
him, saw his face turn gray under the tan and
his lips tremble. He looked from one to the other
dumbly, then back at the sheet in his hand.

“Richard!” said Kate, with that quick intuition
which leaps across chasms of doubt and arrives
definitely.

“My aunt died this afternoon,” he said, his
voice breaking, for he had not the power to con-
trol it.

Nobody moved; a kind of paralysis touched
them all.

“She died this afternoon, and I wasn’t there.”
There is something terribly pathetic in a strong
man’s grief.

“Dick!” John rushed to his side. “Dick, old
man, there must be some mistake.”

He seized the telegram from Warrington’s
nerveless fingers. There was no mistake. The
telegram was signed by the family physician.
'Then John did the kindliest thing in his power.

“Do you wish to be alone, Dick?”

Warrington nodded. John laid the telegram
on the table, and the three of them passed out of
the room. A gust of wind, coming down from

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the mountains, carried the telegram gently to the
floor. Warrington, leaning against the table,
stared down at it.

What frightful things these missives are!
Charged with success or failure, riches or poverty,
victory or defeat, births or deaths, they fly to and
fro around the great world hourly, on ominous
and sinister wings. A letter often fails to reach
us, but a telegram, never. It is the messenger of
fate, whose emissaries never fail to arrive.

Death had never before looked into Warring-
ton’s life; he had viewed it with equanimity, with
a tolerant pity for those who succumbed to it, for
those whose hearts it ravaged with loneliness and
longing. He had used it frequently in his busi-
ness as a property by which to arouse the emo-
tions of his audiences. That it should some day
stand at his side, looking into his eyes, never oc-
curred to him. He tried to think, to beguile him-
self into the belief that he should presently awake
to find it a dream. Futile expedient! She was
dead; that dear, kind, loving heart was dead.
Ah! and she had died alone! A great sob choked
him. He sank into a chair and buried his face in
his arms. The past rushed over him like a vast
wave. How many times had he carelessly wound-

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ed that heart which had beat solely for him!
How many times had he given his word, only to
break it! He was alone, alone; death had severed
the single tie; he was alone. Death is kind to the
dead, but harsh to the living. Presently his sighs
became less regular, and at length they ceased en-
tirely.

The portiére rustled slightly, and Patty’s face
became visible. Her eyes were wet. She had
tried to keep away, but something drew her ir-
resistibly. Her heart swelled. If only she might
touch his bowed head, aye, kiss the touches of
grey at the temples; if only she might console
him in this hour of darkness and grief. Poor
boy, poor boy! She knew not how long she
watched him; it might have been minutes or
hours; she was without recollection of time. A
hand touched her gently on the arm. Kate stood
by her side.

“Come,” she whispered ; “come, Patty.”

Patty turned without question or remonstrance
and followed her up stairs.

“Kate, dear Kate!”

“What is it, darling?”

“He is all alone!”

‘At midnight John tiptoed into the music-room.

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Warrington had not moved. John tapped him on
the shoulder.

“You mustn’t stay here, old man. Come to
bed.”

Warrington stood up.

“Would you like a drop of brandy?”

Warrington shook his head.

“It is terribly hard,” said John, throwing his
arm across the other’s shoulders. “I know; I un-
derstand. You are recalling all the mistakes, all
the broken promises, all the disappointments.
That is but natural. But in a few days all the
little acts of kindness will return to your memory;
all the good times you two have had together, the
thousand little benefits that made her last days
pleasant. These will soften the blow, Dick.”

“T wasn’t there,” Warrington murmured dully.
His mind could accept but one fact: his aunt had
died alone, without his being at the bedside:

It rained in Herculaneum that night. The
pavement in Williams Street glistened sharply,
for a wind was swinging the arc-lamps. The
trees on the Warrington lawn sighed incessantly ;
and drip, drip, drip, went the rain on the leaves.
Not a light shone anywhere in the house; total

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darkness brooded over it. In one of the rooms a
dog lay with his nose against the threshold of the
door. From time to time he whined mournfully.
In another room an Angora cat stalked restlessly
back and forth, sometimes leaping upon a chair,
sometimes trotting round and round, and again,
wild-eyed and furtive, it stood motionless, as if
listening. Death had entered the house; and
death, to the beast, is not understandable.

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CHAPTER XI

Everybody had gone down the winding road
to the granite entrance of the cemetery; the min-
ister, the choir, the friends and those who had
come because they reveled in morbid scenes.
These were curious to see how Warrington was
affected, if he showed his grief or contained it, so
that they might have something to talk about till
some one else died. There are some people in this
merry world of ours who, when they take up the
evening paper, turn first to the day’s death no-
tices; who see no sermons in the bright flowers,
the birds and butterflies, the misty blue hills, the
sunshine, who read no lesson in beauty, who rec-
ognize no message in the moon and the stars, in
cheerfulness and good humor. On the contrary, '
they seem to abhor the sunshine; they keep their
parlors for ever in musty darkness, a kind of tomb
where they place funeral wreaths under glass
globes and enter but half a dozen times a year.
Well, even these had finally dragged themselves

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away from the grave, and left Warrington stand-
ing alone beside the brown roll of damp fresh
earth. No carriage awaited him, for he had sig-
nified his intention of walking home.

All about him the great elms and maples and
oaks showed crisp against the pale summer sky.
Occasionally a leaf fell. A red squirrel chattered
above him, and an oriole sang shrilly and joy-
ously near by. The sun was reddening in the
west, and below, almost at his feet, the valley
swam in a haze of delicate amethyst. The curv-
ing stream glittered. From where he stood he
could see them bundling up the sheaves of wheat.
All these things told him mutely that the world
was going on the same as ever; nothing had
changed. In the city men and women were going
about their affairs as usual; the smoke rolled up
from the great chimneys. When all is said, our
griefs and joys are wholly our own; the outsider
does not participate.

Yes, the world went on just the same. Death
makes a vacancy, but the Great Accountant easily
fills it; and the summing up of balances goes on.
Let us thank God for the buoyancy of the human
spirit, which, however sorely tried, presently rises
and assumes its normal interest in life.

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Warrington looked dreamily at the grave, and
the philosopher in him speculated upon the mys-
tery of it. Either the grave is Heaven or it is
nothing; one can proceed no farther. If there
was a Heaven (and in the secret corner of his
heart he believed there was), a new star shone in
the sky at night, a gentle, peaceful star. Just
now the pain came in the knowledge that she was
gone; later the actual absence would be felt. For
a month or so it would seem that she had gone
on a journey; he would find himself waiting and
watching; but as the weeks and months went by,
and he heard not her step nor her voice, then
would come the real anguish. They tell us that
these wounds heal; well, maybe; but they open
and reopen and open again till that day we our-
selves cease to take interest in worldly affairs.

He stooped and picked up one of the roses
which she had held in her hand. Reverently he
pressed his lips to it and put it away in his wallet.
Then he turned and went slowly down the hill.
He had never really known her till these last few
months; not till now did he realize how closely
knit together had been their lives and affections.
He lighted a cigar, and with his hands behind his
back and his chin in his collar, he continued to

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the gates. The old care-taker opened and closed
the gates phlegmatically. Day by day they came,
and one by one they never went out again. To
him there was neither joy nor grief; if the grass
grew thick and the trees leaved abundantly, that
was all he desired.

It was a long walk to Williams Street, and he
was tired when he entered the house. Jove leaped
upon him gladly. Warrington held the dog’s
head in his hands and gazed into the brown eyes.
Here was one that loved him, wholly and without
question. You will always find some good in the
man who retains the affection of his dog. In
good times or bad, they are stanch friends; and
they are without self-interest, which is more than
human. In the living-room he found the Angora
curled up on a sofa-cushion. He smoothed her,
and she stretched her lithe body luxuriously and
yawned. There is no other animal which so com-
pletely interprets the word indifference. Warring-
ton wondered what he should do with her, for he
was not very fond of cats. But his aunt had
loved her, so he passed on to the dining-room
without deciding what to do.

It was a lonely supper. He kept his eyes on his
plate as well as he could; for whenever he saw the

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back of her chair, his food choked him. He won-
dered why he did not take the decanter of whisky
down from the sideboard ; a generous tumblerful.
: No. This was the first time in months
that the desire to drink deeply came to him. No;
he would leave it there. Supper done, he went to
his den and took down a book. Could he live
here now? He doubted it, for it was a house of
empty doors. He settled himself in a chair and
turned the pages of the book to a place he loved
well. It was where D’Artagnan, representing
Planchet and Company, returns to the grocer
with the bags of English gold which, for several
good reasons, Charles Second has given him for
General Monk’s sword. He was well along toward
the fainting of the honest Planchet on the money-
bags, when the telephone rang. He took up the
receiver.

“Well?”

“Mama wants you to come over and spend the
night with us. John and Kate will be here,
too.”

He recognized Patty’s voice.

“T shall be very glad to,” he replied. “Good-
by.” He rang for Mary, who came in, her eyes
red and swollen. Poor soul, she had also lost her

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best friend. “I am going over to the Benning-
tons’ to spend the night, Mary.”

“Very well, sir; just as you think best.”

The Benningtons were very kind to him. They
engaged his interest the moment he entered the
house. They talked of a thousand and one things
diverting: the foreign news, the political outlook,
the September horse-show at which Patty would
ride and jump, what was contemplated in society
for the fall and winter, the ice-carnival, and the
engagements.

“Why don’t you enter your Irish hunter?”
asked John, when the talk veered around to
horses again.

“T ride for the mere pleasure of it,” replied
Warrington; “or, if you will, I’m too lazy to learn
the judges’ catechism.”

Presently they had him telling how he had
written his first play, and how completely Mrs.
Jack had fooled him on their first meeting.

“No, I have not the slightest desire to return to
the stage,”’ said Mrs. Jack, in answer to a casual
inquiry made by Warrington.

“Not while I’m around,” supplemented John.

“Why, nothing could lure me back to it,” Mrs.
Jack declared emphatically. “I am happy. J am

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very happy. I have nothing to wish for, save
that my happiness may endure.”

Mrs. Bennington, who had long since grown to
love her daughter-in-law, smiled benignly.

“You will always be happy, my dear; you were
born to be. It is the just reward for making
those around you happy.”

“Patty,” said Warrington, “would you like the
Angora?”

“T should love it dearly.”

“Then I'll send it over to you in the morning.”

And that was as near as they approached the
subject they were tacitly avoiding.

At a quarter of nine, to the consternation of
every one, Mrs. Franklyn-Haldene was an-
nounced.

“Take me up stairs to the billiard-room,” said
Warrington: “I am not in the mood to meet that
woman to-night.”

“Come on, then,” cried John, willing enough.
“There’s the servants’ stairs. I'll give you a han-
dicap of twenty in a hundred points.”

“Tl beat you at those odds.”

“That remains to be seen.”

And the two hurried up the stairs just as the
hall-door closed. The billiard-room was situated

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at the head of the front stairs. Warrington won
the bank, and he ran a score of ten. While he was
chalking his cue he heard voices.

“It is very sad.” It was Mrs. Franklyn-Hal-
dene talking. “We shall miss her in church work.
It is a severe blow to Mr. Warrington.”

“That was a good draw, John. Three cush-
ions this time. Good. You're playing strong to-
night.”

“Did you think to bring over your pajamas?”
John asked irrelevantly.

Warrington smiled in spite of himself.

“T forgot all about them,” he admitted.

“Thought you would, so I brought over two
sets. We're about the same size. Pshaw! that
was an easy one, too.”

Warrington missed his shot. He heard voices
again.

“And I want you to help me.’”’ It was Mrs.
Franklyn-Haldene again. “We shall reorganize
the Woman’s Auxiliary Republican Club, and we
shall need you. It is principally for that that I
came over.”

“T take very little interest in anything outside
my home,” replied Mrs. Bennington.

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“Did you get that?” whispered John, as he
drew back for a carom.

“But this is very important for the city’s wel-
fare,” pursued Mrs, Franklyn-Haldene.

“I doubt it. So long as we do not vote—”

“That’s just it. We can’t vote, but we can get
together and control the male vote in the family.
That’s something.”

John grinned at Warrington, who replied with
a shrug.

“And they all call me the meddler!” he said.

“What’s the matter with your staying on here
a few days, Dick?”

“T should be nothing but a bother to you.”

“Rot! You can’t stay alone over there.”

“T’ll have to; I can’t leave those poor old souls
alone. They are broken-hearted. I sent her two
hundred every month regularly, just for pin-
money; and what do you think she did with it?
Hoarded it up and willed something like two
thousand to Mary and her husband. I’m all in,
Dick. But go on; I’ll finish the game.”

“All right. But whenever you feel lonesome,
come here or over to my house. There'll always
be a spare room for you in either house.”

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“It’s mighty kind of you, John. My shot?”
Warrington ran four and missed.

Voices again.

“I never believe what I hear, and only half of
what I see.” That was Mrs. Jack speaking.

Murmurs. The billiard-balls clicked sharply as
John played for position.

“The stage doesn’t appeal to you any more,
then?” Mrs. Franklyn-Haldene:

“Not in the least. It never did appeal to me.
I am so far away from it now that I am losing
the desire to witness plays.”

“And for whom will Mr. Warrington write his
plays now?”

“The vacancy I made has long ago been filled.
I was but one in a thousand to interpret his char-
acters. There is always a lack of plays, but never
of actors.”

“Excuse me for a moment.” It was Patty this
time.

“Certainly, my dear.”

Warrington heard nothing more for several
minutes,

“Ts it true what I hear about Patty and that
rich young Mr. Whiteland, of New York?”

“What is it that you have heard?”

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“Why, that their engagement is about to be an-
nounced.”

Warrington stood perfectly still. Whiteland
had been a guest at the Adirondack bungalow
earlier in the summer. He waited for the an-
swer, and it seemed to him that it would never
come.

“T am not engaged to any one, Mrs. Haldene,
and I hope you will do me the favor to deny the
report whenever you come across it.” Patty had
returned. “It seems incredible that a young man
may not call upon a young woman without their
names becoming coupled matrimonially.”

‘Nevertheless, he is regarded as extremely eli-
gible.”

“T have often wondered over Haldene’s regu-
lar Saturday night jag at the club,” said John,
stringing his count, “but I wonder no longer.
They say she never goes out Saturdays.”

Warrington heard the words, but the sense of
them passed by. He could realize only one thing,
and that was, he loved Patty better than all the
world. He could accept his own defeat with phi-
losophy, but another man’s success!—could he
accept that? How strangely everything had
changed in the last few days! He had never

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known real mental anguish; heartaches in others
had always afforded him mild amusement and
contempt. It was one thing, he reflected, to write
about human emotions; it was entirely another
thing to live and act them. He saw that his past
had been full of egotism and selfishness, but he
also saw that his selfishness was of the kind that
has its foundation in indifference and not in cal-
culation. The voices went on down stairs, but
he ceased to pay any attention to them.

“John, there’s been something in my mind for
many months.”

“What is it?”

“Do you recollect the night you came into my
rooms in New York?”

“T shall never forget it,” quietly.

“Your wife was there.”

“T know it. I found her gloves.” He made a
difficult massé. “She told me all about it. At
the time, however, I had a pretty bad case of
heart-trouble. But I understand. She was in the

, habit of dropping in on you. Why not? Your
cooperation made you both famous. A man in
love finds all sorts of excuses for jealousy. But
I’m glad you’ve spoken. I can readily under-

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stand how you felt when you found the gloves
gone.”

“You're a good man, John,” said Warrington.

“Kate loves me; it ought to make any man
good to have a wife who loves him. I have no use
for a man who sees evil in everything and good
in nothing. Say no more about it, boy.”

“T hadn’t seen you in so long that I was con-
fused. If I had reflected . . . But you see, I
didn’t know that you were engaged, or even that
you knew her. I never understood, until you
were gone, why she wanted to hide herself. I’m
glad I’ve relieved my mind.” Warrington sighed.

“Tt’s all right. There! I told you that Pd win
even at those odds.”

Presently they heard a stir down stairs. Mrs.
Franklyn-Haldene was going. The door closed.
The family came up to the billiard-room. War-
rington looked at Patty, whose cheeks were
flushed and whose eyes flashed.

“Why, what’s the matter, Pat?” John asked.

“Nothing.”

“Mrs. Haldene has been making herself use-
ful as usual,” said Mrs. Jack, slipping her arm
around Patty’s waist.

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Patty was in a rage about something; nobody
seemed to know what it was.

“You are not going to join the Auxiliary, are
you, mother?” John inquired, putting the cues in
the rack.

“Indeed I am not. The men in my family al-
ways used their own judgment in politics. They
have always been Whigs or Republicans.”

“Did you ever meet a woman, Dick, who was a
Democrat?” laughed John.

“Perhaps,” was the reply, “but it has escaped
my recollection.”

But he was thinking: after all, he had a right
to win Patty if he could. It was not what he had
done in the past, it was what he was capable of
doing from now on that counted.

“You’re going to have a stiff fight at the con-
vention,” said John.

“T know it. But a fight of any kind will keep
my mind occupied. The senator has assured me
that I shall get the nomination.”

On the way home Mrs. Franklyn-Haldene saw
the flutter of a white dress on the Wilmington-
Fairchilds’ veranda. She couldn’t resist, so she
crossed the lawn and mounted the veranda steps.

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She did not observe her husband in the corner,
smoking with the master of the house.

“T’ve been over to the Benningtons’,” she began,
rather breathless.

“What’s the news?”

“There is no truth in the report of Patty’s en-
gagement to young Whiteland.”

“There isn’t? Well, there ought to be, after the
way they went around together last winter.”

“She told me so herself,” Mrs. Franklyn-Hal-
dene declared emphatically. “Do you know what
I believe?”

“No,” truthfully.

“T’ve an idea that Patty is inclined toward that
fellow Warrington.”

“You don’t mean it!”

“He’s always around there. He must have
thought a great deal of his aunt. She was buried
to-day, and there he is, playing billiards with
John Bennington. If that isn’t heartlessness!”’

“What do you want a man to do?” growled
her husband from behind his cigar. ‘Sit in a dark
room and wring his hands all day, like a woman?
Men have other things to do in life than mourn
the departed.”

“Franklyn? I didn’t see you.”

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“You seldom do.”

Mrs. Franklyn-Haldene at once plunged into a
discussion of fashion, the one thing that left her
husband high and dry, so far as his native irony
was concerned.

That same night McQuade concluded some in-
teresting business. He possessed large interests
in the local breweries. Breweries on the average
do not pay very good dividends on stock, so the
brewer often establishes a dozen saloons about
town to help the business along. McQuade owned
a dozen or more of these saloons, some in the
heart of the city, some in the outlying wards of
the town. He conducted the business with his
usual shrewdness. The saloons were all well man-
aged by Germans, who, as a drinking people, are
the most orderly in the world. It was not gen-
erally known that McQuade was interested in the
sale of liquors. His name was never mentioned
in connection with the saloons.

One of these saloons was on a side street. The
back door of it faced the towpath, It did not have
a very good reputation; and though, for two
years, no disturbances had occurred there, the
police still kept an eye on the place. It was on the

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boundary line of the two most turbulent wards in
the city. To the north was the Italian colony, to
the south was the Irish colony. Both were or-
derly and self-respecting as a rule, though squalor
and poverty abounded. But these two races are at
once the simplest and most quick-tempered, and
whenever an Irishman or an Italian crossed the
boundary line there was usually a hurry call for
the patrol wagon, and some one was always more
or less battered up.

Over this saloon was a series of small rooms
which were called “wine rooms,” though nobody
opened wine there. Beer was ten cents a glass
up stairs, and whisky twenty. Women were not
infrequently seen climbing the stairs to these
rooms. But, as already stated, everybody behaved.
Schmiick, who managed the saloon, was a giant
of a man, a Turnvereiner, who could hold his
own with any man in town. It will be understood
that the orderliness was therefore due to a respect
for Schmiick’s strength, and not to any inclination
to be orderly.

On this night, then, at nine o’clock, a man en-
tered and approached the bar. He was sharp-
eyed, lean-faced, with a heavy blue beard closely
shaven, saving the mustache, which was black and

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hung over the man’s lips. He wore good clothes.
There was a large diamond on one of his fingers
and another in the bosom of his shirt, in which a
white tie was tucked carefully. They were yellow
diamonds. But those among whom this man
moved did not know the difference between yel-
low stones and white. Morrissy was accounted
very well-to-do.

“Hello, Schmiick!”’ he hailed. “Got the room
up stairs in order?”

“Yes.” Schmiick wiped the bar. “Der poss iss
coming to-night, I see. Huh?”

“Yes. He ought to be along now,” replied
Morrissy, glancing at his watch, which was as
conspicuous as his yellow diamonds.

“How you getting along mit der poys?”

“Oh, we’re coming along fine, all right.”

“Going to call ‘em out uf der mills? Huh?”

“Perhaps. When the boss comes, tell him I’m
up stairs.”

Morrissy lighted a cigar, took the evening pa-
pers from the end of the bar, and disappeared.
Schmiick could hear him moving the chairs about.
Ten minutes later McQuade appeared. Schmiick
nodded toward the stairs, and without a word
McQuade went up.

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“Good evening, Morrissy. I missed a car, or
I’d have been here earlier.”

“That’s all right, Mr. McQuade; glad to wait
for you.” Morrissy threw aside his papers and
drew his chair to the table.

McQuade closed the door and sat down.

“You got my letter?” he began, wiping his
forehead.

Morrissy nodded.

“Well?”

“Well, the boys will go out Monday morning.
A committee will wait on Bennington in the
morning. He won’t back down and discharge
the English inventor, so it’s a sure thing they'll
walk out, every mother’s son of them.”

“On the morning they go out, I'll send you my
check for five hundred.”

“For the union?”

“T’ll send it to you, and you can use it as you
see fit. On Monday morning, then.”

“Sure thing.”

They smoked for a while. Suddenly McQuade
laid a bulky envelope on the table, got up and
went out. Morrissy weighed the envelope care-
fully, thrust it into his pocket, and also departed.

“Five hundred now, and five hundred on Mon-

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day. I can see him sending a check. It will be
bills. Bah! I should have called out the boys
anyhow.”

McQuade hurried home. He had another ap-
pointment, vastly more important than the one he
had just kept. Bolles had returned from New
York. It was easy enough to buy a labor union,
but it was a different matter to ruin a man of
Warrington’s note. Bolles had telegraphed that
he would be in Herculaneum that night. That
meant that he had found something worth while.
Each time the car stopped to let passengers on or
off, McQuade stirred restlessly. He jumped from
the car when it reached his corner, and walked
hurriedly down the street to his house, a big pile
of red granite and an architectural nightmare.
He rushed up the steps impatiently, applied his
latch-key and pushed in the door. He slammed
it and went directly to his study. Bolles was
asleep in a chair. McQuade shook him roughly.

* Bolles opened his eyes.

“You've been on a drunk,” said McQuade,
quickly noting the puffed eyes and haggard
cheeks.

“But I’ve got what I went after, all the same,”
replied Bolles truculently.

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“What have you got? If you’ve done any fak-
ing, I’ll break every bone in your body.”

“Now, look here, Mr. McQuade; don’t talk to
me like that.”

“What have you got, then?”

“Well, I’ve got something that’s worth five
hundred; that’s what. I worked like a nigger
for a month; pumped everybody that ever knew
hirh. Not a blame thing, till night before last
I ran into the janitor of the apartments where
Warrington lived.”

“Go on.”

“He’d been fired, and I got him drunk. I
asked him if any women had ever gone up to
Warrington’s rooms. One. He was sitting in the
basement. It was a hot night, and he was sitting
up because he could not sleep. At midnight a
coupé drove up, and Warrington and a woman
alighted. From the looks of things she was
drunk, but he found out afterward that she was
very sick. The woman remained in Warrington’s
apartments till the following morning.”

“When was all this?”

“About four years ago. She left very early.”

“Hell!” roared McQuade, doubling his fists.
“And I’ve been sending you money every week

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for such news as this! I want something big, you
fool! What earthly use is this information to
me? I couldn’t frighten Warrington with it.”

“T haven’t told you the woman’s name yet,”
said Bolles, leering.

“The woman’s name? What’s that got to do
with it?”

“A whole lot. It was Katherine Challoner, the
actress, Bennington’s wife; that’s who it was!”

McQuade sat very still. So still, that he could
hear the clock ticking in the parlor. Benning-
ton’s wife!

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CHAPTER XII

The death of his aunt gave Warrington a long-
ing for action—swift mental and physical action.
To sit in that dark, empty house, to read or to
write, was utterly impossible; nor had he any de-
sire to take long rides into the country. His mind
was never clearer than when he rode alone, and
what he wanted was confusion, noise, excitement,
struggle. So he made an appointment with Senator
Henderson the next morning. He left the Ben-
ningtons with the promise that he would return
that evening and dine with them. Warrington
had become the senator’s hobby; he was going
to do great things with this young man’s future.
He would some day make an ambassador of him;
it would be a pleasant souvenir of his old age.
Warrington was brilliant, a fine linguist, was a
born diplomat, had a good voice, and a fund of
wit and repartee; nothing more was required. He
would give the name Warrington a high place in
the diplomatic history of the United States.
Some of the most capable diplomats this country
had produced had been poets. Warrington’s be-

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ing a playwright would add luster to the office.
The senator was going over these things, when a
clerk announced that Mr. Warrington was wait-
ing to see him.

“Send him right in.”

Immediately Warrington entered. He was
simply dressed in a business suit of dark blue.
He wore a straw hat and a black tie. There was
no broad band of crape on his hat or his sleeve.
He had the poet’s horror of parading grief, sim-
ply because it was considered fashionable to do
so. He sincerely believed that outward mourning
was obsolete, a custom of the Middle Ages.

“Fa!” ejaculated the senator.

“Good morning. How goes the fight ?”

“Fine, my boy; I’ll land you there next week;
you see if I don’t. The main obstacle is the curi-
ous attitude of the press. You and I know the
reason well enough. McQuade is back of this in-
fluence. But the voter doesn’t know this, and will
accept the surface indications only. Now you
know the newspaper fellows. Why not drop
around to the offices and find out something defi-
nite?”

“Tt’s a good idea, Senator. I’ll do it this very
morning.”

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“Has McQuade any personal grudge against
your”

“Not to my knowledge.”

“He’s a bad enemy, and often a downright un-
scrupulous one, If it’s only politics, I’ll have a
chat with him myself. You pump the newspa-
pers. You leave it to me to swing the boys into
line at the convention.”

Then they proceeded to go over the ground
thoroughly. Something must be done with the
newspapers. The delegates and minor bosses were
already grumbling. Had nothing appeared in
the newspapers, Warrington’s nomination would
have gone through without even minor opposi-
tion. But the Republican machine was in sore
straits. If Donnelly won this time, it would mean
years of Democratic rule in an essentially Repub-
lican town. McQuade must be broken, his strong
barricades toppled; and now that there would be
no surprise for the public, the majority of the
delegates began to look doubtfully upon what they
called the senator’s coup. They wanted the City
Hall, and they did not care how they got there.
Warrington was a fine chap, and all that, but his
acquaintanceship was limited. He could not go
about shaking hands like Donnelly, who knew ev-

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erybody, high and low. The laboring man knew
nothing about Warrington, save that he was fa-
mous for writing plays they had not seen, nor
would have understood if they had. Warrington
was a “swell”; he had nothing in common with
the man who carried the dinner-pail.

“And there the matter stands, my boy,” con-
cluded the senator, shifting his cigar from one
corner of his mouth to the other. “If I can swing
the convention the rest will be plain sailing, once
you start speech-making. Oh, McQuade is clever.
He knew that by exposing my hand he would
lessen your chances. But you tackle the newspa-
pers and see what can be done. And good luck
to you.”

McQuade came down early that morning. The
first thing he did was to call on the editor of the
Times.

“Here’s something,” he said, tossing a few
typewritten pages on the editor’s desk. “This’ll
settle Warrington’s hash, Walford.”

“What is it?” asked Walford.

“Read it and see for yourself.” McQuade sat
down and picked up the early New York papers.

Walford read slowly. When he reached the
last paragraph he returned to the first and read
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the article through again. He laid it down and
faced his employer.

“Mr. McQuade, the Call and the Times are the
only papers in town that pay dividends. The
Times as it stands to-day is a good, legitimate
business investment. Do you want the circulation
to drop ten thousand and the big advertisers to
cancel their contracts?”

“What’s the matter with the story? Isn’t it all
right ?”

“Frankly, it isn’t.”

“It’s true,” said McQuade, his fist thudding
on the desk; “‘it’s true, I tell you, every damned
word of it.”

“The truth of it isn’t the question. It’s the
advisability of publishing it. I say to you that
if you insist on this story’s publication, you'll kill
the Times deader than a door-nail. I'll call the
business manager in.” Walford whistled through
a tube, and shortly after the business manager
appeared. “Read this,” said Walford briefly,
“and give Mr. McQuade your honest opinion re-
garding its publication. Mr. McQuade thinks it
ought to run as local news.”

The business manager read it.

“It makes good reading, Mr. McQuade, but if

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you want to kill the Times, run it. There are
some stories that can only be rumored, not print-
ed, and this is one of them. If this appears, you
have my word that every decent advertiser will
cancel his contract forthwith.”

Walford looked at his employer in frank tri-
umph. McQuade had great confidence in these
two men. He ripped the manuscript into squares
and filtered them through his fingers into the
waste-basket.

“You boys are probably right,” he said reluct-
antly. “I have no desire to see the paper lose its
sound footing. But this would have killed the
man socially and politically, so far as this town is
concerned.”

“Admitted,” replied Walford, straightening
out some proofs, “But we'll topple him over in
a legitimate way.”

“Go ahead, then. I’m not particular how it’s
done so long as you do it. Perhaps, after all, it’s
just as well. I’ve got another idea. I can see
that I’ve made a mistake.”

McQuade started down the stairs to the street
and met Warrington coming up. The two men
paused for a moment, then went on. Once on the
sidewalk, McQuade turned and hesitated. No,

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he had nothing to say to Mr. Warrington. He
strode down the street toward his own offices.

It will be seen that Warrington had gone di-
rectly into the enemy’s camp. He knew Walford
of old; they were tolerably good friends. He
gave his card to the boy. Walford, on reading it,
stuffed several newspapers into the waste-basket
and pressed his foot on them. He was a bit
shaken.

“Send him in. Hello, Dick,” he said. “How
are you? You're the last man I expected to see
this morning. What can I do for you?”

“You can tell your political reporter and your
editorial man to let up on me for a week,” said
Warrington directly. “What the devil have I
done to you chaps that you should light into me
after this fashion?”

“You have become rich and famous, Dick, and
mediocrity can stand anything but that.” But
there was a twinkle in Walford’s eyes.

“Come, Wally, you know that isn’t the truth.”

“Well, if you want the truth I'll give it to you.
Answer me frankly and honestly, do you consider
that you have any moral right to accept a nomina-
tion for the mayoralty of Herculaneum?”

“Moral right. Ill pick up that phrase and

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carry it to your camp. I have as much moral
right as Donnelly, who, if he hasn’t been caught,
is none the less culpable for breaking his oath of
loyalty. You know this as well as I do.”

Walford eyed the waste-basket thoughtfully.

“Now, we'll turn to the legal side,” continued
Warrington. “TI was born here; I cast my first
vote here; for several years I’ve been a property
owner and have paid my taxes without lying to
the tax-assessor. It is notorious that Donnelly is
worth half a million, and yet he is assessed upon
a house worth about seven thousand. You have
called me a meddler; you apply the term every
day. Now draw the distinction, as to eligibility,
between Donnelly and myself.”

Walford got up from his chair and closed the
door. He returned and sat down again.

“Dick, politics is politics, and its ways are
dark and mysterious, like the heathen Chinee. If
I had your talent—if I had your ability to earn
‘money, I’d walk out of this office this moment.
But I am only a poor devil of a newspaper man.
I’ve a family. When I was twenty, eighteen years
ago, I was earning twelve a week; to-day it is
forty; when I am sixty it will return to twelve.

You know the business; you know the value
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they set on a man’s brains in this city. And
there’s always somebody waiting for your shoes.
Now, listen. In the first place I must live, and as
honorably as environment permits me. By con-
viction I am a Democrat; I believe in the Demo-
cratic principles. Thus, I consider it my duty to
thwart, if possible, any and all moves the Repub-
lican party makes. I recognize your strength,
and I shall do what I can from my side of the
barricade to defeat your nomination at the Repub-
lican convention; for I believe you able, if once
nominated, to lead your party to success and vic-
tory. But I shall fight you honestly, Dick. In all I
have said so far, there has been no innuendo; I’ve
stood out in the open. I did you a good turn this
morning, but you will never be any the wiser.
Personally, I like you; I have always liked you,
and I am glad to see one man of the craft rise
above the grubs and earn a splendid competence.
It hasn’t been easy, Dick; you’ve had to fight for
it, and that’s what I admire. You're a good, clean
fighter. If I should rebel against continuing this
attack against you, the attack would go on, but I
shouldn’t. That would do neither of us any good.
McQuade might find a man with less scruples than
Ihave. And that’s how the matter stands, Dick.”
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“Well, you’re frank and honest about it, and I
know you will at least give me a square deal, in
the event of my nomination.”

“You may reckon on that. Good luck to you
and bad luck to your cause.”

They talked about the old days for a while, and
then Warrington departed and directed his steps
to the office of the Journal, the paper in which he
had begun his career. Oh, here they were willing
to do anything in their power from now on. If
he was really determined to accept the nomina-
tion, they would aid him editorially. That even-
ing the editor made good his word, frankly
indorsing Warrington as the best possible choice
for Republican nominee. The editor explained his
former attitude by setting forth his belief that
Mr. Warrington’s candidacy was not serious. At
the office of the Telegraph they treated him cor-
dially enough. They never meddled with politics
till the fight was on. Then they picked the candi-
date whose views most coincided with their own.
If Mr. Warrington was nominated, doubtless they
would support his ticket. The general manager
had been a classmate of Warrington’s. He called
on him and explained his errand. The manager
simply wrote on a pad: “McQuade owns fifty-

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five per cent. of the shares,” held it under War-
rington’s nose and then tore it up.

“That’s where our independence stands at this
moment.”

“T had heard of this, but didn’t quite believe it,”
Warrington said. Bill Osborne evidently knew
what was going on, then, “I’m sorry to have
troubled you.”

“None at all.”

On the street Warrington was stopped by Ben
Jordan, the Telegraph’s star reporter, who had
worked with Warrington on the Journal.

“Say, Dick, Iam glad to see you. I was going
up to your house on purpose to see you. Come
over to Martin’s a minute. I’ve got some news
that might interest you.”

“T don’t like Martin’s place,” said Warring-
ton. “Let’s compromise on Hanley’s.”

“All right, my boy.”

They walked down to Hanley’s, talking ani-
matedly.

“What will you have, Ben?”

“Musty ale.”

“Two musty ales,” Warrington ordered. “Well,
Ben?”

Ben took a deep swallow of ale. He was the

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best all-round reporter in the city; he knew more
people than Osborne knew. Murders, strikes,
fires, they were all the same to Ben. He knew
where to start and where to end, The city editor
never sent Ben out on a hunt for scandal; he knew
better than to do that. Nine times out of ten, the
other papers got the scandal and Ben’s behavior
became one. The labor unions were Ben’s great
stand-by. On dull days he could always get a
story from the unions. He attended their meet-
ings religiously. They trusted him implicitly, for
Ben never broke his word to any one but his land-
lady. He was short and wiry, with a head so
large as to be almost a deformity. On top of this
head was a shock of brick-colored hair that re-
sembled a street-cleaner’s broom. And Ben’s
heart was as big as his head. His generosity was
always getting him into financial trouble.

“Dick, you’re a friend of Bennington’s. You
can quietly tip him that his men will go out Mon-
day morning. There’s only one thing that will
avert a strike, and that’s the discharge of the
Englishman.”

“Bennington will never discharge him.”

“So I understand. He’ll have a long strike on
his hands.”

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“Do you know the inside?”

“Enough to say that the men will go out.
They’re a lot of sheep. They’ve an idea they’ve
been wronged. But you can’t reason with them.”

“Ben, you go up to the shops yourself and tell
Bennington what you know.”

“T don’t know him. How’ll he take it?”

“Tell him I sent you.”

“Tl do it, Dick. But if he kicks me out, the
drinks will be on you. What countermove will
he make?”

“Better ask him yourself. But if you have any
influence among the unions, tell them to go slow.
They haven’t sized up Bennington. Wait a mo-
ment. I'll give you a note to him.” He called
for paper and envelopes, and wrote:

Dear JOHN:

This will introduce to you Mr. Jordan, a reporter
in whom I have the greatest confidence. Whatever
you may tell him you may rest assured that he will
never repeat. I am sending him to you in hopes he
may suggest some plan by which to ward off the im-
pending strike. There may be a little self-interest on
my side. A strike just now will raise the devil in
politics. You may trust Jordan fully.

WarRINGTON.

He pushed it across the table. “There, that
will smooth the way.”

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“Many thanks, my son. Where’s he eat his
lunch ?”

“Usually in the office.”

“Well, P'm off!”

Ben always had his eye on the story of to-mor-
tow, and he would face all or any difficulties in
pursuit of the end. If he could stop the strike
at the Bennington shops it would be a great thing
for the Telegraph and a great thing for Ben. So
he hailed a car, serenely unconscious that he was
taking a position absolutely opposed to that of his
employer, He arrived at the shops some time be-
fore the noon hour. His letter opened all doors.
Bennington was in his private office. He read the
letter and offered Ben a chair.

“T have never been interviewed,” he said.

“I am not here for an interview,” said Ben.
“Your men will go out Monday.”

“Monday? How did you learn that?”

“My business takes me among the unions.
What shall you do in the event of the strike?”

“And I have no desire to be interviewed.”

“You read Mr, Warrington’s letter. Perhaps,
if I knew what stand you will take, I could talk
to the men myself. I have averted three or four

strikes in my time, simply because the boys know
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that I always speak the truth, the plain truth. In
this case I feel that you have the right on your
side. You haven't said anything yet. The union
is practically trying to bluff you into coming to
its terms: the discharge of the inventor, or a
strike.”

“Are you representing the union?”

“T am representing nobody but myself.”

“T may tell you, then, that I shall not discharge
the inventor. Nor will I, if the men go out, take
a single one of them back.”

“The men will not believe that. They never
do. They’ve been so successful in Pennsylvania
that they are attempting to repeat that success all
over the country. They have grown pig-headed.
I feel sorry for the poor devils, who never realize
when they are well off.”

“T feel sorry, too, Mr, Jordan,” said Benning-
ton. He played a tattoo on his strong white teeth
with his pencil. “Mr. Warrington seems to know
you well.”

“We began on the Journal together. You will
not tell me what your plan is, then?”

“T’d rather not, for, honestly, I can not see how
it would better the case.”

“Tt might be worth while to give me a chance.”

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_ Bennington re-read Warrington’s note. Then
he studied the frank blue eyes of the reporter.

“Miss Ward, you may go,” he said to the sten-
ographer. “Now,”—when the girl had gone,—
“you will give me your word?”

“Tt’s all I have.”

“How can you convince the men without tell-
ing them?”

“Oh, I meant that whatever you tell me shall
not see light in the papers till I have your permis-
sion, There’s a weekly meeting to-night. They
will decide finally at this meeting. To-morrow
will be too late.”

Bennington was an accurate judge of men. He
felt that he could trust this shock-headed journal-
ist. If without any loss of self-respect, if without
receding a single step from his position, he could
avert the crash, he would gladly do so. He had
reached one determination, and nothing on earth
would swerve him. So he told Ben just exactly
what would happen if the men went out. Ben
did not doubt him for a moment. He, too, was
something of a judge of men. This man would
never back down.

“T give you this to show them, if your argu-

ments do not prevail,” concluded Bennington,
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producing a folded paper. “They will hardly
doubt this.”

Ben opened it. It was a permit from the mu-
nicipal government to tear down a brick struc-
ture within the city limits. Ben stowed the per-
mit in his pocket. He looked with admiration at
the man who could plan, coolly and quietly, the
destruction of a fortune that had taken a quarter
of acentury to build. He was grave. There was
a big responsibility pressing on his shoulders.

“Much obliged. You will never regret the con-
fidence you repose in me. Now I’ll tell you some-
thing on my side. It is not the inventor, though
the men believe it is, The inventor is a pretext of
Morrissy, the union leader.”

“A pretext?”

“T can’t prove what I say, that’s the trouble;
but McQuade has his hand in this. I wish to
Heaven I could find solid proofs.”

“McQuade?” Bennington scowled. He could
readily understand now. McQuade! This was
McQuade’s revenge. He could wait patiently all
this while!

“T’ll do what I can, Mr. Bennington; I’ll do
what I can.”

Bennington ate no lunch that noon. Instead,

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he wandered about the great smoky shops, sweep-
ing his glance over the blast-furnaces, the gutters
into which the molten ore was poured, the giant
trip-hammers, the ponderous rolling-machines, the
gas-furnaces for tempering fine steel. The men
moved aside. Only here and there a man, grown
old in the shops, touched his grimy cap.

To tear it down! It would be like rending a
limb, for he loved every brick and stone and
girder, as his father before him had loved them.
He squared his shoulders, and his jaws hardened.
No man, without justice on his side, should dic-
tate to him; no man should order him to hire this
man or discharge that one. He alone had that
right; he alone was master. Bennington was not
a coward; he would not sell to another; he would
not shirk the task laid out for his hand. Union-
ism, such as it stood, must receive a violent les-
son. And McQuade?

“Damn him!” he muttered, his fingers knot-
ting.

Education subdues or obliterates the best of
fighting in the coward only. The brave man is
always masculine in these crises, and he will fight
with his bare hands when reason and intelligence
fail. A great longing rose up in Bennington’s

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heart to have it out physically with McQuade. To
feel that gross bulk under his knees, to sink his
fingers into that brawny throat!—The men, eying
him covertly, saw his arms go outward and his
hands open and shut convulsively. More than ever
they avoided his path. Once before they had wit-
nessed a similar abstraction. They had seen him
fling to the ground a huge puddler who had
struck his apprentice without cause. The puddler,
one of the strongest men in the shops, struggled
to his feet and rushed at his assailant. Benning-
ton had knocked him down again, and this time
the puddler remained on the ground, insensible.
Bennington had gone back to his office, shutting
and opening his fists. Ay, they had long since
ceased calling him the dude. The man of brawn
has a hearty respect for spectacular exhibitions
of strength.

One o’clock. The trip-hammers began their in-
termittent thunder, the rolling-machines shrieked,
and the hot ore sputtered and crackled. Benning-
ton returned to his office and re-read the letter his
father had written to him on his death-bed. He
would obey it to the final line.

That particular branch of the local unions
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which was represented in the Bennington steel-
mills met in the loft of one of the brick buildings
off the main street. The room was spacious, but
ill ventilated. That night it was crowded. The
men were noisy, and a haze of rank tobacco-
smoke drifted aimlessly about, vainly seeking
egress. Morrissy called the meeting to order
at eight-thirty. He spoke briefly of the injustice
of the employers, locally and elsewhere, of the
burdens the laboring man had always borne and
would always bear, so long as he declined to de-
mand his rights. The men cheered him. Many
had been drinking freely. Morrissy stated the
case against Bennington. He used his words
adroitly and spoke with the air of a man who re-
grets exceedingly a disagreeable duty.

From his seat in the rear Jordan watched him,
following each word closely. He saw that Mor-
rissy knew his business thoroughly.

“We'll get what we want, men; we always do.
It isn’t a matter of money; it’s principle. If we
back down, we are lost; if we surrender this time,
we'll have to surrender one thing at a time till
we’re away back where we started from, slaves to
enrich the oppressor. We've got to fight for our
rights. Here’s an inventor who, if we permit him

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to remain, will succeed in throwing two hundred
men out of work. Bennington is making enough
money as things are now. There’s no need of im-
provement, such as will take bread and butter out
of our mouths, out of the mouths of our wives
and children. We've got to strike, That'll bring
him to his senses.”

At the conclusion he was loudly applauded.

Jordan stood up and waited till the noise had
fully subsided. Everybody knew him. They had
seen him stand up before, and he always said
something worth listening to.

“You all know me, boys,” he began,

“You bet!”

“You're all right!”

“Speech! Go ahead!”

Jordan caught Morrissy’s eye. Morrissy nod-
ded with bad grace. Jordan spoke for half an
hour. He repeated word for word what Benning-
ton had told him. In the end he was greeted
with laughter.

“Very well, boys,” he said, shrugging. “It’s
none of my business. You’ve never caught me
lying yet. You don’t know this man Benning-
ton. I believe I do. He’ll make good his threat.
Wait and see.”

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“How much were you paid to attend this meet-
ing?” demanded Morrissy, sneering.

“A good deal less than you were, Mr. Mor-
rissy.”’ There was a dangerous flush on Ben’s
cheeks, but the smoke was so dense that Morrissy
failed to observe it. The men laughed again, ac-
cepting Ben’s retort as a piece of banter. Ben
went on doggedly: “I have in my pocket a per-
mit to tear down the shops. Bennington gave it
to me to produce. Look at it, if you doubt my
word. There it is.”

The men passed it along the aisles. It came
back presently, much the worse for the wear.
Some of the older men looked exceedingly grave,
but they were in the minority.

“Anybody can get a permit to tear down his
property,” said Morrissy scornfully. “It’s a big
bluff, men. What! tear down the golden goose?
Not in a thousand years! It’s a plain bluff. And
I’m sorry to see a decent man like our newspaper
friend on the enemy’s side.”

“Tf Iam on the enemy’s side, Mr. Morrissy, it’s
because I’m a friend of every man here, save
one,” significantly. “You men will vote a strike.
I can see that. But you'll regret it to your last
day. I’ve nothing more to say. I helped you

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once when old man Bennington was alive, but I
guess you’ve forgotten it.” Ben sat down in si-
lence.

“We'll proceed with the voting,” said Mor-
rissy.

Half an hour later there was a cheer. The
men would go out Monday, if the demands of the
committee were not acceded to. The meeting
broke up, and many of the men flocked into the
near-by saloons, Morrissy approached Ben, who
had waited for him. No one was within ear-
shot.

“What the hell do you mean by saying you
were paid less than I was?” he said, his jaw pro-
truding at an ugly angle.

“I mean, Morrissy,” answered Ben fearlessly,
“that you had better move carefully in the future.
If I were you, I wouldn’t accept any unstamped
envelopes in Herculaneum. It would be a good
plan to go to some other town for that.”

“Why, damn you!” Morrissy raised his fist.

“Stay where you are,” warned Ben, seizing a
camp-chair, “or I’ll break your head. Listen to
me. I’m starting out from this night on to break
you, and, by God, I’ll do it before the year is over.
This is your last strike, so make the most of it.

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You were at Schmiick’s the other night, you and
McQuade. There was a friend of mine on the
other side of the partition. Unfortunately this
friend was alone. I haven’t got any proofs, but
Pll get them.”

Morrissy became yellower than his diamonds.
Ben flung aside his chair and left the hall. He
went straight to Martin’s saloon. He found Bill
Osborne alone at a table.

“Will they strike, Ben?” he asked in a rough
whisper.

“Yes. I thought I might influence them, Bill,
but I’ve only made an ass of myself. Two whis-
kies,”’ he ordered, “and make one of them stiff. I
told Morrissy.”

“You didn’t mention my name, Ben? Don’t
say you told him that I was on the other side of
the partition!” Bill’s eyes nearly stood out of his
head.

“T told him nothing. How’d you happen to
land in Schmtick’s saloon, anyhow? Why didn’t
you telephone me when you heard Morrissy come
in?”

“Oh, Ben, I was drunk! If I hadn’t been so
drunk!” Bill’s eyes overflowed remorsefully.

Ben swore.

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“And say, Ben, that fellow Bolles is back in
town. He was in here a few minutes ago, drunk
as a lord. He flashed a roll of bills that would
have choked an ox.”

“Where is he now?”

“Up stairs playing the wheel.”

Ben shook his head. He had his salary in his
pocket, and he vividly remembered what roulette
had done to it a fortnight gone.

“If Bolles is drunk, it wouldn’t do any good to
talk to him.” Ben sighed and drank his liquor
neat. He was tired.

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CHAPTER XIII

Regularly once a week Mrs. Franklyn-Haldene
visited a hair-dresser. This distinguished social
leader employed a French maid who was very
adept at dressing hair, but the two never got
along very well verbally; Mrs, Franklyn-Hal-
dene insisted on speaking in broken French while
the maid persisted in broken English. Such con-
versation is naturally disjointed and leads no-
where. The particular hair-dresser who received
Mrs. Haldene’s patronage possessed a lively im-
agination together with an endless chain of gos-
sip. Mrs. Haldene was superior to gossiping
with servants, but a hair-dresser is a little closer
in relation to life. Many visited her in the course
of a week, and some had the happy faculty of re-
lieving their minds of what they saw and heard,
regardless of the social status of the listener.
Mrs. Haldene never came away from the hair-
dresser’s empty-handed; in fact, she carried away
with her food for thought that took fully a week
to digest.

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Like most places of its kind, the establishment
was located in the boarding-house district; but
this did not prevent fashionable carriages from
stopping at the door, nor the neighboring board-
ers from sitting on their front steps and speculat-
ing as to whom this or that carriage belonged.
There was always a maid on guard in the hall;
she was very haughty and proportionately home-
ly. It did not occur to the proprietress that this
maid was a living advertisement of her incompe-
tence to perform those wonders stated in the
neat little pamphlets piled on the card-table; nor
did it impress the patrons, who took it for granted
that the maid, naturally enough, could not afford
to have the operation of beauty performed.

A woman with wrinkles is always hopeful.

A strange medley of persons visited this house,
each seeking in her own peculiar way the elixir of
life, which is beauty, or the potion of love, which
is beauty’s handmaiden. There were remedies
plus remedies; the same skin-food was warranted
to create double-chins or destroy them; the same
tonic killed superfluous hair or made it grow on
bald spots. A freckle to eradicate, a wrinkle to
remove, a moth-patch to bleach, a grey hair to
dye; nothing was impossible here, not even credu-

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lity. It was but meet that the mistress should
steal past the servant, that the servant should
dodge the mistress. Every woman craves beauty,
but she does not want the public to know that her
beauty is of the kind in which nature has no hand.
No man is a hero to his valet; no woman is a
beauty to her maid. In and out, to and fro; the
social leader, the shop-girl, the maid, the woman
of the town, the actress, the thin old spinster and
the fat matron, here might they be found.

At rare intervals a man was seen to ring the
bell, but he was either a bill-collector or a husband
in search of his wife.

The proprietress knew everybody intimately—
by sight. She was squat, dyed, rouged and pen-
ciled, badly, too. She was written down in the
city directory as Madame de Chevreuse, but she
was emphatically not of French extraction. In
her alphabet there were generally but twenty-five
letters; there were frequent times when she had
jmo idea that there existed such a letter as “g.”
How she came to appropriate so distinguished a
name as De Chevreuse was a puzzle. Her hus-
band—for she had a husband—was always read-
ing French history in English, and doubtless this
name appealed to his imagination and romance.

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Nobody knew what Madame’s real name was,
nor that of her husband, for he was always called
“Monseer.”’

The reception-room was decorated after the
prevailing fashion. There was gilt and pretense.
There were numerous glass cases, filled with lo-
tions and skin-foods and other articles of toilet;
there were faceless heads adorned with all shades
of hair, scalps, pompadours, and wigs. A few
false-faces grinned or scowled or smirked from
frames or corners where they were piled. There
were tawdry masquerade costumes, too, and the-
atrical make-up. Curtains divided the several
shampooing booths, and a screen cut off the gen-
eral view of the operation of beauty. However,
there were chinks large enough for the inquisi-
tive, and everybody was inquisitive who patron-
ized Madame de Chevreuse, pronounced Chev-
roose.

And always and ever there prevailed without
regeneration the odor of cheap perfumes and
scented soaps.

Mrs. Franklyn-Haldene left her carriage at the
door, perfectly willing that the neighborhood
should see her alight. She climbed the steps,
stately and imposing. She was one of the few

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women who could overawe the homely girl in the
hallway.

“Is Madame at liberty?”

“She will be shortly, Mrs. Haldene.”

Mrs. Franklyn-Haldene passed into the recep-
tion-room and sat down by the manicure table.
The screen was in position. Some one was being
beautified. From time to time she heard voices.

“The make-up is taking splendidly to-day.”

“Well, it didn’t last week. I sweat pink beads
all over my new muslin.”

“Tt does peel in hot weather. I understand that
Mrs, Welford is going to Dakota.”

“He ought to have the first chance there, if
what I’ve heard about her is true. These society
women make me tired.”

“They haven’t much to occupy their time.”

“Oh, I don’t know. They occupy their time in
running around after the other women’s hus-
bands.”

“And the husbands?”

“The other men’s wives.”

“You aren’t very charitable.”

“Nobody’s ever given me any charity, I’m
sure.”

From one of the shampooing booths:

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“But you would look very well in the natural
grey, ma’am,”

“My husband doesn’t think so.”

“But his hair is grey.”

“That doesn’t lessen his regard for brunettes.”

Mrs. Franklyn-Haldene shrugged her majestic
shoulders and gazed again into the street. She
always regretted that Madame could not be in-
duced to make private visits.

A white poodle, recently shampooed, dashed
through the rooms. There is always a watery-
eyed, red-lidded poodle in an establishment of this
order. The masculine contempt for the pug has
died. It took twenty years to accomplish these
obsequies. But the poodle, the poor poodle! Call
a man a thief, a wretch, a villain, and he will de-
fend himself; but call him a poodle, and he
slinks out of sight. It is impossible to explain
definitely the cause of this supreme contempt for
the poodle, nor why it should be considered the
epitome of opprobrium to be called one.

“Maime?”

“Yes, Madame!” replied the girl in the hall.

“Take Beauty into the kitchen and close the
door. He’s just been washed, and I don’t want
him all speckled up with hair-dye.”

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The girl drove the poodle out of the reception-
room and caught him in the hall. Presently the
kitchen door slammed and the odor of onions in
soup no longer fought against the perfurnes and
soaps for supremacy.

“There,” said Madame behind the screen, “you
have no rival in town now for beauty.”

“T’ll be here again next Tuesday.”

“Same time?”

“Yes, in the morning.”

A woman emerged from behind the screen.
She possessed a bold beauty, the sort that appeals
to men without intellect. She was dressed extrav-
agantly: too many furbelows, too many jewels,
too many flowers. Mrs. Franklyn-Haldene rec-
ognized her instantly and turned her head toward
the window. She heard the woman pass by her,
enter the hall and leave the house. She saw her
walk quickly away, stop suddenly as if she had
forgotten something, open her large purse, turn
jits contents inside out, replace them, and pro-
ceed. But a letter lay on the sidewalk unnoticed.
Mrs. Franklyn-Haldene secretly hoped that it
would remain there till she made her departure.

“Handsome woman, isn’t she?” said Madame.

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“T don’t know what it is, but they are always good-
looking.”

“Who is she?” asked Mrs. Franklyn-Haldene,
who knew very well who the woman was.

“She is one of Mr. McQuade’s lady friends.”

“Indeed ?”

“Yes.” Madame was shrewd. She saw that
it wouldn’t do to tell Mrs. Franklyn-Haldene any-
thing about a woman who could in no way be of
use to her. ‘Have you heard of the Sybil?”

“The Sybil?’ repeated Mrs. Franklyn-Hal-
dene.

“Yes. A new fortune-teller, and everybody
says she’s a wonder. I haven’t been to her yet,
but I’m goin’ just as soon as I get time.”

“Do you believe they know what they are talk-
ing about?” incredulously.

“Know! I should say I did. Old Mother Dan-
forth has told me lots of things that have come
true. She was the one who predicted the Spanish
war and the president’s assassination. It is mar-
velous, but she done it.”

"Mrs. Franklyn-Haldene shuddered. With all
her faults, she loved the English language.

“How do you want your hair fixed?” Madame

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inquired, seeing that her patron’s interest in me-
diums was not strong.

“The same as usual. Last week you left a
streak, and I am sure everybody noticed it at the
Gordon tea. Be careful to-day.”

Thereupon Mrs. Franklyn-Haldene constituted
herself a martyr to the cause. She was nervous
and fidgety in the chair, for the picture of that
letter on the sidewalk kept recurring. In the
meantime Madame told her all that had happened
and all that hadn’t, which is equally valuable.
The toilet lasted an hour; and when Mrs. Frank-
lyn-Haldene rose from the chair, Madame was as
dry as a brook in August. Her patron hurried to
the street. The letter was still on the sidewalk.
Mrs. Franklyn-Haldene picked it up and quickly
sought her carriage. Pah! how the thing smelt
of sachet-powder. Her aristocratic nose wrinkled
in disdain. But her curiosity surmounted her
natural repugnance. The address was written in
a coarse masculine hand. The carriage had gone
two blocks before she found the necessary cour-
age to open the letter. The envelope had already
been opened, so in reading it her conscience sug-
gested nothing criminal.

Gossip began on the day Eve entered the Gar-

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den of Eden. To be sure, there was little to gossip
about, but that little Eve managed without diffi-
culty to collect. It is but human to take a harmless
interest in what our next-door neighbor is doing,
has done, or may do. Primarily gossip was
harmless ; to-day it is still harmless in some quar-
ters. The gossip of the present time is like the
prude, always looking for the worst and finding
it. The real trouble with the gossip lies in the
fact that she has little else to do; her own affairs
are so uninteresting that she is perforce obliged
to look into the affairs of her neighbors. Then,
to prove that she is well informed, she feels com-
pelled to repeat what she has seen or heard, more
or less accurately. From gossiping to meddling
is but a trifling step. To back up a bit of gossip,
one often meddles. Mrs. Franklyn-Haldene was
naturally a daughter of Eve; she was more than
a gossip, she was a prophetess. She foretold
scandal. She would move Heaven and earth, so
the saying goes, to prove her gossip infallible.
And when some prophecy of hers went wrong,
she did everything in her power to right it. To
have acquired the reputation of prophesying is
one thing, always to fulfil these prophecies is an-
other. It never occurred to her that she was de-
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stroying other people’s peace of mind, that she
was constituting herself a Fate, that she was med-
dling with lives which in no wise crossed or inter-
fered with her own. She had no real enmity
either for Warrington or Mrs. Jack; simply, she
had prophesied that Warrington had taken up his
residence in Herculaneum in order to be near
Katherine Challoner, John Bennington’s wife.
Here was a year nearly gone, and the smoke of
the prophecy had evaporated, showing that there
had been no fire below.

Neither Warrington nor Mrs. Jack was in her
thoughts when she opened the letter, which was
signed by McQuade’s familiar appellation.

Dear Girt—l’ve got them all this trip. Dll put
Bennington on the rack and wring Warrington’s
political neck, the snob, swelling it around among
decent people! What do you think? Why, War-
rington used to run after the Challoner woman be-
fore she was married; and I have proof that she
went to Warrington’s room one night and never
left till morning. How’s that sound? They stick
up their noses at you, do they? Wait! They won’t
look so swell when I’m through with them. If
Warrington’s name is even mentioned at the Repub-
lican convention, I’ve missed my guess. I got your
bills this morning. You'd better go light till I’ve
settled with these meddlers. Then we’ll pack up our
duds and take that trip to Paris I promised you.

Mac.
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Mrs, Franklyn-Haldene shivered. How hor-
ribly vulgar! She felt polluted for a moment, and
half wished she had let the missive lie where it
had fallen. But this sense of disgust wore off
directly. She had been right, then; there was
something wrong; it was her duty, her duty to
society, to see that this thing went no further.
And that flirtation between Patty and the drama-
tist must be brought to a sudden halt. How?
Ah, she would now find the means. He was
merely hoodwinking Patty; it was a trick to be
near Mrs, Jack. She had ignored her, had she?
She had always scorned to listen to the truth
about people, had she? And well she might!
Mrs, Franklyn-Haldene’s lips tightened. Those
friends of hers who had doubted would presently
doubt no more. She hadn’t the slightest idea how
McQuade would use his information; she didn’t
even care, so long as he used it. She grew indig-
nant. The idea of that woman’s posing qs she did!
The idea of her dreaming to hold permanently
the footing she had gained in society! It was
nothing short of monstrous. The ever-small voice
of conscience spoke, but she refused to listen. She
did not ask herself if what McQuade had in his
possession was absolute truth. Humanity believes

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most what it most desires to believe. And aside
from all this, it was a triumph, a vindication of her
foresight.

“To the Western Union,” she called to the
groom. When the carriage drew up before the
telegraph office, she gave the letter to the groom.
“T found this on the sidewalk. Have them re-
turn it to the owner by messenger.” This was
done. ‘Now, home,” she ordered.

That afternoon she attended a large reception.
Her bland smile was as bland as ever, but her eyes
shone with suppressed excitement. The Benning-
tons were there, but there was only a frigid nod
when she encountered Mrs. Jack and Patty. She
wondered that she nodded at all. She took her
friend, Mrs. Fairchilds, into a corner. She simply
had to tell some one of her discovery, or at least
a hint of it.

“Do you recollect what I told you?”

“About—?” Mrs. Fairchilds glanced quickly
at Mrs. Jack.

“Yes. Every word was true, and there will
be a great upheaval shortly. But not a word to
a soul. I never gossip, but in this instance I feel
it my duty to warn you. How and where I
learned the truth is immaterial. I have learned

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it, and that is sufficient. It is frightful; it makes
my blood boil when I think of it. And she goes
everywhere, as if she had a perfect right.”

“What have you found?” Mrs. Fairchilds could
scarcely breathe, so great was her curiosity.

“You will learn soon enough without my tell-
ing you.” And that was all Mrs. Franklyn-Hal-
dene would say.

But it was enough, enough for her purpose.
Within an hour’s time all the old doubt had been
stirred into life again, and the meddlers gathered
about for the feast. It is all so simple and easy.

Mrs. Jack moved here and there, serenely beau-
tiful, serenely happy, serenely unconscious of the
blow that was soon to strike at the very heart of
her life. Once in a while her brows would draw
together abstractedly. She was thinking of John,
and of the heartaches he was having over the ac-
tion of the men at the shops.

Patty was not gay. She seemed to be impa-
tient to leave. Three or four times she asked
Mrs. Jack if she were ready to go; she was tired,
the people bored her, she wanted to go home.
Finally Mrs. Jack surrendered.

That night at dinner John was very quiet and
absent-minded. The shops, the shops, he was

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thinking of them continuously. In his heart of
hearts he had no faith in the reporter’s influence.
The strike mania had seized the men, and nothing
now could hold them back. He knew they would
doubt his threat to tear down the buildings. Not
till he sent the builder’s wrecking crew would they
understand. Nota hair’s breadth, not the fraction
of an inch; if they struck, it would be the end.
He gazed at his wife, the melting lights of love in
his handsome eyes. Hey-dey! She would al-
ways be with him, and together they would go
about the great world and forget the injustice and
ingratitude of men. But it was going to be hard.
Strong men must have something to lay their
hands to. He knew that he could not remain idle
very long; he must be doing something. But out
of the shops he felt that he would be like a ship
without steering apparatus—lost, aimless, pur-
poseless.

“John?”

He woke from his dream, and forced a smile
to his lips.

“You haven’t eaten anything.”

“I’m not hungry, dear.”

“You haven’t spoken half a dozen words since
you came home.”

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“Haven't 1? I must have been thinking.”

“About the shops?” laying her hand on his and
pressing it strongly.

“Yes. I’m afraid, heart o’ mine, that it’s all
over. If they do not strike now, they will later
on; if not on this pretext, on some other.”

“Why not let him go, John?’

“No.” His jaws hardened. “It isn’t a question
of his going or staying; it is simply a question
of who is master, the employed or the em-
ployer. The men say it’s the principle of the
thing; it shall be fought out on those grounds.
I’m going down to the club to-night with Dick.
I feel the need of getting out and breathing.
Dick’s not the best company just now, but he’ll
understand what I need. Poor devil! he’s got his
hands full, too.”

She understood his mood, and offered no ob-
jection. She raised his hand and brushed it with
her lips.

“T love you, John.”

He smiled gratefully.

“You go over to mother’s for the evening, and
I’ll drop in on the way home and pick you up.”

Patty was in the music-room, so Mrs. Jack did
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not disturb her, but started at her basket-work.
Mrs. Bennington read till eight, and retired.
Patty played all the melancholy music she could
think of. When love first makes its entrance into
the human heart, there is neither joy nor gladness
nor gaiety. On the contrary, there is a vast
shadow of melancholy, a painful sadness, doubt
and cross-purpose, boldness at one moment and
timidity at the next, a longing for solitude. Mu-
sic and painting and poetry, these arts that only
attracted, now engage.

So Patty played.

Sometimes Mrs. Jack looked up from her work,
wondering. She had never heard Patty play so
many haunting, dismal compositions. At nine
the telephone rang, and she dropped her work in-
stantly, thinking the call might be from John.
Ah, if the men would only listen to reason!

“Tiello!”

“Ts Mrs, Bennington at home?” asked a voice,
unfamiliar to her ears.

“There are two. Which one do you wish?”

“Mrs. John Bennington.”

“This is Mrs. John Bennington speaking.
What is it?”

There was a pause.

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“T have something very important to commu-
nicate to you. In the first place, you must use
your influence in making Mr, Warrington with-
draw his name as a candidate for nomination.”

“Who is this speaking?” she asked sharply.

“Mr. McQuade.”

The receiver nearly fell from her hand. Mc-
Quade? What in the world—

“Did you get the name?”

“Yes. But I fail to understand what you are
talking about. I warn you that I shall ring off
immediately.”

“One moment, please. If you hang up the re-
ceiver, you will regret it. I wish you no ill, Mrs.
Bennington. If it were possible I should like to
talk with you personally, for this matter deeply
concerns your future happiness. I can not call;
I have been ordered out of your husband’s house.
It lies in your power to influence Warrington to
drop his political ambition. Information has
come to my hand that would not look very well
in the newspapers. It is in my power to stop it,
but I promise not to lift a hand if you refuse.”

“T not only refuse, but I promise to repeat your
conversation to my husband this very night.”
With that Mrs. Jack hung up the receiver. She

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rose, pale and terribly incensed. The low fellow!
How dared he, how dared he! “Patty!” The
call brooked no dallying.

The music ceased. Patty came out, blinking.

“You called me, Kate?”

“Patty, McQuade has been calling me up on
the telephone.”

“Who ?”

“McQuade, McQuade! He says that if I do
not influence Mr. Warrington to withdraw his
name— Did you ever hear of such a thing?
I am furious! What can it mean? He says he
has heard something about me which he can sup-
press but will not if I— Why, Patty, what shall
Ido? What shall I do?’ She crushed her hands
together wildly.

“Tell John,” said Patty sensibly.

“John? He would thresh McQuade within an
inch of his life.”

“Tell Warrington, then.”

“He would do the same as John. But what
can the wretch have found? God knows, Patty,
I have always been a good, true woman: . . .
Think of that man’s telephoning me!”

Patty ran to her side and flung her arms about
her brother’s wife. Patty loved her.

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“Don’t you bother your head, darling. It can’t
be anything but a political dodge; it can’t be any-
thing serious. McQuade is low enough to
frighten women, but don’t let him frighten you.
I know he lies,” said the loyal Patty. “And
now that I think it over, it would be best to say
nothing to John or Richard. Fisticuffs would get
into the papers, and it’s my opinion that’s just
what this man McQuade wants. He could swear
to a thousand lies, if the matter became public.
But oh!” clenching her hands fiercely, “I'd give
a year of my life to see John thresh him. But
you say nothing; let us wait and see.”

Wise Patty!

‘At that very moment McQuade sat swinging in
his swivel-chair. There was a smile of satisfac-
tion on his face.

“That'll bring ’em,” he said aloud, though he
was alone. “That'll bring ’em both up here, roar-
ing like lions. They'll muss up the furniture, and
then I can tell the reporters all about it. Even
Walford can’t object this time.”

He rubbed his hands together like Shylock at
the thought of his pound of flesh. He had waited
a long time. They had ordered him, McQuade,
who held the city in his hand—they had or-

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dered him out of the house. Not a grain of
mercy, not half a grain. Two birds with one
stone. He was shrewd for all his illiteracy. He
knew women passably well. This one would tell
her husband, who would seek for immediate ven-
geance.

But sometimes chance overthrows the best-laid
plans of cleverness and foresight. And this re-
markable plan of McQuade’s was deranged by a
chance guess by Patty.

Meantime at Martin’s it was growing lively.
The bar was crowded, the restaurant was being
liberally patronized, and persons went up the
stairs that did not return. Jordan paid the check,
and he and Osborne went out.

“When’ll they go out, Ben?”

“Monday.”

“Too bad. I wish I’d been sober.”

“Tll break Morrissy’s head one of these fine
days. Let’s go over to Johnny’s; there’s music
over there.”

“All right, Ben.”

“And no more booze, mind.”

“Just as you say.”

Up stairs the gambling-den was doing a good
business. The annual trotting meet had brought

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many sporting men to town. They were standing
around the faro table; the two roulette wheels
were going, and the Klondike machine spun
ceaselessly. There were a dozen stacks of chips
in front of Bolles. He was smiling, flushed with
triumph and whisky.

“Three hundred to the good, old boy!” he said
to the man who spun the ivory ball. “Tl break
you fellows to-night.”

“Bring Mr. Bolles another whisky,” said the
proprietor.

“Tl take all you can bring.”

“You're a tank, sure.”

“You bet!’ Bolles grinned.

So did the banker, covertly. He had seen the
comedy played a thousand times. Few men ever
took away their winnings, once they started in to
drink, and Bolles was already drunk. He lost his
next bet. He doubled and lost again. Then he
stacked his favorite number. The ball rolled into
it, but jumped the compartment, wizard-wise, and
dropped into single-o. Bolles cursed the luck.
Another whisky was placed at his elbow. He
drank it at a gulp.

“Make the limit five,” he cried.

The banker nodded to the man at the wheel.

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Bolles made six bets. He lost them. A quarter of
an hour later his entire winnings had passed over
the table. He swore, and drew out a roll of bills.
He threw a fifty on the black. Red won. He
doubled on black. Red won. He plunged. He
could not win a single bet. He tried numbers,
odd and even, the dozens, splits, squares, column.
Fortune had withdrawn her favor.

“Hell!”

He played his last ten on black, and lost.

“Let me have a hundred.”

The banker shook his head and pointed to the
signs on the wall: “Checks for money, money for
checks, no mouth-bets.”

Bolles felt in his pockets and repeated the futile
search.

“Not a damned cent!” he shouted. “Cleaned
out!”

“Give Mr. Bolles a ten-spot,” said the banker.
“But you can’t play it here, Bolles,” was the
warning.

Bolles stuffed the note in his pocket and rose.
He was very drunk; he himself did not realize
how drunk he was till he started for the door.
He staggered and lurched against the sideboard.
His hat rolled from his head. An attendant

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quickly recovered it, and Bolles slapped it on his
head.

“Get out o’ the way! It’s a snide game, any-
how. You've got wires on the machine. You've
got seven hundred o’ my money, and you give me
ten! Hell!’

They opened the door for him and he stumbled
out into the dark, unlighted hallway. He leaned
against the wall, trying to think it out, searching
his pockets again and again. Why in hell hadn’t
he left some of the money with the bartender?
Broke, clean, flat broke! And he had pushed his
winnings up to three hundred! He became ugly,
now that he fully realized what had happened.
He ground his teeth and cursed loudly; he even
kicked the door savagely. Then he swung rather
than walked down the stairs. He turned into the
bar and bought three more whiskies, and was
then primed for any deviltry. He was very drunk,
but it was a wide-awake drunkenness, cruel and
revengeful. He turned into the alley and tried to
think of some plan by which he could borrow
enough to make a new attempt at fickle fortune.
To-morrow he could strike McQuade again, but
to-night McQuade wouldn’t listen to him. Every
once in a while he would renew the searching of

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his pockets, but there was only the remainder of
the ten the banker had given him.

John and Warrington had played an uninter-
esting game of billiards at the club, then finally
sought the night and tramped idly about the
streets. With Warrington it was sometimes his
aunt, sometimes the new life that beat in his heart
when he saw Patty, sometimes this game he was
playing which had begun in jest and had turned to
earnest. With John it was the shops, the shops, al-
ways and ever the shops. When they spoke it was
in monosyllables. Nevertheless it was restful to
each of them to be so well understood that verbal
expression was not necessary. They had started
toward Martin’s on the way home, when War-
rington discovered that he was out of cigars. He
ran back three or four doors while John proceed-
ed slowly. Just as he was about to cross the alley-
way a man suddenly lurched out into the light.
He was drunk, but not the maudlin, helpless in-
toxication that seeks and invites sociability. He
was murderously drunk, strong, nervous, excited.
He barred Bennington’s way.

“T thought it was you!” he said venomously.

Bennington drew back and started to pass
around the man. He did not recognize him. He

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saw in the action only a man disorderly drunk.
But he hadn’t taken two steps before the other’s
words stopped him abruptly.

“You're a millionaire, eh? Well, Pll soon fix
you and your actress and her lover. Take that as
a starter !”

He struck Bennington savagely on the cheek-
bone. Bennington stumbled back, but managed
to save himself from falling. Instantly all the
war that was in his soul saw an outlet. He
came back, swift as a panther and as powerful.
In an instant his assailant was on his back on the
pavement, the strong fingers tightening about the
wretch’s throat. Bolles was a powerful man, but
he had not the slightest chance. Not a sound
from either man. There were one or two pedes-
trians on the opposite side of the street, but either
these did not see or would not.

Warrington had made a hurried purchase. As
he left the cigar store, he saw the two men fall.
He ran up quickly, wondering what the trouble
was. He had no idea that John was one of the
men, but as he saw the light grey suit, and the
Panama lying on the ground, he knew.

“For God’s sake, John, what are you doing?”
he cried.

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With a superhuman effort he dragged the en-
raged man from the prostrate form in the road.
It no longer struggled, but lay inert and without
motion.

“Was I killing him, Dick?” said John, in a
quavering voice. “He struck me and— Am I
mad, or has the world turned upside down in a
minute ?”’

“What did he say?” asked Warrington. He
was badly frightened. He knelt at the side of
Bolles and felt of his heart. It still beat.

“What did he say? Nothing, nothing!—
Where’s my hat? I’m going home— Have I—?”

“No, he’s alive; but I came just in time.”

At this moment Bolles turned over and slowly
struggled to a sitting posture. His hands went
feebly toward his throat.

“He’s all right,” said Warrington. ‘“We’d bet-
ter light out. Now what the devil—’

“He struck me. He was drunk. I’ve been ina
fighting mood all day. Call that carriage.”

When Mrs. Jack saw him she screamed.

“John!”

“The asphalt was wet, girl, and I took a bad
fall.” But John lied with ill grace.

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CHAPTER XIV

The Bennington mills, or shops, were situated
just inside the city limits. Beyond was a beautiful
undulating country of pastures and wheat-fields,
dotted frequently with fine country homes. The -
mills were somewhat isolated from the general
manufacturing settlement, but had spurs of track
‘that for practical purposes were much nearer the
main line of freight traffic than any of those man-
ufacturing concerns which posed as its rivals. It
was a great quadrangle of brick, partly surround-
ed by a prison-like wall. Within this wall was a
court, usually piled high with coke and coal and
useless molds. The building was, by turns, called
foundry, mills and shops. The men who toiled
there called it the shops. Day and night, night and
day, there was clangor and rumbling and roaring
and flashes of intense light. In the daytime great
volumes of smoke poured from the towering chim-
neys, and at night flames shot up to the very walls
of heaven, burnishing the clouds.

The elder Bennington was one of those men

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who, with a firm standing on the present, lay ad-
mirable plans for the future. He had been in no
great hurry to get rich. He went leisurely about
it, tantalizing fortune, it might be said. His first
venture had shown foresight. At the beginning of
the Civil War he had secured an option on many
thousand tons of coal. Without taking an actual
penny from his pockets, he had netted a comfort-
able fortune. Again, his foresight recognized that
the day would come when the whole continent
would gird itself in steel. With his ready money
he bought ground and built a small mill. This
prospered. He borrowed from the banks, and
went on building. Ten years passed. The prop-
erty was unencumbered ; he had paid both interest
and principal. He did not believe in stock-holders.
He sold no stock. Every nail, bolt and screw was
his; every brick, stone and beam. There were no
directors to meddle with his plans, no fool’s hand
to block his progress, to thwart his vast projects.
Slowly he became rich, for every piece of steel
that went out to the purchasers was honest steel.
Sagacity and loyalty overcame all obstacles. Many
a time he might have sold at a handsome profit.
But selling wasn’t his idea; he had a son. Besides,
this was his life-work, and he detested the idle
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rich, which at that time were just coming into
evidence.

He never speculated ; but he bought government
bonds, railroad bonds, municipal bonds, for he had
great faith in his country. He had the same faith
in his native city, too, for he secured all the bank
stock that came his way. Out of every ten dollars
he earned he invested five, saved three, and spent
two. He lived well, but not ostentatiously. He
never gave directly to charities, but he gave work
to hundreds, and made men self-reliant and inde-
pendent, which is a far nobler charity. He never
denied himself a vacation ; he believed that no man
should live and die at his desk. There was plenty
of time for work and plenty for play; but neither
interfered with the other. He was an ardent fish-
erman, a keen hunter, and a lover of horses.

More than all these things, he was one of those
rare individuals one seldom meets—the born
father. He made a man of his son and a woman
of his daughter. When he sent the boy to Eng-
land, he knew that the boy might change his
clothes, but neither his character nor his patriot-
ism. He voted independently; he was never a
party man; thus, public office was never thrust in
his way. Perhaps he was too frankly honest. He

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never worried when his son reached the mating
age. “Whoever my boy marries will be the woman
he loves, and he is too much his father’s son not to
love among his equals.” He was a college-bred
man besides, but few knew this. He had an eye
for paintings, an ear for music, and a heart for a
good book, It is this kind of man whom nature
allows to be reproduced in his children.

He was gruff, but this gruffness was simply a
mask to keep at arm’s length those persons whom
he did not desire for friends.

When he died he left a will that was a model of
its kind. There were not a hundred lines in the
document. He divided his fortune into three parts,
but he turned the shops over to his son John, with-
out stipulations, wholly and absolutely, to do with
them as he pleased. But he had written a letter in
which he had set forth his desires. It may be
understood at once that these desires readily co-
incided with those of the son.

John had not begun in the office. On the con-
trary, during school vacations he worked as a
puddler’s apprentice, as a molder’s apprentice, in
the rail-shop, in the sheet- and wire-shops. He
worked with his hands, too, and drew his envelope
on Saturday nights like the rest of them. There

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was never any talk about John’s joining the union;
the men looked upon his efforts good-naturedly
and as a joke. The father, with wisdom always at
his elbow, never let the fishing trips go by. John
had his play. At the age of twenty he knew as
much about the manufacture of steel as the next
one. He loved the night shifts, when the whole
place seethed and glowed like an inferno. This
manual education had done something else, too.
It had broadened his shoulders, deepened his
chest, and flattened his back. Many a time the old
man used to steal out and watch the young Her-
cules, stripped to the waist, drag rails to the cool-
ing-room. When John entered college athletics
he was not closely confined to the training-tables.

Under the guidance of such a father, then, there
could not be as a result anything less than a thor-
ough man.

On the following Monday morning succeeding
the encounter with Bolles, John boarded a car and
went out to the shops as usual. He found nothing
changed. The clerks in the office were busy with
huge ledgers, though it is true that many a hand
was less firm than on ordinary days. Rumors were
flying about, from clerk to clerk, but none knew
what the boss intended to do. From the shops

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themselves came the roaring and hammering that
had gone on these thirty years or more. Benning-
ton opened his mail and read each letter carefully.
There were orders for rails, wire rope and sheets
for boilers, The business of the concern always
passed through his hands first. Even when he was
out of town, duplicates of all orders were sent to
him. He laid each letter in the flat basket ; but this
morning there was no “O. K.—J. B.” scrawled
across the tops. There would be time enough for
that later. He rose and went to the window and
looked down into the court. His heart beat heav-
ily. There was something besides the possibility
of a strike on his mind. But he flung this thought
aside and returned to the strike. Was it right or
was it wrong? Should he follow out his father’s
request, letter for letter? To punish two or three
who were guilty, would it be right to punish sev-
eral hundred who were not? And those clerks and
assistants yonder, upon whom families depended,
who had nothing to do with unionism, one way or
the other, what about them? Fate strikes blindly;
the innocent fall with the guilty. The analysis
of his own desires was quick enough. Surrender?
Not much! Not an inch, not a tenth part of an
inch, would he move. If men permitted themselves
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to be sheep in the hands of an unscrupulous man,
so much the worse. He promised himself this
much: all those who appealed to him honestly, for
these he would find employment elsewhere. There
were other mills and shops in town that would be
glad enough to employ a Bennington man, which
signified capability.

“Mr. Bennington?”

John turned. Chittenden, the young English
inventor, stood respectfully just within the door.

“Good morning, Mr. Chittenden. How’s the
invention going? Did you get that special pulley
from Pittsburgh yet?”

“The invention is going very well, sir. But it is
not of that I wish to speak.”

“Have you joined the union, then?” asked Ben-
nington, with a shade of irony which did not
escape the keen-eyed Englishman.

“No!” This was not spoken; it was more like a
shout. “TI have joined no union, and my brain may
rot before I do. The truth is, sir, I hear that if
the men go out you'll tear down the shops.” He
hesitated.

“Go on.”

“Well, I do not want this to happen on my ac-
count. I am young; I can wait; I’ll take my tink-

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ering elsewhere. You've been very good to me,
sir, and I should hate to see you troubled.”

“Chittenden, you can’t leave me now. If you
do, I shall never forgive you. You are a valuable
piece of property just now. You are to be my test
case, as the lawyers say. If you go now the men
will think I weakened and forced you out. You
gave me your word that you would stay here till
I told you to go.”

“There’s nothing more to be said, sir. You may
depend upon me.”

“Thanks. The day you perfect your machine,
on that day I shall find the capital to promote it.
Good morning.”

“The committee was coming up after me, sir,”
was the reply.

“Ah!” Bennington’s eyes flashed. ‘‘Then re-
main to hear what I have to say to them.”

All this while the girl at the typewriter never
paused. Clickity-click! clickity-click! Suddenly
all noises ceased, all but the noise of the type-
writer. The two men looked at each other quickly
and comprehensively. There was a tramping of
feet on the stairs, and presently a knock on the
door. Clickity-click !

“You may go,” said Bennington to the girl.

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The girl gathered up her notes and passed into
the main office.

Again came the knock, more aggressive this
time.

“Come in.”

The committee, headed by Morrissy, entered
with shuffling feet. Morrissy saw the Englishman
and scowled.

“Well, gentlemen?” said Bennington, sitting on
his desk and restitig a foot on his chair.

“We have come to learn what you intend to do
about this Britisher,” began Morrissy.

’ replied Benning-
ton thoughtfully. “How long have you been in
the shops?”

“T’m not in your shops,” returned Morrissy
blusteringly.

“Tn that case,” said Bennington mildly, “there’s
the door. I do not see how this matter concerns
you.”

“Well, it does concern me, as you'll find soon,”
cried Morrissy, choking with sudden rage.

“Tl give you one minute to make the foot of
the stairs. If you’re not there at the end of that
time, I’ll take you by the collar and help you.”
Bennington drew out his watch.

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“He’s the head of our union, Mr. Bennington,”
interposed one of the men, shifting his feet un-
easily.

“Oh! Then he’s the man who is really making
all this trouble?” Bennington nodded as if he had
just arrived at a solution.

“I’m here to see that my men have their rights.”
Morrissy failed to understand this mild young
man. “And it'll take a bigger man than you to
throw me out of here. This Britisher either joins
the union or he goes.”

“If he joins the union he'll be permitted to con-
tinue the perfecting of his invention ?”

“His invention is not necessary at present. The
output as it is meets the demand.”

“Look here, Mr. Morrissy, Pll make you a
proposition.”

“What ?”

“You and I will go down to the molding-room
and have it out with our fists. If you win, Chitten-
den goes; if I win, he stays and the men return
to work.”

“This isn’t no kid’s play, Mr. Bennington.
You've got a big strike looking you in the face.”

Bennington laughed. “I’m afraid you're a cow-
ard. So Mr. Chittenden must join the union or go.

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It isn’t a question of wage scale or hours; it simply
revolves around Mr. Chittenden. Supposing he
joins the union, what will you give him to do?”
Bennington’s voice was that of a man who wishes
to know all sides of the question.

“Well, he’ll have to learn where they all started
from.”

“Mr. Chittenden is an expert machinist.”

“Let him join the union, then, and there won’t
be any trouble here. I want justice. This shop is
union, and no non-union man can work here. I
want justice, that’s all.”

“You'll get that all in good time, Mr.—ah—?”’

“Morrissy.”

“Mr. Morrissy. Mr. Chittenden, are you will-
ing to join the union?” Bennington smiled as he
plied this question.

“Not I! My word, I’d as lief starve as become
a union man, and under such a master. I prize my
manhood and independence above all things. I
have already refused to join. I never take back
what I say.”

“Neither do I, Mr. Chittenden.” Bennington
stood up.

“Then out he goes,” said Morrissy, recovering
his truculence.

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“On what authority?’ Bennington’s voice was
growing milder and milder. “On what author-
ity?” he repeated.

“On mine!” cried Morrissy.

“You are mistaken. I am master here. Mr.
Chittenden will remain on the pay-roll.”

“Then in ten minutes the men will walk out on
my orders. You're making a big mistake, Mr.
Bennington.”

“That is for me to judge.”

“Ten minutes to make up your mind.” Mor-
rissy made a gesture toward his watch.

“Don’t bother about the time, Mr. Morrissy.
We'll spend the ten minutes in the molding-room.”

Morrissy turned pale.

“Oh, we shan’t come to fisticuffs, Mr. Mor-
rissy. I ama gentleman, and you are not. Nota
word!” as Morrissy clenched his fists. “Mr. Ship-
ley,” said Bennington to one of the committee,
“will you get all the men together? I have a few
words to say to them before this ten minutes is
up. J want to give the men a fair show.”

“You can have twenty minutes, my English-
bred gentleman,” snarled Morrissy. At that mo-
ment he would have given a thousand dollars for
the strength to whip the man whose ruin he be-

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lieved he was planning. “i’m kind of anxious my-
self to hear what you've got to say.”

“In fact, I hope you will listen carefully to
every word I say,” replied Bennington, with a nod
toward the door.

The committee went out solemnly. Morrissy
was next to the last to go down the stairs. Ben-
nington followed closely behind him.

“Some day Ill get a good chance at you, Mr.
Morrissy, and the devil take care of you when I
do. I shall see to it that the law will be found to
fit your case.”

Morrissy shifted over to the balustrade, look-
ing over his shoulder at the speaker.

“Look here, you can’t talk to me that way, Ben-
nington.”’

“Can’t I? I'll proceed. In the first place, you’re
a damn scoundrel. You’ve brought about this
trouble simply to show that you have power to
injure me. Well, you can’t injure me, Mr. Mor-
rissy, but you will do irreparable injury to these
poor men who put their trust in you and your
kind, Chittenden? That’s a pretty poor excuse.
You’ve always harbored a grudge against my
father, and this seems to be your chance. You’ve
the idea that you can intimidate me. You can’t

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intimidate me any more than you could my father.
More than all this, McQuade is back of this move;
and if I can prove that you accepted a bribe from
him, I'll have you both in court for conspiracy.”

“You're talking big. It won’t do you any
good.”

“Wait. I should be willing to wait ten years to
call you a thief and a blackguard in public. But
I say to you now, privately, you are both a thief
and a blackguard.”

Morrissy stepped back, red in the face. But he
recognized the disadvantage of his position. He
was one step lower than his accuser.

“Go on,” said Bennington, his voice now hard
and metallic; “go on down. There'll be no rough
and tumble here. I won’t give you that satisfac-
tion.”

“Well, you mark my words, I’ll get satisfaction
out of you shortly, and then you'll talk on the
other side of your mouth. This is business now.
When that’s done, why, I’ll make you eat every
one of those words.”

Bennington laughed sinisterly. He could crush
the life out of this flabby ruffian with one arm,
easily.

Nothing more was said, and the way to the

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great molding-room was traversed silently. Ship-
ley sent out orders, and in a few minutes the men
congregated to hear what the boss had to say. It
was, to say the least, an unusual proceeding, this
of an employer delivering a speech to his men after
they had practically declared a strike. Morrissy
now regretted that he had given Bennington any
grace at all, for it was not to be doubted that there
was only a small majority of the men who had
voted for a strike. And these were the young
men; youth is always so hot-headed and cock-sure
of itself. The older men, the men who had drawn
their pay in the shops for twenty years or more,
they were not so confident.

Bennington mounted a pile of molds and raised
his hand. The murmur of voices dwindled away
into silence. The sun came in through the spread-
ing skylights, and Bennington stood in the center
of the radiance. He was a man, every inch of him,
and not a man among them could deny it. There
are many things that are recognizable even to
crass minds, and one of these is a man. Genius
they look upon with contempt, but not strength
and resolution; they can not comprehend what is
not visible to the eye.

“Fire away, boss!” said a voice from the crowd.

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Many of the men smiled, but there was no an-
swering smile on the face of the man on the molds.

“TI have but few words to say to you men, and
I trust for the sake of your families that you will
weigh carefully every word I utter.’ Bennington
took his father’s letter from his pocket and un-
folded it. “You are about to take a step such as
you all will live to regret. My father never threat-
ened; he acted. I shall follow his example. You
are on the verge of striking. I shall recognize the
strike only at the moment you decide to leave the
shops. You will strike without cause, without
justice, simply because you are commanded to do
so by your leader.”

“Hold on, Mr. Bennington!” cried one of those
nearest him. “We have the right to vote, and we
voted against your policy in hiring a non-union
man.”

“Put it that way if it pleases you,” replied Ben-
nington. “I say that you strike simply to show
how strong your power is. It is a fine thing
to have power, but it is finer by far to use it only
when justice makes a cause. But power is a ter-
rible weapon in the hands of those who can not
direct it wisely. Let me come to facts. Your
wages are the highest in the city, five per cent.

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above the union scale; your hours are the shortest :
there is no Sunday-night shift; you have at your
pleasure a gymnasium and a swimming-pool; you
are each of you given a week’s vacation in the
summer on full pay, a thing no other concern of
the kind in the state does; all the machinery is
flawless, minimizing your chances of danger; in
fact, you draw pay fifty-two weeks in the year in
the squarest shop in the world. If any man wishes
to deny these things, let him stand forth.”

But there was neither sound nor movement
from the men.

Bennington continued. “Men, you have no
grievance. This man Chittenden, the alleged cause
of your striking, takes no food or pay from your
mouths or your pockets; he interferes with you
in no manner whatever. The contrivance he is
trying to complete will not limit the output, but
will triple it, necessitating the employment of
more men. But your leader says that the present
output is wholly sufficient, and you are taking his
word for it. Mr. Chittenden represents progress,
but you have taken it into your heads that you
will have none of it. He refuses to join the union,
and I refuse to discharge him on that ground. I
do not say that this shall not be a union shop; I

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say that I shall employ whom I will for any pur-
pose I see fit. It is your say, so say it; yours is the
power; use it. . . . Patience, just a little
longer. I have shown much of it during the past
year.”

The men swayed restlessly, and then became
still again when they saw that he was going to
read something.

“T have here the last letter my father ever wrote
me. As I received it after his death, I might say
that it is a voice from the grave. I will read that
part which affects the shops.

“*And so, my son, I leave you this last request.
Day after day, year after year, I have toiled hon-
estly, with the will and the foresight God gave me.
I die prosperous and contented, having acquired my
riches without ill to any and without obligation. I
have never wronged any man, though often the
power to do so has been in my hands. But reason
always cools hot blood, and I have always kept a
strong curb on all my angry impulses. Some day
the men will strike again, what about I know not;
but this I do know: it will be without justice. I have
bent to them nine out of ten times. Nine of their
demands were not wholly unreasonable, but the
tenth was. And this demand was that I should have
no non-union men in the shops. This strike lasted
four months. You will recall it. I do not know how
long it might have gone on, had not the poor devil,
who was the cause of it, died. I and the men came

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together again. We patched up our differences, cov-
ertly, so to speak. The men appeared at the gates
one morning, and I let them in without referring by
a single word to what had taken place. The princi-
ple of unionism is a noble thing, but ignoble men,
like rust in girders, gnaw rapidly into principles and
quickly and treacherously nullify their good.

“*The destroyer is everywhere. The apple has its
worm, the rose its canker, the steel its rust. It is
the ignorant and envious man who misuses power
that, rightly directed, moves toward the emancipa-
tion of the human race. There are cruel and grasp-
ing and dishonest employers, who grind the heart
and soul out of men. The banding together of the
laboring men was done in self-defense ; it was a case
of survive or perish. The man who inaugurated
unionism was a great philanthropist. The unions
began well; that is because their leaders were honest,
and because there was no wolf in the fold to recog-
nize the extent of power. Jt was an ignorant man
who first discovered it, and for the most part igno-
rance still wears the crown and holds the scepter.
The men who put themselves under the guidance of
a dishonest labor leader are much to be pitied. The
individual laboring man always had my right hand,
but I have never had any particular reason to ad-
mire the union leader.

“*There were two hundred and twelve strikes last
year, of which only six had cause. The others were
brought about by politicians and greedy unions.
Dishonesty finds the line of least resistance in greed.
Now, I have studied the strike problem from begin-
ning to end. There can be no strike at the Benning-
ton shops for a just cause. Had I lived long enough,
the shops would have been open-shop. My son,
never surrender once to injustice, for if you do you

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will establish a precedent, and you will go on sur-
rendering to the end of time. I leave the shops to
you. There is but one thing I demand, and that is
that you shall never sell the shops; Bennington or
nothing. If you have difficulties with the men,
weigh them on the smallest scales. You will be mas-
ter there—you alone. It is a big responsibility, but
I have the greatest confidence in you. When the
time comes, show that you are master, even to the
tearing down of every brick and stone that took me
so long to erect. I shall be where such disasters will
not worry me in the least.’”

Bennington refolded the letter slowly. The men
stood absolutely motionless, waiting.

“Men, if you go out this day, not one of you
will ever find employment here again. My sense
of justice is large, and nothing but that shall dic-
tate to me. I shall employ and discharge whom I
will; no man or organization of men shall say to
me that this or that shall be done here. I am mas-
ter, but perhaps you will understand this too late.
Stay or go; that is as you please. If you stay,
nothing more will be said on my part; if you
go . . . Well, I shall tear down these walls and
sell the machinery for scrap-iron!”’

For the first time he showed emotion. He
brought his hands strongly together, as a man
puts the final blow to the nail, then buttoned up

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his coat and stood erect, his chin aggressive and
his mouth stern.

“Well, which is it to be?’ he demanded.

“You are determined to keep Chittenden?”

“Positively determined.”

“We'll go out, Mr. Bennington,” said Shipley.

“And what’s more,” added Morrissy, “we'll see
that nobody else comes in.”

He lighted a cigar, shoved his hands into his
trousers pockets and walked insolently toward the
exit. The majority of the men were grinning.
Tear down this place? Kill the goose that laid
the golden egg? It was preposterous. Why, no
man had ever done a thing like that. It was to cut
off one’s nose to spite one’s face. It was a case of
bluff, pure and simple. Winter was nearly three
months off. By that time this smart young man
would be brought to his senses. So they began
filing out in twos and threes, their blouses and
dinner-pails tucked under their arms. Many were
whistling lightly, many were smoking their pipes,
but there were some who passed forth silent
and grave. If this young man was a chip of the
old block, they had best start out at once in search
of a new job.

Bennington jumped down from his impromptu

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platform and closed the ponderous doors. Then
he hurried to the main office, where he notified the
clerks what had happened. He returned to his
private office. He arranged his papers method-
ically, closed the desk, and sat down. His gaze
wandered to the blue hills and rolling pastures,
and his eyes sparkled; but he forced back what
had caused it, and presently his eyes became dry
and hard.

“*You and your actress and her lover’,” he
murmured softly. “My God, I am very un-

happy!”

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CHAPTER XV

The anonymous letter is still being written.
This is the weapon of the cowardly and envious
heart, so filled with venom and malice that it has
the courage or brazenness to go about piously
proclaiming the word duty. Beware of the woman
who has ink-stains on her fingers and a duty to
perform ; beware of her also who never complains
of the lack of time, but who is always harking on
duty, duty. Some people live close to the blinds.
Oft on a stilly night one hears the blinds rattle
never so slightly. Is anything going on next door?
Does a carriage stop across the way at two
o'clock of a morning? Trust the woman behind
the blinds to answer. Coming or going, little or
nothing escapes this vigilant eye that has a retina
not unlike that of a horse, since it magnifies the
diameter of everything nine times. To hope for
the worst and to find it, that is the golden text of
the busybody. The busybody is always a prude;
and prude signifies an evil-minded person who is
virtuous bodily. They are never without ink or

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soft lead-pencils. Ink has accomplished more won-
derful things than man can enumerate; though
just now a dissertation on ink in ink is ill-timed.
To return again to the anonymous letter. Add
and multiply the lives it has wrecked, the wars
brought about. Menelaus, King of the Greeks,
doubtless received one regarding Helen’s fancy
for that simpering son of Priam, Paris. The
anonymous letter was in force even in that remote
period, the age of myths. It is consistent, for
nearly all anonymous letters are myths. A wife
stays out late; her actions may be quite harmless,
only indiscreet. There is, alack! always some in-
timate friend who sees, who dabbles her pen in the
ink-well and labors over a backhand stroke. It is
her bounden duty to inform the husband forth-
with. The letter may wreck two lives, but what is
this beside stern, implacable duty? When man
writes an anonymous letter he is in want of
money; when woman writes one she is in want of
a sensation. It is easy to reject a demand for
money, but we accept the lie and wrap it to our
bosoms, so quick are we to believe ill of those we
love. This is an aspect of human nature that eludes
analysis, as quicksilver eludes the pressure of the
finger. The anonymous letter breeds suspicion;

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suspicion begets tragedy. The greatest tragedy is
not that which kills, but that which prolongs men-
tal agony. Honest men and women, so we are
told, pay no attention to anonymous letters. They
toss them into the waste-basket . . . and brood
over them in silence.

Now, Mrs. Franklyn-Haldene was always con-
sidering her duty; her duty to the church, to
society, to charity, and, upon occasions, to her
lord and master.

“Bennington’s men have gone out, the fools!”
said Haldene from over the top of his paper.

“Have they?” Mrs, Franklyn-Haldene nibbled
the tip of her pen. She sighed, tore up what she
had written and filtered it through her fingers into
the waste-basket.

“Yes, they’ve gone out. I don’t know what the
business world is coming to. Why, the brick-layer
gets—-I don’t say earns—more than the average
clerk. And Bennington’s men go out simply be-
cause he refuses to discharge that young Eng-
lish inventor. . . . What are you writing and
tearing up so often?” he asked, his curiosity sud-
denly aroused.

“A letter.”

“Thoughts clogged ?”

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“It is a difficult letter to write.”

“Then there can’t be any gossip in it.”

“I never concern myself with gossip, Franklyn.
I wish I could make you understand that.”

“TI wish you could, too.” He laid his paper
down. “Well, I’m off to the club, unless you are
particularly in need of me.”

“You are always going to the club.”

“Or coming back.”

“Some husbands—”

“Yes, I know. But the men I play poker with
are too much interested in the draw to talk about
other men’s wives.”

“Tt’s the talk of the town the way you men
play cards.”

“Better the purse than the reputation.”

“T haven’t any doubt that you are doing your
best to deplete both,” coldly.

Then she sighed profoundly. This man was a
great disappointment to her. He did not under-
stand her at all. The truth was, if she but knew it,
he understood her only too well. She had married
the handsomest man in town because all the other
belles had been after him; he had married money,
after a fashion. Such mistakes are frequent rather
than singular these days. The two had nothing in

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common, It is strange that persons never find this
out till after the honeymoon. Truly, marriage is a
voyage of discovery for which there are no relief
expeditions.

So Haldene went to the club, while his wife
squared another sheet of writing-paper and began
again. Half an hour went by before she completed
her work with any degree of satisfaction. Even
then she had some doubts. She then took a pair of
shears and snipped the crest from the sheet and
sealed it in a government envelope. Next she
threw a light wrap over her shoulders and stole
down to the first letter-box, where she deposited
the trifle. The falling of the lid broke sharply on
the still night. She returned to the house, feeling
that a great responsibility had been shifted from
hers to another’s shoulders. Indeed, she would
have gone to any lengths to save Patty a life of
misery. And to think of that woman! To think of
her assuming a quasi-leadership in society, as if
she were to the manner born! The impudence of it
all! Poor Mrs. Bennington, with her grey hairs;
it would break her heart when she found out (as
Mrs. Franklyn-Haldene determined she should)
the sort of woman her son had married. She
straightened her shoulders and pressed her lips

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firmly and contemplated a duty, painfully but rig-
orously performed. She cast the scraps of paper
into the grate and applied a match. It is not al-
ways well that duty should leave any circumstan-
tial evidence behind.

The evening papers devoted a good deal of
space to the strike at the Bennington shops. They
frankly upheld Bennington. They admitted that
employers had some individual rights. They be-
rated the men for quarreling over a matter so
trivial as the employment of a single non-union
man, who was, to say the most, merely an experi-
menter. However, they treated lightly Benning-
ton’s threat to demolish the shops. No man in his
right mind would commit so childish an act. It
would be revenge of a reactive order, fool match-
ing fools, whereas Bennington ought to be more
magnanimous. The labor unions called special
meetings, and with one or two exceptions voted to
stand by the action of the men.

There was positively no politics behind this
strike; everybody understood that; at least, every-
body thought he understood. But there were
some who smiled mysteriously and wagged their
heads. One thing was certain; Bennington’s

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friend, Warrington, would lose many hundred
votes in November. For everybody knew which
way the Republican convention would go; there
was nobody in sight but Warrington.

Bennington and Mrs. Jack dined at the old
home that evening. There was plenty of gloom
and forced gaiety around the board. John pre-
tended that he was well out of a bad job; he was
not a dreamer nor a socialist, not he; Utopia was
not for the iron age. He told stories, joked and
laughed, and smoked frequently. No one but the
mother had the courage to ask if he really meant
to tear down the mills. She came around the table,
smoothed his hair as she had done since he was a
boy, and leaned over his chair.

“John ?”

“Well, mother mine?”

“Shall you really do it?”

“Do what?”

“Tear it down.”

He did not answer at once, and she waited,
trembling.

“You would not have me take back my words to
the men, would you, mother?’ quietly.

“Your father loved the place.”

“And do I not?” a note of strong passion in his

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voice. “I shall tear it down, if I live. Do not ask
me anything more about it. Has Dick been over
to-day ?”

“He telephoned that he would be over after
dinner. He wants you to go to the speech-making
to-night.” Patty rose from her seat at the table.

“Patty,” said John, rather surprised at his dis-
covery, “you are almost a woman!”

“You men never see anything quickly,” said
Mrs. Jack. “Patty has been a beautiful woman
for several months.”

Patty started, restrained the impulse to speak,
and searched Mrs. Jack’s face. But Mrs. Jack
had eyes for no one but John. Her thought was
far removed from her words. That telephone
message rang in her ears every hour of the day.
One moment she was on the verge of telling John,
the next she dared not. What had that wretch
found out? What could he have found out? A
lie; it could be nothing more nor less than a lie;
but the suspense and the waiting were killing her.
Every beat of her heart, every drop of her blood,
belonged to this man at her side, and she would
rather die than that doubt should mingle with his
love. She was miserable, miserable; she dared not
confide in any one; Patty was too young, for all

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her womanhood, to understand fully. Night after
night she forced her recollection through the dim
past, but she could find nothing but harmless, in-
nocent follies. Alas, the kaleidoscope of life has so
many variant angles that no two eyes see alike.
What to her appeared perfectly innocent might
appear evil in the neighbors’ eyes; what to her
was sunshine, to another might be shadow.

“Think of it!’ said John. “Patty will be marry-
ing before long.”

Mrs. Bennington looked at Patty and sighed.
To rear up children and to lose them, that was the
mother’s lot. To accept these aches with resigna-
tion, to pass the days in reconciling what might be
with what shall be, that was the mother’s portion.
Yes, Patty must some day marry.

“When Patty marries, mother,” said John, “you
shall come and live with Kate and me.”

“You are moving me around like a piece of use-
less furniture,” replied Patty, with some resent-
ment. “I doubt if I shall ever marry.”

“Bosh!” laughed John. “There’ll come some
bold Lochinvar for you, one of these days; and
then off you’ll go. There’s the bell. That must be
Dick.”

Patty and Mrs. Jack crossed glances quickly.

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John went to the door himself and brought War-
rington back with him.

“Won’t you have a cup of tea, Mr. Warring-
ton?” asked the mother.

“Thank you, I will.” Warrington stirred the
tea, gazing pleasantly from face to face.

The lines in his face seemed deeper than usual;
the under lids of the eyes were dark, and the
squareness of the jaw was more prominent. John
saw no change, but the three women did. War-
rington looked careworn.

“Well, John, I see that you have done it.”

“Yes.”

“T’m terribly sorry, but you couldn’t back down
now and live in town.”

“You see, mother?” John smiled sadly.

“Yes, my son. You will do what you think best
and manliest.”’

“How’s the cat?” asked Warrington.

“Tt still wanders about, inconsolable,’’ answered
Patty. How careworn he looked!

“Poor beast! It is lucky to have fallen in such
good hands.”

“When you are mayor,” said Patty, “you must
give me a permit to rescue stray cats from the
pound.”

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“T'll do more than that; I’ll build a house of
shelter for them.”

“What time does your speaker begin?” inquired
John, lighting a fresh cigar.

“John, you are smoking too much,” remon-
strated Mrs. Jack.

“T know it, honey.”

“Rudolph begins at nine; if we go then that will
be soon enough. You'll be amused. Have you
been riding lately?’ Warrington directed this
question to Patty.

“Yes, regularly every morning.” Patty dallied
with the crumbs at the side of her plate.

“TI don’t know what’s the matter with me, but I
find it wearies me to climb on to a horse’s back.
I haven’t got back to normal conditions yet.”

“T was wondering where you were.”

“And how is Jove?” asked Mrs. Jack.

“He’s snoozing out on the veranda. I take him
everywhere now.”

Presently they moved into the living-room.
Warrington longed to sit beside Patty, but of a
sudden he had grown diffident. It amused him to
come into the knowledge that all his address and
worldliness would not stand him in good stead in
the presence of Patty. Words were no longer at

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his command; he was no longer at his ease. He
was afraid of Patty; and he was very, very lonely.
That empty house over the way was no longer
home. There were moments when he regretted his
plunge into politics. He was not free to pack his
luggage and speed away to lands that urged his
fancy. He had given his word, and he was too
much of a man to withdraw it. He must remain
here and fight two battles.

Mrs. Jack had taken the seat next to him, and
was asking him about the progress of the play.
It was going on so indifferently that he was of
half a mind to destroy it, which he did later.
His glance always came back to Patty. She was
bent over her basket-work. She was calling him
Mr. Warrington again. Had he offended her in
any manner? The light from the lamp sparkled
in her hair. She was as fresh and beautiful as a
July rose. But Mrs. Jack was an artist. She knew
how to draw him out; and shortly he was talking
animatedly. It was now that Patty’s eyes began
to rove.

John, his fingers meeting in an arch, one leg
thrown restlessly across the other, thoughtfully
eyed his wife and his friend. . . . It was a lie;
there was nothing in all the world so honest as

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Warrington’s hand, so truthful as his wife’s eyes.
Cursed be the doubt that had wedged between
these two he loved!

Time passes quickly or slowly, according to
the state of mind. To John the time was long; to
Patty and Warrington it was too short; to Mrs.
Jack it was neither long nor short, but suspended.

“Time for us to go, John. You are not particu-
lar about a chair, are you?” Warrington asked.

“Not I. I prefer to stand up in the rear of the
hall. If I am bored I can easily escape.”

“Oh, the night will not be without some amuse-
ment.”

“Take good care of John,” whispered Mrs.
Jack in Warrington’s ear, as the two men were
about to depart.

“Trust me!” Warrington smiled.

Patty and John observed this brief intercourse.
The eyes of love are sharp. Patty was not jealous,
neither was John; but something had entered into
their lives that gave to all trivial things a ponder-
ous outline.

“Don’t let any reporters talk to John, Mr. War-
rington,” requested the mother.

“Tl surround him.”

“Shall we walk?” asked John.

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“We can see better on foot.”

“We'll walk, then.”

So the two men went down town on foot, and
Jove galloped back and forth joyously. At any
and all times he was happy with his master. The
one bane of his existence was gone, the cat. He
was monarch of the house; he could sleep on sofa-
pillows and roll on the rugs, and nobody stole his
bones.

“Good dog,” observed John.

“Money couldn’t buy him. I saw that fellow
Bolles to-day,” tentatively.

“Bolles?” John did not recollect the name.

“The fellow you nearly throttled the other
night,” explained Warrington. “He looked pretty
well battered up. I never saw you lose your tem-
per so quickly before.”

“He struck me without provocation, at the
wrong moment. Who is going to speak to-night ?”

“Donnelly and Rudolph.”

“What do you think? Donnelly called me up
by ’phone this afternoon. Wants to know if I
really intend to tear down the shops. I told him I
had nothing to say on the subject.”

“Tear them down. I should. You're a rich

man.
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“Money isn’t the question. The thing is, what
shall I do? I’m not fitted for anything else.”

“Tear down the shops and then build them up
again, after a few years. It will be a good lesson
to these union leaders. And you could have the
fun of fighting to build up the trade your father
left. You were talking once of rebuilding en-
tirely.”’

“Not a bad idea, Dick. Only, I feel sorry for
the men.”

“Why? Are they free men or are they not? It
rested with them just as much as it did with you.
Tam far removed from the principles of unionism,
as they stand to-day. I have no patience or sym-
pathy with men who can not, or will not, appre-
ciate a liberal, honest employer.”

“Let’s change the subject, Dick.”

For a block or so they proceeded in silence.

“John, you’re the head of the family. I love
Patty better than anything else on God’s earth.
Do you mind?” Warrington uttered these words
swiftly, before his courage, which he had sud-
denly urged to its highest, dropped back.

John swung round abruptly and brought his
hands down heavily on Warrington’s shoulders.

“Ts that true, Dick?”

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“As I stand here. Oh, I know; I’m not good
enough for Patty. I haven’t lived as decently as I
might. I haven’t gone through life as circum-
spectly as you have. I drank; success made me
dizzy. But I love Patty—God bless her!—as I
never hoped or dreamed of loving any woman.
You’re a man, John; you will understand. I’ve
been alone all my life; buffeted here and there,
living haphazard, without any particular restraint
on my desires. The dear old aunt was the only
tie, and that was delicate till I came home and
found how good and kind she was. I miss her;
months from now I shall miss her a hundredfold.
I’m very lonely. You've all been so good to me.
To be alone, and to think of living alone for the
rest of my days, is a torture. My nature craves
companionship, and this craving has led me into
plenty of mischief. I love Patty. What do you
say, John?”

“Say? Why, you are good enough for any
woman alive. I am very glad, Dick. Patty mar-
ried to you! You old farmer,” affectionately,
“T’ve always been mentally pairing off you two!
Come on; let’s hear what the political windmill
has to say. They’re burning red fire in front of
the hall.”

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But a moment gone their feet had dragged with
each step; now there was a lightness that was
dancing. John knew that it was all a lie; and his
heart was as light as his feet. Kate, dear Kate!
He was a wretch! He slapped Warrington on the
shoulder.

“To think of your marrying Patty, the little
sister !”’

“Don’t go too fast, John,” said Warrington
with less enthusiasm. “I haven’t said a word to
Patty yet; and if she’s a sensible young woman,
she’ll give me my congé first-off.”

“By George, women are strange creatures. It’s
the truth, Dick; you can’t tell which way they'll
go. But Patty’s no fool.” John hadn’t felt so
good in many hours.

“But I love her, and God knows I shall try to
be worthy of her, even if I lose her. . . . Sky-
rockets!’ with an upward glance. “That’s the
signal for Rudolph’s arrival at the hall.”

“Come on, then!”

Rudolph was the great Jeffersonian Democrat,
not by excellence, rather by newspaper courtesy,
and that, to be specific, by his own newspaper. He
had come up from New York that day to deliver
his already famous speech. He was one of the

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many possibilities in the political arena for the
governorship. And as he was a multimillionaire,
he was sure of a great crowd. As an Englishman
loves a lord, so does the American love a million-
aire. Rudolph’s newspaper was the only one in
the metropolis that patted him on the back regu-
larly each morning. He was the laboring man’s
friend; he was the arch enemy of the monopolies
(not yet called trusts) ; and so forth and so on.
For all that some laughed at him, he was an able
politician, and was perfectly honest in all his po-
litical transactions, which is something of a para-
dox. So he came up to Herculaneum to convert
the doubting. The laboring party greeted him
en masse, and stormed the hall for choice seats.

The hall was a low, rambling structure, bad for
the voice, but capable of seating a few thousands.
The curbs glared with green and red fire, and a
band blared out the songs of freedom. The
crowds surged back and forth, grumbling and
laughing and shouting. And the near-by saloons
did a land-office business. It was a great night for
the man who had nothing to do. All at once there
was loud hurrahing. An open hack drove up to
the entrance, and the great Jeffersonian stood up,
bowing, bowing. The green light on one side and

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the red on the other gave to his face a Gargantuan
aspect rather than that of a Quixote, to whom he
was more often likened than to any other character
in fiction. The police cleared a pathway for the
great man, and he hurried up the steps. Another
cheer, and another blast from the band. Great is
popularity, whose handmaiden is oblivion.

“They'll be doing all this to you some day,”
John declared, as he and Warrington elbowed
through the crowd, the dog between their legs.

“That’s him!” cried a voice.

“Who?”

“The fellow that writes ; Henderson’s man.”

“Salt licks for him!’’ came in derision.

“He'll give Donnelly a run for the money.”

“Not in a thousand years!”

All this amused Warrington.

“How d’ y’ do, Mr. Warrington ?”

A hand touched the prospective candidate on
the arm. Warrington saw Osborne’s rubicund
nose.

“So you’re out, too, Mr. Osborne?”

“I never let meetings go by, Richard. Good
evening, Mr. Bennington. A man with ten mil-
lions doesn’t look any different from ordinary
mortals, does he? But he is different, or he

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wouldn’t have that barrel. A million is like a
light-house; it attracts all sorts of birds.”

Warrington laughed and went on. Once or
twice he lost the dog, but Jove managed to turn
up each time.

“We'll stand at the left,” said John; “it’s nearer
the exits.”

“Just as you say. I wish I’d left the dog at
home. He’s a nuisance in a crowd like this.”

They presently stood with their backs to the
wall and looked toward the stage. Donnelly was
already speaking about the great man who was
that night to address them.

“And,” concluded the mayor, “Mr. Rudolph
will lead us to a victory such as the party in this
state has not yet known.” And half a hundred
more final words. Man approaches nearest wom-
an’s postscript when he says: “And, gentlemen,
just one word more!”

Meantime Warrington’s gaze wandered here
and there. He saw many familiar faces,—poli-
ticians, prominent merchants of both parties, and
the usual exuberant hundreds drawn thither only
by curiosity. These were willing to applaud any-
thing and anybody, without knowing or caring
what about. Quiet one moment, roaring the next;

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murmur, murmur, like angry waters on shingle.
These make and unmake public men; they have
nothing, but they can give everything. Strong
tobacco smoke rolled ceilingward, and those on
the stage became blurred and nebulous. Once
Warrington caught a glimpse of a battered face,
but it disappeared quickly. However, he said
nothing to Bennington. Again, he saw McQuade
moving about, within fifty feet. From time to time
McQuade stooped, and Warrington knew that the
white dog was present.

“Gentlemen,” concluded Donnelly, with a flour-
ish, “William Henry Rudolph, of New York, our
next governor.”

And, to quote the sympathetic reporters, “tre-
mendous applause shook the rafters.” Mr. Ru-
dolph rose majestically, and smiled and bowed.
Heigh-ho! man accepts applause so easily; the
noise, not the heart behind it; the uproar, not the
thought. Man usually fools himself when he opens
his ears to these sounds, often more empty than
brass. But so porous is man’s vanity that it readily
absorbs any kind of noise arranged for its benefit.

He began calmly. The orator always reserves
his telling apostrophes till that time when it is
necessary to smite palm with fist. He spoke

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of Jefferson, the simplicity of his life, the firmness
of his purpose, the height of his ideals. He for-
got, as political speakers generally forget who
emulate their historic political forebears, that pro-
gress rearranges principles and constitutions, that
what passed as good statesmanship in Jefferson’s
time is out of order in the present. Mr. Rudolph
paused in the middle of a metaphor. There was a
sudden commotion in the rear of the hall, Men
were surging to and fro.

“Stand back!” cried a firm, resonant voice, full
of anger.

The uproar increased. Those in the forward
chairs craned their necks. Some stood up to learn
what the matter might be. Others mounted their
seats. A thousand absurd conjectures passed from
mouth to mouth.

“Somebody’s dropped dead!’

“Sit down in front! Sit down!”

“What’s the matter ?”

“Where are the police?”

“Put him out!”

“A fight!”

Blue helmets moved toward the scene of action
slowly. Mr. Rudolph still paused and moistened
his lips impatiently. Men can give and take away

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popularity in the same breath, but a dog fight is
arranged by occult forces, and must, like oppor-
tunity, be taken when it comes. We are educated
to accept oratory, but we need no education in
the matter of a dog fight. This red corpuscle was
transmitted to us from the Stone Age, and the
primordial pleasures alone resist enlightenment.

Two bulldogs, one tan, the other white, were
fighting desperately, near the exits. In between
human legs, under chairs, this way and that, snarl-
ing, snapping, dragging. Men called out, kicked,
tried to use canes and umbrellas, and some burned
matches. The dogs were impervious. Now the
white dog was atop, now the tan. So many inter-
fered that there was no interference.

It was Warrington who had cried out. He had
been listening to the orator; and Jove, smelling
his enemy from afar, slyly crept out of his mas-
ter’s reach. The white dog had also been on the
watch. In the drop of an eyelid the battle was on.
Warrington instantly comprehended the situation,
when he saw McQuade, who had every confidence
in his dog, clear a circle. He pushed his way
through the swaying wall of men and commanded
those in front to stand back. He was furious. He
had no objections to human beings fighting, but

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he detested these bloody conflicts between dumb
brutes. He called to Jove, but Jove was past hear-
ing; he had tasted his enemy’s blood. Once War-
rington succeeded in parting the dogs, but the
crush prevented his making the separation com-
plete. Instantly they were at it again. The police
made superhuman efforts to arrive before it was
all over. The fight, however, came to an end as
suddenly as it had begun. Jove found his grip.
But for the broad collar on McQuade’s dog the
animal would have been throttled then and there.

McQuade lost his temper and his discretion. He
kicked Jove cruelly in the side, at the very moment
when Warrington had succeeded in breaking the
grip. Bennington thrust McQuade back violently,
and he would have fallen but for the dense pack
bolstering him up.

“Tl remember that kick, Mr. McQuade,” said
Warrington, white in the face.

“T don’t think you'll be mayor of Herculaneum,
Mr. Warrington,” replied McQuade, glaring ven-
omously at the man who had brushed him aside so
easily.

“Perhaps not, Mr. McQuade,” said Warring-
ton; “but at any rate there’ll be a reckoning for
that kick, You've been trying for months to bring

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these dogs together. You have finally succeeded,
and your dog has been licked soundly. You ought
to be satisfied.”

Warrington took Jove under his arm and
pressed toward the door, followed by Bennington,
who was also in a fine rage. The dog, bloody and
excited, still struggled, though the brutal kick had
winded him.

McQuade was no fool. He saw that if War-
rington left this way the impression would not be
favorable to the boss contractor. So he made haste
to approach Warrington.

“Hold on there, Warrington. I apologize for
kicking your dog. I admit I was excited; and my
dog was getting licked. Iam sorry.”

“All right, Mr. McQuade,” said Warrington,
who would have preferred leaving, minus any
apology. He understood perfectly well Mc-
Quade’s reason for bending.

“By George!” whispered Bennington, “I’d give
a thousand for one good punch at that ruffian’s
head. Brute, double-dealing brute! Look out for
him after this, Dick.”

“T can take care of myself. Officer, will you
kindly get a carriage for me?”

“Sure, Mr. Warrington,” said the policeman.

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The two managed to get out. In fact, every-
body was moving toward the exits. They had
forgotten Mr. Rudolph, who completed his effort
before a two-thirds empty hall. They say that he
went back to his hotel that night disgusted with
humanity and, mayhap, with the fact that the fight
had not occurred nearer the stage. Orators are
human also.

As Warrington followed Bennington into the
carriage the door closed and a head was thrust
inside the open window.

“Don’t forget me when you’re mayor, Mr. War-
rington,” said Bill Osborne.

“Well?” Warrington was in no mood for ban-
alities,

Bill glanced hastily from side to side, then said,
in a stage whisper that sent Bennington into a
roar of laughter:

“T sick’d ’em!”

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CHAPTER XVI

The Republican caucus or convention was un-
eventful. Warrington was nominated for mayor
of Herculaneum, with little or no opposition.
Everybody expected it. It was, in the phraseology
of the day, cut and dried. There was no surprise
on the part of the public. Still, Senator Hender-
son was jubilant ; he had nominated his man.

The young candidate’s speech, accepting the
nomination, was reproduced in full in all the news-
papers, whose editorial writers frankly admitted
that the speech was one of the best heard in Her-
culaneum in years. Reporters raked up anecdotes
and old photographs; they enlarged upon the his-
tory of his early struggles and his ultimate suc-
cess; and long despatches flashed over the wires,
The whole continent was more or less interested
in the sudden political ambition of one of its fa-
vorite dramatic writers.

It was true that Warrington’s vanity was
touched. It always touches our vanity to be given
something for which we have made no struggle

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whatever. It was something to be followed by
curious newsboys, to be spoken to respectfully by
Tom, Dick and Harry, who erstwhile hadn’t
known of his existence. Warrington was human,
and he laughed at his vanity even as it was being
gratified.

On the other side the Democrats perfunctorily
nominated Donnelly. It was the best they could
do, and Donnelly had nothing to learn. And so
the fight was on. Donnelly went everywhere; so
did Warrington. If Donnelly spoke in the German
district, Warrington spoke to the Italians and in
their native tongue. Warrington soon learned how
to shake hands in the manner of a candidate,—to
take the whole hand and squeeze it soundly. The
coal-heaver whose hand the dramatist grasped
thereupon returned to his friends with the report
that the candidate had a good grip, that there was
nothing namby-pamby about him, for all his dude
clothes. It is the gift of Heaven to win friends
and keep them, and Warrington possessed this
gift. His good-humored smile, his ready persi-
flage, his ease in all environments, and his common
sense—these were his bucklers. He spoke in dingy
halls, on saloon bars, everywhere and anywhere
and at all times. It was a great sight to see him

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lightly mount a bar and expound his politics, his
nostrils assailed by cheap tobacco and kerosene
lamps. If Donnelly opened a keg of beer, War-
rington opened two; if Donnelly gave a picnic,
Warrington gave two. And once he presented
free matinée tickets to a thousand women. This
was a fine stroke of policy. When a man wins a
woman to his cause, he wins a valiant champion.
Here, then, were a thousand tongues in his service.
His work put enthusiasm into the rank and file
of the party, and soon all half-heartedness dis-
appeared and dissensions vanished. He furnished
foot-ball suits for the newsboys, torch-light regi-
mentals for the young men’s Republican clubs; he
spent his own money freely but judiciously; and
all the while Donnelly was not far behind. For
the first time in the history of local politics the
‘two parties went to work with solid ranks. It
promised to be a great campaign. Warrington’s
influence soon broke the local confines; and the
metropolitan newspapers began to prophesy that
as Herculaneum went, so would go the state.
Warrington’s theatrical manager came up from
New York and said he wanted that play at once.
The dramatist declared that there would be no play
that season. The manager threatened a lawsuit;

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Warrington remained unmoved. His first duty
was to his party; after the first Tuesday in No-
vember he would see, This argument found its
way to reportorial ears, with the result that it
merely added to the young candidate’s growing
popularity.

It was only occasionally that he saw the Ben-
ningtons. His nights were devoted to speech-
making or conferences. Sometimes, however, on
his way home late at night, he would walk up as
far as the old house and look up at the windows;
and if he saw a light in Patty’s room he would
pause for a few minutes, then turn about, Jove
limping at his heels. Patty Bennington! The one
idyl in his noisy life, the one uplifting influence!
He knew that he was not making this fight for
clean politics because his heart was in it, but be-
cause Patty’s was. It is thus that women make
the world better, indirectly. Once or twice he had
seen Patty in the gallery at mass meetings; but,
hurry as he might, he never could get around to
the entrance in time to speak to her.

As for McQuade, he knew that between him
and that gentleman the war had only begun. He
was constantly wondering how McQuade would
act; but so far as he could see, McQuade had

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absolutely nothing to stand on. McQuade would
have to tunnel; he could not carry on the war
above ground. McQuade would never forgive the
result of the dog fight. There had been so much
raillery in the newspapers that McQuade became
furious whenever it was mentioned. His dog was
a professional fighter and had made three kills,
and here a “pet” had given him his first licking.
It rankled, and none of McQuade’s friends dared
refer to it. So Warrington remained alert and
watchful ; it was all he could do.

In more ways than one Herculaneum became
widely known. Other cities realized that there
was a peculiar strike in progress, upon the out-
come of which depended the principles of union-
ism. Here was an employer who was making
preparations to destroy his shops, regardless of
financial loss, regardless of public opinion, regard-
less of everything but his right to employ and dis-
charge whom he willed. Every great employer in
the country focused his eye upon Herculaneum;
every union leader did likewise. The outcome
would mean a kind of revolution.

At the shops the men had placed the usual sen-
tinels around the limits, ready to repel the ex-
pected army of non-union workmen. But a day

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passed, two, three, four; a week, then ten days; a
month. Not a single strange man approached the
gates. Not one man among them had any infor-
mation whatever as to the movements of their
whilom employer. Scab labor never showed its
head above the horizon. The men began to won-
der; they began to grow restless. But Morrissy
always pacified them with the word “wait.”

“Vigilance, boys; that’s the word,” said the
leader. ‘““The moment we go to sleep he'll have his
men inside.”

So the men relaxed none of their watching,
night and day. It was rather pathetic to see the
children bringing scanty meals to the guarding
men. They were being misled, that was all, but
they had to find that out themselves. The city’s
bill-boards were covered with “Boycott” and
“Unfair” paper. The men were careful. They
made no effort to injure anything; they made no
attempt to enter the shops; they had had a brush
with the militia once, and they were wise. They
could beat the new men and maim them, but so
long as they did not touch property there would
be no call for the militia. They waited. Mean-
time Morrissy wore a new diamond.

One day a cry went up.

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“Here’s the scabs! Here they come!’’

Word was sent immediately to the union’s head-
quarters.

A body of twenty-odd men, carrying shovels
and pickaxes and dinner-pails, moved toward the
gates. At their head was Bennington himself. He
placed the great key in the lock and swung the
gates inward. The men passed in quickly. Ben-
nington was last. He turned for a moment and
gazed calmly at the threatening faces of the strik-
ers. An impulse came to him.

“Men,” he said, “up to one o’clock this noon
these gates will be open to you. Each of you can
take up your work where you left it, at the same
wages, at the same hours. This is the last chance.
Later you will learn that you have been betrayed.”

“How about Chittenden ?”

“Chittenden will return at the same time you
do.”

“The hell he will! Let him show his British face
here, and we'll change it so his mother won’t
know it.”

Bennington went inside and shut the gates.
There was nothing more to be done. He did not
slam the gates insolently, as some men would have
done; he simply shut them.

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This event was also reported at headquarters.
That afternoon all the strikers were out in force.
They congregated in groups and talked angrily.
Two policemen patrolled up and down. Benning-
ton had had some difficulty in securing even these.
The men waited for the first sign of smoke from
{the chimneys, but none came. No one was light-
ing the furnaces; there was nothing but silence
inside the shops. There was no possible excuse as
yet for deeds of violence, though many of the
more turbulent element urged riot at once. What
was the use of waiting? In the afternoon there
appeared some fifty more strange men. These car-
ried tool-bags. They were challenged. They
ignored the challenge and pushed on resolutely.
For the first time blows were struck. The leader
whirled around.

“Look here, men, you’re making a big mistake.
Your fists won’t help you. We are going inside,
and if we can’t go in peaceably, why, we'll break
‘some heads to get in. We have all been sworn in
legally as deputy police, and if we start in to break
heads we promise to do it thoroughly.”

“What are you going to do in there?” demand-
ed Morrissy.

“None of your business, for one thing,” an-

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swered the burly spokesman of the interlopers.
“Tll add this much, if it will ease your minds:
nobody’s going to step into your jobs; when you
went out you left your jobs behind.”

“So you fellows are what they call strike-break-
ers, are you?” asked Morrissy wrathfully.

“Oh, we aren’t going to break your strike, my
friend. You can call this a strike as long as you
please, so far as we’re concerned. We’ve got work
to do here, though, and we are going to do it.”

“Are you union men?”

“Not so you’d notice it,” was the cool reply.

“All right. You fellows won't be here long.”

“Stop us if you can. Now, stand aside!” com-
manded the stranger menacingly.

“Let ’em by, men,” cried Morrissy. ‘Don’t
touch ’em yet. You just leave it tome. I know
a way and a good one, too. You just leave it to
me.”

The angry strikers divided ranks and the stran-
gers entered the shops.

Morrissy directed his steps to McQuade’s office,
and together they paid a visit to the mayor.

“Look here, Donnelly, did you permit Ben-
nington to swear in deputy police?” asked Mc-
Quade.

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“Deputy police? Bennington has no deputy
police from this place,’ answered Donnelly hotly.

“Well, all we know is that he has them,”
snapped Morrissy.

“Then he has gone directly to the governor.”

“The governor ?”

McQuade and Morrissy looked at each other
blankly.

“He has that prerogative,” said Donnelly.

“But he wouldn’t dare!”

“Oh, yes, he would. It’s his last term; he is
without further political ambition; he can act as
he pleases, in the face of public condemnation.
There’s one thing left, though.”

“What?”

“Injunction,” said Donnelly tersely.

“With Republican judges on the benches?” re-
plied McQuade ironically.

“And you can’t enjoin private property,” added
Morrissy.

“Tl send for Bennington,” Donnelly volun-
teered. “Perhaps I can talk him into reason.”

“It’s up to you to block this move somehow,”
said McQuade. “It means the labor vote. And
we've got to have that.”

“Tl do the best I can. I can stop his permit to

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tear down the building, if he really intends to do
that.”

“Tt will be a good day’s work for you.”

“Til act this very afternoon.”

Once outside the mayor’s office, McQuade
turned to Morrissy.

““Where’s that receipt you promised on oath ?”

“Haven't you got it?” asked Morrissy, feigning
surprise.

“No, and I doubt you sent it. But I want it at
once, and no more monkeying.”

“Well, I sent it. I mailed it to your office.
You’ve overlooked it.”

“Come over to my office now and make it out,”
McQuade insisted.

“You’ve got plenty of grips on me without
that,” protested Morrissy reproachfully.

“But I want this one, and I’m going to have it.”

“Tll go to your office. Will Donnelly be
game?”

“He will if he knows which side his bread is
buttered on,” contemptuously.

The two went up to McQuade’s office. It was
deserted.

“The girl’s gone this afternoon,” said Mc-
Quade, “but I can handle the typewriter myself.”

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“All I’ve got to say is that I mailed you a re-
ceipt. What do you want it for?’ with a final
protest.

“T’ve got an idea in my head, Morrissy. I want
that receipt. Some day you may take it into your
head to testify that I offered you a thousand to
bring on the strike at Bennington’s. That would
put me in and let you out, because I can’t prove
that I gave the cash to you. Business is business.”

“Hell! Any one would think, to hear you talk,
that I had threatened to betray.”

“Every man to his own skin,” replied McQuade
philosophically. He then sat down before the
typewriter. There were two blank sheets in the
roller, with a carbon between. The girl had left
her machine all ready for the morrow’s work.
McQuade picked out his sentence laboriously.

“There, sign that.”

The paper read:

“T, James Morrissy, the undersigned, do hereby
declare that I have received $1,000, in two sums of
$500 each, from Daniel McQuade, these sums being
payment agreed upon for my bringing about the
strike at the Bennington shops.”

Morrissy looked at the boss incredulously.
“T say, Mac, have you gone crazy?” he cried.
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“Do you want evidence like this lying around in
your safe? It's the penitentiary for both of us
if any one finds that.”

“T know what I am doing,” McQuade respond-
ed quietly, as indeed he did.

“But look; you’ve got the strike and I’ve got the
cash; that makes us quits.”

“Sign it,” was all McQuade replied to this argu-
ment.

“All right. What’s bad for me is bad for you,”
and without further ado Morrissy affixed his fist
to the sheet.

“Here’s the duplicate for you.”

Morrissy lighted a match and set fire to the
sheet ; he stamped on the ashes with grim satisfac-
tion.

“Not for mine,’ with a laugh. “You’re wel-
come to yours.”

McQuade folded his deliberately and put it
away in the safe. The sheet of carbon paper he
crumpled into a ball and tossed into the waste-
basket. We all commit blunders at one time or
another, and McQuade had just committed his.

“That’s all, Morrissy. I think I can trust you
fully. I mean no harm, boy; ’tis only self-pres-
ervation.”

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“Oh, so long as your name’s on it there’s no
kick coming from me; only I never saw you do
such a fool thing before. Anything else to-day?”

“No. You might keep tab on that fool Bolles.
He’s been drunk ever since he came back from
New York. And he doesn’t know how to keep his
mouth shut.”

“T’ll keep an eye on him.”

“He’s the only man we have who can handle
the dagos. I’ll see you up at Dutch Hall to-night.
Donnelly is making a speech there, and we'll open
a few kegs of beer for the boys.”

When Morrissy was gone McQuade laughed
softly and went to the safe again. He proceeded
to do to his receipt exactly what Morrissy had
done to his—burn it. So long as Morrissy be-
lieved that McQuade held his signature, so long
might Morrissy be trusted. It was only an idea,
but it proved that the boss knew his lieutenants
tolerably well.

“The blackleg would sell the tomb off his
father’s grave,” he mused, brushing the ashes
from his clothes.

Let Bennington rip up his shops; all the better
for Donnelly’s chances of reélection. The labor-
ing party would be sure to desert Warrington’s

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standard, since he was a personal and intimate
friend of Bennington the oppressor. He laughed
again sinisterly. Presently he would have them
all by the throats. He would watch them squirm,
too. This young fool Warrington; he was the
first real obstacle he (McQuade) had encountered
in his checkered career. Threats could not move
him. He had believed at the start that he could
scare him away from the convention; but the focl
wouldn’t be scared. And his damned dog!

“He'll never reach the City Hall, not while I
live, damn his impudence! That woman, though,
is no fool. She’s kept her mouth shut. They don’t
always do that. Well, I can write more than re-
ceipts on the machine. I’ll ruin them both if I
can, Ordered me out of the house, and I honestly
liked the woman! But I’ll square accounts pres-
ently.”

Meanwhile Donnelly set the wires humming.
He finally got Bennington at the shops.

“This is Mr. Bennington. Who is it and what
is wanted ?”

“This is the mayor talking.”

“Oh! Well, what is it, Mr. Donnelly ?”

“T must see you at once in my office. This is an
urgent request. I can’t explain the matter over the

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wire. But you'll do yourself and me a great favor
if you'll come into town at once.”

“Very important ?”

“Extremely so.”

“T shall be there at five o’clock.”
“Thanks. I shall await you.”
up the receiver, very well satisfied.

Bennington understood. Politics was going to
take a hand in the game. After all, it was best to
take the bull by the horns at once and have it over
with. He knew how well he had fortified himself
against any political machinery. So, promptly at a
quarter to five, he departed, leaving explicit orders
with his subordinates. The strikers moved aside
for him, muttering and grumbling, but they made
no effort to impede his progress. There were
groans and catcalls, but that was all. He looked
neither to the right nor to the left, but presented
his back to them fearlessly. Chittenden, upon
Bennington’s advice, had gone to New York. The
strikers would have used him roughly, could they
have laid hands on him.

Arriving in town, Bennington went at once to
the City Hall and straight to the mayor’s private
office.

“Well, Mr. Donnelly ?” he began, his hat on his

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handsome head and his cane behind his back,
neither offensive nor defensive.

Donnelly closed the door leading to the clerk’s
office and came back to his desk. He waved his
hand toward a chair. If he could bend this young
hot-head, it would be a victory worth while, po-
litically.

“In the first place, Mr. Bennington, aren’t you
going a little too hard on the men?”

“That was their lookout; they had every chance
to think the matter over, to examine all sides of
the question.”

“You went personally to the governor for dep-
uty police. Why didn’t you come to me?”

“The governor is a personal friend of mine.”

“JT don’t believe that I have been found lacking
in justice,” said Donnelly thoughtfully.

“T can’t say that you have. But I was in a
hurry, and could not wait for the local machinery
to move.”

“You have placed armed men in your shops
without a justifiable cause.”

“The men are mechanics, sworn in for their
own self-protection.”

Donnelly saw that he was making no impres-
sion.

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“These men, then, are to tear down your
shops?” not without admiration.

“Well, they are there to dismantle it.”

“That building must not go down, Mr. Ben-
nington.”

“Must not’? Do I understand you to say
‘must not’ ?”

“Those words exactly.”

“It is private property, Mr. Donnelly; it was
not organized under corporation laws.”

“You can not destroy even private property, in
a city, without a legal permit.”

“T have that.”

“And I shall call a special meeting of the Com-
mon Council to rescind your permit.”

“Do so. I shall tear it down, nevertheless. I
shall do what I please with what is my own.”
Bennington balanced on his heels.

“The law is there.”

“T shall break it, if need says must,”’ urbanely.

Donnelly surveyed the end of his dead cigar.

“The men will become violent.”

“Their violence will in no wise hinder me, so
long as they confine it to the shops. Even then I
shall call upon you for police protection.”

“And if I should not give it?”

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“Just now I am sure you will. For the mayor
of Herculaneum to refuse me my rights would be
a nice morsel for the Republican party.”

Donnelly passed over this.

“T wish to protect the rights of the workman,
just as you wish to protect yours.”

“What are the workman’s rights?”

Donnelly did not reply.

“Well, I’ll reply for you, then. His right is to
sell his labor to the highest bidder ; his right is to
work where he pleases ; for what hours he desires;
his right is to reject abusive employers and to find
those congenial ; his right is to produce as little or
as much as he thinks best; his right is to think for
himself, to act for himself, to live for himself.”

“You admit all this, then?” asked Donnelly in
astonishment.

“T have never so much as denied a single right
that belongs to the workman.”

“Then what the devil is all this row about ?”

“Tf the workman has his rights, shall not the
employer have his?”

Donnelly mused. He would not be able to do
anything with this plain-spoken man.

“But the workman steps beyond. He has no
right to dictate to his employer as to what his

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rights shall be. Where there is no amity between
rapital and labor there is never any justice; one
or the other becomes a despot. The workman has
his rights, but these end where the other man’s
rights begin. He shall not say that another man
shall not seek work, shall not sell his labor for
what he can get; he has no right to forbid another
man’s choosing freedom; he has no right to say
that a manufacturer shall produce only so much.”
“Well, I’ve only to say,” said Donnelly, hedg-
ing before this clear argument, “I’ve only to say,
if the men become violent, look out for yourself.”
“T shall appeal to you for civic or military pro-
tection ; if you refuse it, to the governor ; if politics
there interferes, I shall appeal to Washington,
where neither your arm nor McQuade’s can reach.
I understand the causes back of this strike; they
are personal, and I’m man enough to look out for
myself. But if politics starts to work, there will
be a trouble to settle in the courts. You may not
know the true cause of this strike, Mr. Donnelly,
but I do. The poor deluded men believe it to be
the English inventor, but he is only a blind. Had
you really wished to do me a favor, you would
have spoken to the men before they went out on
this silly strike. But I am master of what is mine,
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and I shall tear down that building. I shall tol-
erate no interference from any man. The work-
man has his rights; this is one of my rights, and I
intend to use it.”

“It’s your business. If you are fool enough to
kill a golden goose, it’s no affair of mine. But I
shall rescind your permit, however. I believe it to
be my duty.”

“Call your Council together, Mr. Donnelly. You
can not get a quorum together earlier than to-
morrow night; and by that time I shall have the
work done. You say you will not afford me pro-
tection. Very well; if the men become violent and
burn the shops, I shall be relieved of the expense
of tearing them down. Good afternoon.”

Donnelly sat in his chair for a quarter of an
hour, silent and thoughtful. Suddenly he slapped
his thigh.

“I don’t know what McQuade has against that
man, but, by the Lord! he 7s a man!”

That night the strikers received several bottles
of whisky and a keg of beer. The source of these
gifts was unknown. Some of the more thoughtful
were for smashing the stuff, but the turbulent ma-
jority overruled them. They began to drink and
jest. They did so with impunity. For some reason

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the police had been withdrawn. The hammering
inside the shops puzzled them, but they still clung
to the idea that all this clamor was only a ruse to
frighten them into surrendering. From the in-
terior the pounding gradually approached as far
as the walls of the courtyard. At midnight one
of these walls went thundering to the ground. A
few minutes later another fell. The strikers
grouped together, dismayed.

“By God, boys,” one of them yelled, “he’s tear-
ing it down!”

In that moment, and only then, did they realize
that they had been dealing with a man whose will
and word were immutable. They saw all their
dreams of triumph vanish in the dust that rose
from the crumbling brick and plaster. And dis-
may gave way to insensate rage. It would only be
helping Bennington to riot and burn the shops, so
now to maim and kill the men who, at hire, were
tearing down these walls.

“Come on, boys! We'll help the scabs finish the
work! Come on!”

There was now a great breach in the wall. Men
moving to and fro could be seen. The strikers
snatched up bricks and clubs and dashed toward
this. But ere they had set foot on the rubbish

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they stopped. Half a dozen resolute men faced
them. They were armed.

“That’s far enough, boys,” warned a powerful
voice. “I told you we have all been sworn in as
deputy police, with all the laws of the state back
of us. The first man that steps across that pile of
bricks will go to the hospital, the second man to
the undertaker.”

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CHAPTER XVII

Ah, the vanity of Dawn! Like a Venus she
rises from her bath of opalescent mists and dons
a gown of pearl. But this does not please the
coquette. Her fancy turns from pearl to green, to
amber, to pink, to blue and gold and rose, an in-
exhaustible wardrobe. She blushes, she frowns,
she hesitates; she is like a woman in love. She
casts abroad her dewy jewels on the leaves, the
blades of grass, the tangled laces of the spiders,
the drab cold stones. She ruffles the clouds on the
face of the sleeping waters; she sweeps through
the forests with a low whispering sound, taking a
tithe of the resinous perfumes. Always and always
she decks herself for the coming of Phcebus, but,
woman-like, at first sight of him turns and flies.

Dawn is the most beautiful of all the atmos-
pheric changes, but the vision is a rarity to the
majority of us.

Warrington was up and away on his hunter
before Phcebus sent his warning flashing over the
hills. He took the now familiar road, and urged

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his animal vigorously. Fine! Not a bit of dust
rose from the road, dew-wet and brown. The
rime of the slight frost shone from the fences and
grasses and stacked corn, like old age that strikes
in a single night. Here and there a farmer could
be seen pottering about the yards, or there was
a pale curl of smoke rising from the chimney. The
horse, loving these chill, exhilarating October
mornings, went drumming along the road. Occa-
sionally Warrington would rise in the stirrups and
gaze forward over this elevation or that, and
sometimes behind him. No. For three mornings
he had ridden out this old familiar way, but alone.
The hunger in his eyes remained unsatisfied.

For the first time in years he turned into a cer-
tain familiar fork in the road, and all his youth
came back to him as vividly as though it had been
but yesterday. Half a mile up this fork was the
rambling old farm-house. It was unchanged. The
clapboards were still stained with rust, the barns
were still a dingy red, the stone and rail fences
needed the same repairs. Nothing had changed
there but the masters. And under that roof he had
made his first feeble protest against life; he had
dreamed those valiant dreams of youth that never
come true, no matter how successful one may be-

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come in after life. Every waking means an illu-
sion gone, another twig pruned from the tree of
ardent fancy ; and when one is old there is neither
shade nor shelter.

Warrington stopped his horse. He had no desire
to ride closer ; he could see everything well enough
from where he sat. Rosy apples twinkled in the
orchard on the hill, and golden pumpkins glistened
afield, for by now Phcebus had come to his own.
How many dawns had he seen from yonder win-
dows, in summer and winter, in autumn and
spring? How many times had he gone dreaming
to the markets over this road? It was beyond
counting. Had any of those particular dreams
come true? Not that he could recollect, for he had
never dreamed of being a successful dramatist;
that good fortune had been thrust upon him. He
tried to picture his father walking toward the
fields ; it was too remote. His mother? Of her he
could recollect positively nothing. But the aunt,
he saw her everywhere,—in the garden, in the
doorway, in the window, by the old well. Now she
was culling hollyhocks along the stone wall, now
she was coming down the hill with an apron filled
with apples, now she was canning preserves and
chili sauce in the hot kitchen, or the steel-rimmed

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spectacles were shining over the worn pages of the
New Testament at night.

What was the use? To-day is alien to yester-
day; an hour separates as definitely as eternity.
There was nothing there for him; so he wheeled
and rode back toward the city, conning over a
speech he was to make that night. Since Patty had
not ridden this way, the zest of the morning’s ride
was gone. Which road did she take now? To the
west, to the south, to the north round the lake?
Twice the night before he had started for the tele-
phone to inquire, but had not taken down the
receiver. Was he afraid? He could not say. And
afraid of what? Still less could he tell. Three
months ago he had called her Patty, had jested
and laughed with her; and now he hesitated to call
her up by telephone. No, he was not afraid of
Patty; he was simply afraid of himself. For he
realized this—that in the moment he spoke to her
alone his love would spring from his lips like a
torrent; nothing could stop it; and he was not of
that supreme courage at present that spurs the
lover to put it to the touch to win or lose it all.

So, then, he rode back to the city, hugging his
doubt and his love, with frequent lucid intervals
that were devoted to his forthcoming speech.

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When the battle was over, when he had won or
lost, then he would go to her and drink the cup,
bitter or sweet.

Patty had not spent the night in comfort; her
head had rolled from one pillow to another, and
the cases were not always dry. Indeed, it had been
some time since she had pressed her cheek tran-
quilly upon a pillow. Night is either sweetest
or most wretched; one spends it recounting one’s
joys or one’s sorrows. Patty was unhappy; and
leave it to youth to gain the full meed of misery.
Youth has not the philosophy of matured age to
cast into the balance. Satisfaction in this work-
aday world is only momentary. One is never
wholly satisfied ; there is always some hidden barb.
The child wears the mother’s skirts enviously
while the mother mourns her youth. Expectation
leads us to the dividing line of life, and from there
retrospection carries us to the end. Experience
teaches us that fire burns and that water quenches ;
beyond this we have learned but little.

This morning Patty was up with the dawn. She
did not trouble to wake the groom, but saddled
and bridled the horse herself. She mounted and
rode quietly into the street. She did not glance at

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Warrington’s house while approaching or passing
it, but once she had left it in the rear she turned
quickly, flushing as if she had caught herself in
some weakness. She directed the horse toward
the west, crossing the city before she reached the
open country. Here the west wind, young and
crisp, blew away the last vestige of heaviness from
her eyes. She urged the horse into a canter and.
maintained this gait for a mile or more. Then she
reined in to a walk.

Three weeks! And all this time she had not
even breathed a word of it, but had hugged the
viper to her heart in silence. She dropped the
reins on the neck of the horse and took a letter
from the pocket of her riding-coat. How many
times had she read it? How many times had fury
and rage and despair flashed from her eyes as she
read it? She hated him; she hated her. There was
neither honesty nor goodness in the world; those
who preached it lied. Yes, yes! There was one.
John, dear, noble John, he at any rate was honest.
But it was all acting on her part, acting, acting.
She had married John as a convenience; she had
made use of his honest love as a cloak. The des-
picable creature! And yet, when in her presence,
so great was her charm and magnetism, Patty

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doubted. After all, it was an anonymous letter,
and nothing is more vile. But who can say to this
viper Doubt—“Vanish!” It goes, it goes again
and again ; which is to say it always returns. Long
ago she would have confronted her brother’s wife
with this letter, had not John been in the heart of
his battle at the shops. For the present he had
enough trouble. And yet, to see that woman with
John, an angel might be deceived. To see her weep
and laugh over him, to see her touch him with her
hands, to caress him with her eyes, to be tender
and strong at his side. . . . Could anybody be
so wicked? True, her transgression had been
made, according to this letter, before John had
married her; but this lessened the enormity of it
none in Patty’s eyes.

“Oh, I was so happy, and now I am so miser-
able!” murmured the girl, pressing her hand to
her throat, which seemed to stifle her.

She read the letter again, through blurred
vision. It was horrible.

One who takes a deep interest in your future
welfare finds it a duty to warn you against Richard
Warrington, for whom it is being said you have
developed a strong sentiment. It is well known that
he drank deeply at one time and lived the life of a
debauchee. Beware of the woman, also, whom you

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call sister. The writer does not offer anything detri-
mental to her married life, but it is known that she
was practically Warrington’s mistress before she
married your splendid brother. She was seen fre-
quently to enter his apartments at night, and the
writer can furnish abundant proof that she was seen
to leave his apartments one morning. This is not
penned with malice. It is simply that the writer
knows and admires you and can not stand passively
by and see you humiliated by the attentions of a man
who is unworthy to lace your shoes. As for your
sister-in-law, I have no desire to meddle. Confront
both her and Warrington, if the truth of the above
statement is doubted by you.

Upon these last words depended Patty’s atti-
tude. It must be true. Whoever had written this
abominable letter could write plain English, de-
spite the disguised hand. Patty recognized that it
was disguised. The capitals differed, so did the
tails of the y’s and f’s; the backhand slant was not
always slanting, but frequently leaned toward the
opposite angle. She had but to confront them! It
seemed simple; but to bring herself to act upon it!
She reviewed all the meetings between Kate and
Warrington. Never had her eyes discerned evi-
dence of anything other than frank good-fellow-
ship. She searched painfully; there was not a
single glance, a single smile upon which she could
build a guilty alliance. And yet this writer af-

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firmed . . . Oh, it was monstrous! Those ru-
mors she had heard months ago! The telephone
call from McQuade! Ah, that telephone call! Had
Kate been guilty would she have confided to her,
Patty? She seemed to be pulled, now forward,
now backward. McQuade knew something, the
wretch! but what? This letter had never been
written by him. A man would have used a pro-
noun, third person, masculine; he would have
shown some venom back of the duplicity that af-
firmed an interest in her welfare.

The tears dried quickly ; the heat of her renewed
rage burned them up. She set about to do some-
thing she had not thought of doing before—inves-
tigating. She held the note-paper to the sun. The
water-mark of a fashionable paper manufacturer
was easily observable. Men did not write on that
brand. So much gained. Then she recalled a
French play in which a perfume had convicted a
person of theft. She held the envelope to her nose;
nothing, not even tobacco. She tried the letter
itself. Ah, here was something tangible: helio-
trope, vague, but perceptible. Who among her
friends used heliotrope on her kerchief? She
could not remember; in fact, any or all of them
might have worn it, so far as she could recall. She

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would go over her invitations and visitors’ cards;
she would play detective; she would ferret out as
a spy who took this amiable interest in her future.
This determination brightened her considerably.
And woe to the meddler if Patty found her! If it
was a baseless lie (and she hoped against hope in
her loyal little heart!) she would make a pariah
of the writer of this particular anonymous letter.
True or not, what was it to her? What right had
she to interfere? She was cowardly; of that Patty
was certain. True friends are the last in the world
to inflict sorrow upon us. Kith and kin may stab
us, but never the loyal friend. Now that she
thought it all over, she was glad that she had re-
peatedly fought the impulse to lay the matter be-
fore her sister. She would trace this letter home
first; she would find out upon what authority it
was written; there would be time enough after
that to confront Kate, or Warrington, or John.
Ah, if she had stepped forward in the dark, to
wreck her brother’s life needlessly. . . . Helio-
trope! She would never forget that particular
odor, never. She had a good idea of justice, and
she recognized the fact that any act on her part,
against either Kate or Warrington, before she
found the writer of the letter, would be rank in-

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justice. Persons can not defend themselves against
anonymous letters ; they can only ignore them.

She touched her horse again. She was now in
feverish haste to get home. She took the turn
of the road which presently brought her in
the vicinity of the shops. It was practically in
lruins. The courtyard walls were all down, the
building itself was totally empty of ore or ma-
chinery. Bennington had disposed of these to
Pennsylvanian concerns. Patty rode up in time to
see half a dozen urchins throwing stones at the
few window-panes that were still unbroken, She
dispersed them angrily, and they gathered at the
side of the road, open-mouthed and wide-eyed at
the picture of this avenging angel.

“How dare you throw stones at those windows?
How dare you?” she cried passionately.

After a while one of the lads found his voice.

“Why, nobody’s in it. The man what owns it
tored the insides outen it. ’Tain’t no harm what
we're doin’. Hey, fellers?”

“Naw. The cops don’t say nothin’. An’ my old
man used to work there.”

She saw that they were no more than ordinary
boys to whom the panes of glass in a deserted
building were legitimate prey.

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“So your father was one of the strikers?” said
Patty, her lips thinning. “Why did he strike?”

“T don’t know ; ’cause the others struck, I guess.
They was an English lobster workin’ without
bein’ in my old man’s union. Mebbe that was it.
Anyhow, we don’t care; the old man’s got another
job.”

With this the boys climbed the fence and moved
across the field, mutely rebellious, like puppies
baffled in their pursuit of a cat.

Patty’s eyes, moist and shining of a sudden,
roved over the grim ruins. Sparrows were chat-
tering on the window ledges and swallows were
diving into the black mouths of the towering
chimneys. The memory of her father swelled her
heart near to bursting. She could see his iron-
grey head bending over the desk; she could hear
his rough but kindly voice. Why, whenever he
entered the house his splendid physical energy
seemed to radiate health and cheerfulness, infect-
ing all those about him. She could see the men,
too, moving in the glow of ruddy light; she could
see again the brilliant sparks flying from under
the thundering trip-hammers, the cyclopean eyes
that glared up at heaven at night, the great rum-
bling drays, the freight moving to and from the

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spur. Now there was no sound; nothing but si-
lence, with the suggestion of a tomb.

The end of the strike had been a nine days’
wonder, for it proved that there had actually been
no strike at all, since the owner had simply closed
down the shops, torn down a few walls, sold the
machinery and ore, and canceled all his business
obligations. No sensation, however vital, lasts
very long these days; and after these nine days
it turned its attention to other things, this
mutable public. Employers, however, and union
leaders, all over the continent, went about their
affairs thoughtfully. If one man could do this
unheard-of thing, so might others, now that an
example had been set before them. The dispersed
men harbored no ill feeling toward Morrissy; he,
as they supposed, had acted in good faith for the
welfare of the union. But for the man who had
had the courage to make good his threats, for him
they had nothing but bitterness and hate.

Patty would always remember that final night
of the strike when John had come in early in the
morning, his clothes torn, his hands bloody, his
hair matted to his forehead, and hatless. He had
been last to leave the shops, and he had, unarmed,
run the gantlet of the maddened strikers who had

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been held at bay for six long hours. Only his
great strength and physical endurance had pulled
him out of the arms of violent death. There had
been no shot fired from the shops. The strikers
saw the utter futility of forcing armed men, so
they had hung about with gibe and ribald jeer,
waiting for some one careless enough to pass them
alone. This Bennington did. His men had for-
gotten him. Bennington’s injuries had been rather
trivial; it had been his personal appearance that
had terrified the women. He had fallen asleep
half an hour after reaching home, and he had slept
till nine that evening. Upon awakening he had
begun at once to plan a trip to Europe, to wander
from capital to capital for a year or so. No one
had interrupted him; not even the mother, grown
old in the past month, had demurred at his plans.
He would have none near him but Kate, and she
had hovered about him, ministering to his wants
as a mother overa sick child. . . . Kate! It all
caine back with a rush. Kate! Oh, what was she,
Patty, to believe? That night she had loved Kate
almost to idolatry. She shuddered, turned away
from the ruins, and set off at a gallop till she came
upon brick pavement. She rarely trotted upon
pavement, but this morning she had no thought

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for the horse; she burned to be at work. She
trotted rapidly into town, across the principal
thoroughfares, this way being the short cut. By
this time men were on the way to work. Many of
them turned their heads to stare at her. There
was only one woman in town who sat a horse like
this one, and it could be no less a person than
Patty Bennington. All the men recognized her in-
stantly. She had their good wishes, for all that
her brother had taken away the bread and butter
of some of them. Many touched their hats from
mere force of habit.

There was one man, however, who glared evilly
at her from the curb. She recognized him in spite
of his discolored face, the result of a long, unin-
terrupted debauch, It was Bolles. As he caught
her eye he smiled evilly and leered at her.

“Wait, my beauty; wait. I'll kill that brother
of yours one of these fine days, damn him!”
Bolles gave one more look at the swiftly-moving
figure on the horse, and shuffled away toward Mc-
Quade’s office, to await the arrival of that gentle-
man. Bolles needed money, and he knew where
to get it.

As she reached the foot of Williams Street
Patty glanced up the hill. A horseman had just

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entered Warrington’s. She recognized both man
and horse. It was Warrington. She knew at once
that he had ridden out her favorite route, perhaps
in the hope of seeing her. Her heart tightened
strangely as she walked her horse up the hill, and
she would have passed home but for the intelli-
gence of her animal, which turned in toward the
house quite naturally. Her mother was on the side
veranda.

“Patty, you have worried us all. The stable-
man, when he found your horse gone, came in
with the cry of thieves, I was frightened, too, till
I went to your room and found you gone. You
mustn’t go without notifying the stableman or the
groom.”

“It was an impulse of the moment, mother. I
couldn’t sleep, and I saw no need of waking up the
boys in the stables.”

Patty ran up stairs for a bath and a change of
clothes for breakfast. She ate little, however; the
ride had not put the usual edge on her appetite.

“Mr. Warrington made a fine speech last night,”
said the mother, handing the morning paper to
Patty.

Patty accepted it mechanically. She had deter-
mined not to read the paper. But she knew now,

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if she unfolded it, she would turn immediately to
the local pages and search for Warrington’s
speech. She read it, and she hated herself for ad-
miring it. The self-lie was not among Patty’s fail-
ings. There was no denying that Warrington’s
speech was a good oratorical effort; every line of
it rang sound and true; but that might be a trick of
the trade. He could make thieves and villains on
the stage speak glibly and plausibly; certainly he
could do as much for himself. One thing she could
not deny him, and that was frankness. He had
confessed to her last summer that he was not, or
had not been, a good man in the strict sense of the
word. She laid down the paper and finished her
coffee. She was glad that she did not have to face
Kate at each meal, She felt that she couldn’t have
trusted herself; there were times when she spoke
the first thought, and always regretted it. Poor
John, poor John!

From the table she went directly to the Indian
basket that held all the cards and invitations. The
mother, concerned with her household duties, left
her to herself. Patty would have found some diffi-
culty at that moment in answering any curious
questions. One by one she drew out the envelopes
and cards. There was a permanent scent of sweet

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grass. She discovered nothing; she realized that
her discovering anything depended solely upon
hazard. Excitement ebbed, leaving nothing but
hopelessness. She threw the cards and invitations
into the basket. She might have known that visit-
ing-cards and printed invitations are generally
odorless. She sought the garden. The Angora
was prowling around, watching the bees and but-
terflies hovering over wind-fallen fruit. Patty
called to her, but the cat ignored the call. From
the garden Patty went to the stables, from the
stables she returned to the house. She was at
peace nowhere. Later her mother found her
dreaming in the window-seat.

“Patty, Mrs. Haldene left her shopping-bag
here yesterday afternoon. I had forgotten it.
Would you mind taking it over to her, or shall I
have the maid do it?”

“T have nothing to do, mother. I can take it
over just as well as not,” said Patty listlessly.

She slipped her arm through the handles of the
bag and proceeded into the hall for a hat. As she
lifted the hat to her head the bag slipped along
her arm close to her nose. Instantly her figure be-
came tense and rigid, her face grim and colorless.

Heliotrope!

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CHAPTER XVIII

There could be no doubt at all. The perfume
on the letter and that on the shopping-bag were
identical. Indeed, she would take the bag over to
Mrs. Franklyn-Haldene; she would be very glad
to do her that trifling service. Oh! Patty’s rage
choked her. During the past three weeks Mrs.
Franklyn-Haldene had called at least a dozen
times, doubtless to observe the effect of her inter-
est in Patty’s welfare. She might have known!
Well, this very morning she would ascertain from
Mrs. Franklyn-Haldene’s lips where she had se-
cured her information. She would do more than
that ; she would make her prove every word of it.

So Patty marched toward the Haldene place;
marched, because that verb suggests something
warlike, something belligerent. And there was
war a-plenty in Patty’s heart. Each step she took
sang out a sharp “Meddler-gossip! meddler-gos-
sip!” A delivery horse went past, drumming an
irritating “Busybody! busybody! busybody!”
What had she or hers ever done to Mrs. Franklyn-
Haldene that she should stoop to so base a means

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of attack? An anonymous letter! War raged in
Patty’s heart; but there was something warmer
and clearer coursing through her veins—hope!

She went on. Not a particle of her courage de-
serted her as she mounted the steps and pushed
the bell. When Patty was genuinely roused in
anger she was afraid of little or nothing, animate
or inanimate. A maid answered the bell. As she
recognized the caller she swung back the door and
nodded.

“Ts Mrs. Haldene at home?” Patty inquired.

“Yes, Miss Patty.”

The maid led Patty into the library, where
Mrs. Franklyn-Haldene was busily engaged in
making up an invitation list.

“Why, Patty, I am glad to see you,” she cried,
dropping her pen and rising. But her curiosity
rose at the same time. Patty here?

“You left your shopping-bag when you called
yesterday,” said Patty, ominously calm. “I have
brought it to you.”

“It was very careless of me to forget it.”

“Yes, it was,” Patty assented, her heart begin-
ning to throb violently.

“Thank you. And I have been looking for it
high and low.”

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Patty passed the bag to her enemy. How to be-
gin, how to begin!

“Mrs, Haldene!” Patty’s voice was high-
pitched and quavering.

“Why, Patty!”

“Why did you write this base letter to me!” —
exhibiting the letter resolutely. ‘““Do not deny that
you wrote it. It smells of heliotrope—your fa-
vorite perfume.”

“Patty Bennington, are you mad?” cried Mrs.
Franklyn-Haldene. “What letter? What do you
mean?” She knew very well, but she had not
practised the control of her nerves all these years
for nothing. “A letter? I demand to see it.”

But Patty reconsidered and withdrew her hand,
concluding that Mrs, Franklyn-Haldene could de-
stroy the letter as easily as she had written it;
more easily, had Patty but known it.

“T prefer to read it to you.” And Patty read,
her tones sharp and penetrating, finely tempered
by anger.

“T write such a thing as that? You accuse me
of writing an anonymous letter of that caliber?
You are mad, distinctly mad, and if I did what
was right I should ask you to leave this house in-
stantly.” Mrs. Franklyn-Haldene rose to her full

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height, after the manner of indignant persons on
the stage.

Patty was not overcome in the least. An idea,
boid, unconventional, and not over-scrupulous,
shot into her head. With her eyes holding Mrs.
Franklyn-Haldene’s, she stepped toward the desk;
then, in a flash, she seized one of the sheets of
note-paper that lay scattered about. Mrs, Frank-
lyn Haldene made a desperate effort to intercept
Patty; but Patty was young, slender and agile.
She ran quickly to the nearest window and com-
pared the written sheet with the blank. The paper
and grain were the same, only one showed that the
top had been cut off. There was no shadow of
doubt.

“You are a horrible woman,” said Patty.

“Leave this house instantly!’ Mrs. Franklyn-
Haldene was now thoroughly alarmed.

“Not till you have proved the truth of this let-
ter,” Patty declared.

“I refuse to submit to such gross insults in my
own house!’ Mrs. Franklyn-Haldene’s voice rose
a key. She swept majestically toward the door.

Patty stepped bravely in front of her.

“Have you no breeding?” the storm in Mrs.
Franklyn-Haldene’s voice gathering.

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“Who told you that my brother’s wife was for-
merly—”

“Stand aside!”

“T shall not leave this house or your presence
till you have answered,” replied the little paladin.
“You wrote this letter to me, trusting it would
make me miserable. It has. But I have not done
what you expected,—shown it. Who told you this
base lie?”

“T refuse to answer your impudent questions.
Will you stand aside?”

“There is a way to force you. I will know,
Mrs. Haldene, I will know. If you refuse, I shall
turn these two sheets over to my brother’s law-
yers.””

“A lawyer?” with an hysterical laugh. “You
would scarcely take a thing like that to a lawyer,
of all persons.”

“T declare to you that that is exactly what I
shall do. You wrote this letter; I can prove that
you wrote it. Afraid of publicity? You do not
know me. What I demand to know is, who gave
you this information? That I will know.”

Mrs. Franklyn-Haldene saw that Patty would
do what she promised; so she took her stand
boldly.

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“Well, then, since you will have it. Yes, I
wrote that letter, for I could no longer stand the
humiliation of meeting your sister-in-law in
decent houses, and that double hypocrite who
pretends to be your brother’s friend and your ad-
mirer. Proof? I was at my hair-dresser’s one
morning, when a woman who is an intimate of
McQuade, the politician, came in. She dropped a
letter. McQuade had written it. It told definitely
the information you have in your hand.”

“You have that letter?” Patty was conscious of
a strange numbness stealing over her.

“No, I haven’t. I read it, and sent it to its
owner. I consider myself very fortunate. I always
had my suspicions, and it was a relief to find that
they were not without foundation. You will now
relieve me of your unwelcome presence in this
house.” This time Mrs. Franklyn-Haldene leveled
her arm toward the door ; the right was with her.

“In a moment,” said a third voice, masculine.

Mrs. Franklyn-Haldene’s arm dropped. Patty
turned with a low cry. She had forgotten that
there might be some one else in the house.

Haldene entered through the door to the dining-
room. His face was hard and his eyes cold.

“T must ask your pardon, both of you, but I

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could not help overhearing your voices, They ran
somewhat high.” He bowed to Patty deferen-
tially ; he merely glanced at his wife.

“Franklyn!” This phase of the situation was
altogether too unexpected and embarrassing for
Mrs. Franklyn-Haldene to accept it readily.

“T have heard words about an anonymous let-
ter; I have heard names,—McQuade, your
brother, his wife, Warrington, and my wife. I
should like to know—”

“Franklyn!” his wife appealed. To be humili-
ated before this impudent chit of a girl!

“Patience, my dear.” Haldene held up his
hand. “Well, Patty?”

“Mrs. Haldene has taken the trouble to meddle
with my affairs by writing me an anonymous let-
ter concerning the conduct of my brother’s wife
and his friend. I have traced the letter to Mrs.
Haldene, and she has confessed that she wrote it,
also stating her reasons and the source of her in-
formation.” Patty spoke bravely, for she hadn’t
the least idea whose side Mr. Haldene would take.
She was not aware that, for all his idle habits and
failings, he had that quality of justice which, upon
occasions, makes a terrible judge of a just man.

“Will you let me see that letter?” he asked.

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Patty gave it to him without conditions. He
read it slowly, but neither woman could discover
the slightest emotion on the man’s face. He
studied it carefully. He even compared the false
hand with the true. Then he addressed his wife.

“Did you write this?”

“Yes, I did. And if you have been listening, as
you had the courage to say you had, you already
know my reasons for writing it.’ Mrs. Franklyn-
Haldene was recovering.

“You must apologize,” he said.

“Apologize? I think not. On my part there is
nothing more to be said.”

“T see that I shall have to apologize for you.
Patty, I am very sorry that this has happened, and
I can promise you that it shall end here. Will you
accept my apology?”

After some liesitance, Patty nodded. She could
not very well refuse. She had always liked Mr.
Haldene. As hitherto remarked, Patty’s was an
impulsive heart. Suddenly she stretched out her
hands toward the wife.

“What have I or mine ever done to you that you
should seek to injure us so cruelly? Have we
wronged you in thought or deed? What is it that
has made you my enemy ?”

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“I am not your enemy, Patty,” said the elder

woman, melting ever so slightly. “I have told you
that I did not wish to see your life made wretched
by marrying a man of Warrington’s loose habits,
and that I could not tolerate the woman who is
your brother’s wife.”
Patty held out her hand for the letter. She had
no desire to remain any longer. She wanted noth-
ing but the privilege of being alone, that she might
weep the bitter, galling tears that were brimming
her eyes. . . . She had no recollection of gain-
ing the street. It was true, it was true! She did
not even remember how she reached her room;
but as her blurred eyes saw the bed, she fell upon
it in a stupor that for a long while did not give any
outlet to her tears.

In the meantime Haldene faced his wife.

“T am going down town presently,” he said.
“T shall send you up by messenger several cabin-
plans.”

“Cabin-plans?”’ amazed at this odd turn in
affairs.

| “Yes, You will spend the winter either in
Egypt or Italy, as it pleases you.”

“Europe? But my social obligations demand

my presence here!” she expostulated.
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“You will cancel them. You will go to Europe.
Anonymous letters!’ He struck the desk vio-
lently. It was the first touch of this kind he had
ever exhibited in her presence, and it terrified her.
“When I married you, people said I married your
money. As God is above us, I loved you. Yes, I
loved you. But how long was it permitted that
this love should live? Six slender months! You,
you of all women, you write anonymous letters >”
He laughed, but it was laughter that had nothing
human in it. ‘Madam, when I die my deposit
box at the bank will be turned over to you. In it
you will find six anonymous letters. They have
lain there sixteen years. I took the advice of one
and followed you. So I let them believe that I had
married you for your money. I meant to have my
revenge after I was dead. Madam, you will go to
Europe. I shall not be home to lunch, but you
may expect me at dinner. I am curious to learn
whether it will be in Egypt and the Holy Land, or
Italy, the land of the fig-tree and the vine. Good
morning.”

When he was gone, Mrs. Franklyn-Haldene
realized, for the first time in sixteen years, that
she had married a man. Suddenly her knees gave
from under her, and she sank into her chair, star-

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ing at the floor with unseeing eyes. For sixteen
years!

That afternoon Warrington had a visit. His
visitors were Jordan, the reporter, and Osborne.
They appeared to be in high spirits.

“We've got him, Dick!” exclaimed Jordan,
swinging his hat.

“Got whom ?”

“Morrissy—Morrissy and McQuade,” said Os-
borne, in his whisky-roughened voice. “We've
got ’em all right, Dick. Look at this,” tossing a
wrinkled sheet of carbon-paper on Warrington’s
desk.

Warrington spread it out. It took him but a
minute to find out the richness of his possession.

“Where did you come across this?” he asked
eagerly.

“My niece found it in her waste-basket. I’ve
sent her into the country to visit relatives,” said
Osborne. “But if you use it, Dick, you'll have to
find the girl another job in some other town.”

“You leave that to me. This is worth a thou-
sand to me and a thousand more to John Benning-
ton. Now, both of you go down to any restaurant
in town and order what you like, and as long as

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you like, and you have them call me up if there’s
any question.” |

The reporter and the semi-outcast smiled at
each other. They saw their appetites appeased to
satiety.

“Does a bottle go with the order, Dick?” asked
Jordan.

“Half a dozen!” laughed Warrington.

“T’ve put you in the City Hall, Dick,” said Os-
borne. “And don’t forget me when you're there.”
“Will there be a story for me?” Jordan asked.

“You'll have a page, Ben.”

“That’s enough. Well, come on, Bill; we'll
show the new mayor that we can order like gen-
tlemen.”

“T remember—” But Osborne never completed
his reminiscence. Jordan was already propelling
him toward the door.

Once the door had closed upon them, Warring-
ton capered around the room like a school-boy.
The publication of this confederacy between Mor-
rissy and McQuade would swing the doubting
element over to his side and split the ranks of the
labor party.

Patty, Patty Bennington! He must see her. It
was impossible to wait another day. When was it

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he had seen her last? Patty, dark-eyed, elfish,
winsome, merry! Oh, yes, he must see her at once,
this very afternoon. He could no longer repress
the tide of his love, which surged at the flood-
gates of his heart with mighty pressure. Patty!
Patty!

“Patty is not feeling well,” said Mrs. Benning-
ton, as she welcomed Warrington at the door, an
hour later. “I will call her. I am sure she will be
glad to see you.”

Warrington went into the music-room, placed
his hat on the piano, and idled about impatiently.
That morning he had not possessed the courage;
now he was willing to face lions and tigers, any-
thing rather than permit another day to pass with-
out telling Patty that he loved her. When she
finally appeared she was pale, her eyes were red,
but her head was erect and her lips firm.

“Patty, are you ill?’ hastening toward her.

“T have a very bad headache,” coldly. “You
wished to see me?”

Where were all the tender words he had
planned to speak? Patty had been weeping!

“You have been crying. What has happened?”
anxiously.

“Tt can not interest you,” wearily. Men! She

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would have a horror of them for the rest of her
days.

“Not interest me? Don’t you know, haven’t
you seen by this time, that you interest me more
than any other living being or any angel in
Heaven ?”

Patty caught at the portiére to steady herself.
She had not expected declarations of this kind.

“Don’t you know,” he hurried on, his voice
gaining in passion and tenderness, “don’t you
know that a pain to you means triple pain to me?
Don’t you know that I love you? Patty, what is
the trouble? You are not a woman to weep over
headaches.”

“Do you wish to know, then?” bitterly. She
hated him! How could he stand there telling her
that he loved her? “Read this,” presenting the
letter. “I despise you!”

“Despise me? What in God’s name is the mat-
ter?”

“Read, read!’ vehemently.

Once the letter was in his hand, her arms
dropped to her sides, tense. It was best so, to have
it over with at once. To crush the thought of him
out of her heart for ever, such a remedy was neces-
sary. She watched him. His hand fell slowly. It

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would have been difficult to say which of the two
was the whiter.

“You speak of love to me?”

He stood there, stunned. His silence spoke elo-
quently to her. He was guilty. She leaped to this
conclusion at once, not realizing that no man can
immediately defend himself when accused so
abruptly.

“You speak of love!” Her wrath seemed to
scorch her lips. “My poor brother !”

Warrington straightened. “Do you believe
this?” He threw the letter aside, as if the touch
contaminated him, caring not where it fell.

“Ts it true?”

“An anonymous letter?” he replied, contemptu-
ously.

“TI know who wrote it.”

“You know who wrote it? Who?” There was
terrible anger in his voice now.

“T decline to answer.”

“So you give me not even the benefit of a
doubt! You believe it!”

Patty was less observant than usual. “Will you
please go now? I do not think there is anything
more to be said.”

“No. I will go.” He spoke quietly, but like a

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man who has received his death-stroke. “One
question more. Did McQuade write that letter ?”

“No.”

He picked up his hat. “So much for my
dreams! Deny it? Deny calumny of the anony-
mous order? No! Defend myself against such a
lie? No!”

He walked from the room, his head erect. He
did not turn to look at her again. The hall door
closed. He was gone.

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CHAPTER XIX

Tragedy was abroad that day, crossing and re-
crossing Williams Street. Tragedy has the same
prerogative as love and death—the right to enter
the palace or the hovel, into the heart of youth
or age. It was not a killing to-day, only a break-
ing of hearts, that is to say, the first step. Tragedy
never starts out on her rounds roughly; she seeks
her cause first; she seeks her anonymous letter,
her idle hands, her lying tongue; then she is
ready. Tragedy does nothing hastily; she gradu-
ates her victim.

Warrington stumbled rather than walked home.
When he reached the opposite curb he slipped and
fell, bruising his hands. . . . Deny it? Deny
it when convicted without trial? There are never
any proofs to refute a letter written by an un-
known enemy. There is never any guard against
the stab in the back. . . . He and Kate! It
was monstrous. And John? Did John know?
Did John see that letter? No, Patty surely had
not shown it to John. He knew John (or he be-
lieved he did) ; not all the proofs or explanations

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Heaven or earth could give would convince John,
if that letter fell into his hands. . . . And he
was to speak at a mass meeting that night! God!
He stumbled up the steps to the door. He was like
a drunken man. . . . Patty believed it; Patty,
just and merciful, believed it. If she believed,
what would John, the jealous husband, believe?
There were so many trifling things that now in
John’s eyes would assume immense proportions.

. . In less than half an hour the world
had stopped, turned about, and gone another way.
He opened the door. As he did so a woman
rushed into the hall.

“Richard, Richard, I thought you would never
come!”

“You, and in this house alone?” His shoulders
drooped.

Mrs. Jack did not observe how white he was,
how dull his eye, how abject his whole attitude.
She caught him by the sleeve and dragged him
into the living-room.

“Richard, I am dying!” she cried. She loos-
ened the collaret at her throat. “What shall I
do, what shall I do?”

He realized then that he was not alone in
misery.

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“What is it, girl?” stirring himself.

“Listen, Dick!” She dropped into the old name
unconsciously. She had but one clear thought;
this man could save her. “Some time ago—the
night you and John went down town together—
I received a telephone call from that vile wretch,
McQuade.”

“McQuade?” Warrington’s interest was thor-
oughly aroused by that name; nothing else could
have aroused it.

“He said that if I did not persuade you to with-
draw your name before the convention met he
would not oppose the publication of a certain
story concerning my past and yours. Horrible!
What could I do? I remained silent; it was
Patty’s advice. We were afraid that John would
kill McQuade if we told him.” She let go of his
arm and paced the room, beating her hands to-
gether. “Think of the terror I have lived in all
these weeks! Half dead every evening when John
came home; not daring to read the papers; afraid
of calling on my few friends! I have never, in all
my life, done an evil action, either in thought or
deed. What terrible gift is this that God gives to
some people to make truth half a truth and half a
truth a lie? Read this!”

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It was a half-sheet of ordinary office paper,
written on a typewriter. Its purport was similar
to the one he had read but a few minutes since.
Only it was bolder; there were no protestations
about anybody’s welfare. It was addressed to
John Bennington.

“Great God! another anonymous letter! Do
you know who sent this?”

“T can think of no one but McQuade; no one!”
frantically. “Save me, Richard! I love him
better than God, and this is my punishment. If
John sees this, I shall die; if he doesn’t kill me I
shall kill myself! I opened it by mistake. I am so
miserable. What has happened? What have I
done that this curse should fall on me? When I
came to this city I expected to find rest in the
house of the man I loved. . . . Patty does not
come over. . . . What have I not suffered in
silence and with smiles? I have seen them whis-
pering; I have seen covert smiles, and nods, and
shrugs. I knew. I was an actress. It seems that
nothing too bad or vile can be thought of her who
honestly throws her soul into the greatest gift
given to woman. An actress! They speak of her
in the same tone they would use regarding a crea-
ture of the streets. Well, because I loved my hus-

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band I have said nothing; I have let the poison
eat into my heart in silence. But this goes too far.
I shall go mad if this thing can not be settled here
and now. It is both my love and my honor. And
you must do it, Richard; you must do it.”

“You say McQuade called you up by tele-
phone?”

mY ee?

He struck his forehead. The carbon sheet! He
ran to his desk, pulled out all the drawers, tum-
bling the papers about till he found what he
sought. From the letter to the faint imprint on
the carbon sheet and back to the letter his eyes
moved, searching, scrutinizing.

“Look!” with a cry of triumph.

“What is it?”

“Do you see that mutilated letter T?” He in-
dicated with his finger on the dim carbon sheet.

“Yes, yes!”

“Compare it with the letter T in this note.”

She did so, her hands shaking pitifully. “I
can’t see, Richard.”

“That carbon sheet came from McQuade’s
office; so did that letter to John. And now, by the
Lord! now to pull out Mr. McQuade’s fangs,

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and slowly, too.” He pocketed the two sheets.
“Come!” His hat was still on his head.

“Where, Richard ?”

“To John.”

“No, no! John?”

“To him. We can not settle this matter under-
ground. We must fight in the open, in the light.
John must know. You must be brave, girl. This
is no time for timidity and tears. You know and
I know that right and truth are on our side. We'll
risk it in a single throw.” Upon determining to
act thus, he was acting as only a man acts who has
a wide and definite knowledge of men and affairs.
“Come; the sooner it is over the better. John may
flare up a little, but he is a just man. Let us go to
John.”

She put forth many arguments, but to each he
shook his head. The thought of losing a particle
of John’s love terrified her, who was ordinarily a
courageous woman.

“Weare losing time,” said Warrington. “When
John reads these two documents he will under-
stand. He knows McQuade is base enough to seek
revenge this way. He will recognize it for its
worth. But if John finds out that we have left him

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out of our confidence, he will have some good
reason to doubt. Come.”

So she followed him, her heart like lead, no
thought coherent, her will without energy. This
was to be the end of all her dreams. They crossed
the street without speaking. He helped her down
this curb and up that, All this excitement lessened
his own pain temporarily. But who had written
to Patty, if not McQuade? He could block any
future move of McQuade’s but this other anony-
mous writer, whom Patty declared she knew? He
went on doggedly. One battle at a time. Together
they entered the house, together they passed from
room to room in search of John. They came upon
him reading in the library. He rose to greet them.
There was no beating about the bush for War-
rington. He went straight into the heart of things.

“John, read this.”

John glanced at the sheet, and his face dark-
ened. The look he shot his wife was indescribable.
She watched him, twisting and knotting and un-
twisting her gloves.

“When did this thing come?” asked John, a
slight tremor in his tone.

“This morning,” Mrs. Jack answered, her voice
choking.

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“Why did you not bring it to me?” he asked.
“Why did you take it to Dick? You and he should
not come to me; on the contrary, you and I should
have gone to him. But never mind now. I have
carried in my pocket a letter similar to this for
several weeks,” simply.

“Catch her, John!” cried Warrington.

“No, no! I am not fainting. I am just dizzy.”

The poor woman groped her way to the lounge
and lay down. Her shoulders were shaking with
noiseless sobs.

John crossed the room and put his hand on her
head. The touch was tender.

“Well, Dick?”

“Tt is easy to distort truth into a lie, John.”

“But it is very hard to reverse the order again.”

“Do you believe the lie?’ Warrington looked
his friend squarely in the eyes.

A minute passed. The ticking of the clock was
audible.

“Believe it? I have had to struggle, I have had
to fight hard and all alone. I do not say that I
don’t believe it. I say that I will not!”

A truly noble soul always overawes us. This
generosity struck Warrington dumb. But the
woman found life in the words. She flung herself

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before her husband and clasped his knees with a
nervous strength that provoked a sharp cry from
his lips.

“John, John!”

He stooped and unwound her arms, gently
drawing her up, up, till her head lay against his
shoulder. Then she became a dead weight. She
had fainted. He lifted her up in his strong arms
and started for the stairs.

“Were she guilty of all the crimes chronicled in
hell, I still should love her. But between you and
me, Dick, things must be explained.”

“T shall wait for you, John.”

John was not gone long. When he returned he
found Warrington by the bow-window that
looked out upon the lawn.

“Now, Dick, the truth, and nothing but the
truth. Don’t be afraid of me; I am master of
myself.”

“T’m not afraid of you. There is half a truth
in that letter,” began Warrington, facing about.
“Your wife did stay a night in my apartments.”

John made no sign.

“Tt was the first week of a new play. I had to
be at the theater every night. There were many
changes being made. Near midnight we started

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out for a bite to eat. She had been suffering with
attacks of neuralgia of the heart. As we entered
the carriage, one of these attacks came on. We
drove to her apartments. We could not get in.
Her maid was out, the janitor could not be found,
and unfortunately she had left her keys at the
theater. In a moment like that I accepted the first
thing that came into my head: my own apart-
ments. She was not there a quarter of an hour
before a trained nurse and her own physician were
at her side. I slept in a chair. At six the follow-
ing morning she left for her own apartments.
And that, John, is the truth, God’s truth. I see
now that I should have taken her to a hotel. You
know that there was a time when I was somewhat
dissipated. It was easy to take that incident and
enlarge upon it. Now, let me tell you where this
base slander originated. Compare the letter you
have with the one I gave you.”

John complied. He nodded. These two letters
had come from the same typewriter.

“Next ?”

“Here is another document.” It was the carbon
sheet.

John spread the sheet against the window-pane.
The light behind brought out the letters distinctly.

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He scarcely reached the final line when he spun
round, his face mobile with eagerness,

“Where did this come from?”

“Indirectly, out of McQuade’s waste-basket.”

“Morrissy and McQuade; both of them! Oh,
you have done me a service, Dick.”

“But it can not be used, John. That and the
letters were written on McQuade’s typewriter. So
much for my political dreams! With that carbon
sheet I could pile up a big majority; without it I
shall be defeated. But don’t let that bother you.”

“McQuade!” John slowly extended his arms
and closed his fingers so tightly that his whole
body trembled. An arm inside those fingers would
have snapped like a pipe-stem. “McQuade! Damn
him!”

“Take care!” warned the other. ‘Don’t injure
those letters. When my name was suggested by
Senator Henderson as a possible candidate, Mc-
Quade at once set about to see how he could injure
my chances. He was afraid of me. An honest
man, young, new in politics, and therefore un-
attached, was a menace to the success of his party,
that is to say, his hold on the city government.
Among his henchmen was a man named Bolles.”

“Ah!” grimly.

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“He sent this man to New York to look up my
past. In order to earn his money he brought back
this lie, which is half a truth. Whether McQuade
believes it or not is of no matter; it serves his
purpose. Now, John!”

John made no reply. With his hands (one still
clutching the letters) behind his back he walked
the length of the room and returned.

“Will you take my word, which you have al-
ways found loyal, or the word of a man who has
written himself down as a rascal, a briber, and a
blackleg ?”

John put out his empty hand and laid it on
Warrington’s shoulder.

“You’re a good man, Dick. Dissipation is some-
times a crucible that separates the gold from the
baser metals. It has done that to you. You are a
good man, an honorable man. In coming to me
like this you have shown yourself to be courageous
as well. There was a moment when the sight of
you filled my heart with murder. It was the night
after I received that letter. I’ve been watching
you, watching, watching. Well, I would stake my
chance of eternity on your honesty. I take your
word; I should have taken it, had you nothing to
prove your case. That night I ran into Bolles.

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Well, he uttered a vile insult, and I all but
throttled him. Here’s my hand, Dick.”

The hand-grip that followed drew a gasp from
Warrington.

“Not every man would be so good about it,
John. What shall we do about McQuade?”

“T was about to say that I shall see McQuade
within an hour,” in a tone that did not promise
well for McQuade.

“Wait a day or two, John. If you meet him
now, I believe you will do him bodily harm, and
he has caused enough trouble, God knows.”

“But not to meet him! Not to cram this paper
down his vile throat! I had not considered
that sacrifice. And I can not touch him by law,
either.”

“But you can silence him effectually. This
business will end right here.”

“You are right,’ said John with reluctance.
“Tf I met him in this rage, I should probably kill
thim.”

“Let us go and pay him a visit together, John,”
Warrington suggested. “I can manage to keep in
between you.”

“That’s better. We'll go together.” And John
went for his hat. Then he ran up stairs quickly.

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There was a loving heart up there that ached, and
he alone could soothe it.

And then the two men left the house. As they
strode down the street, side by side, step by step,
their thoughts were as separate as the two poles.!
To the one his wife was still his wife, in all the
word implied; to the other there was only a long
stretch of years that he must pass through alone,
alone,—not even the man at his side would ever be
quite the same to him, nor his wife. There was a
shadow; it would always walk between them.

“Remember, Dick, Patty must never know any-
thing of this. Nothing must come between her
and my wife.”

“T shall say nothing to any one, John.” Who
had written to Patty?

It took them a quarter of an hour to reach Mc-
Quade’s office. Unfortunately for that gentleman,
he was still in his office and alone. The new type-
writer and the two clerks had gone. He was still
wondering why Osborne’s niece had resigned so
unexpectedly. Probably she was going to get
married. They always did when they had saved
a penny or two. He laughed. He had been care-
less now and then, but whatever she might have
picked up in the way of business or political se-

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crets could not profit her. Boss McQuade felt
secure. Warrington was as good as beaten. He
had had his long-delayed revenge on the man who
had turned him out of doors.

It was dark outside by this time, and he turned
on the drop-light over his desk. He heard the door
open and shut, but this was not unusual; so he
went on with his writing.

“Well, what’s wanted?” he called, folding his
letter, but not yet turning his head.

As no one answered, he sent his chair around
with a push of his foot. He saw two men, but he
did not recognize them at once. By and by his
eyes grew accustomed to the dark. Instantly he
was on his feet, pressing the button connecting
the wall-lights. There was no possible exit save
by that door, and these two men stood between.
To do McQuade justice, he was not a physical
coward, His huge bulk and hardened muscles
gave him a ready courage. He forced a smile to
his lips. After all, he had expected one or the
other of them sooner or later.

“Well, gentlemen, I am highly honored. What
can I do for you?” There was a pretense of amia-
bility.

“For the present,” said Warrington, “you may,

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sit down. We propose to do so.” He drew out a
chair from under the office table and placed it
close to the door. “You sit there, John.” For
himself, he sat on the corner of the table.

McQuade did not hesitate, but reseated him-
self. His thoughts were not particularly lucid,
however.

“McQuade, you’re as fine a blackleg as ever
graced a prison,” said Warrington.

“T’ll have to take your word for it,” was the
reply. “But how is it that I see you and Mr. Ben-
nington together ?” evilly.

“We'll come to that presently. I had always
given you credit for being as astute as you were
underhanded and treacherous.”

“Thanks.” McQuade took a cigar from
his pocket and fumbled around in his vest for a
match.

“But,” Warrington added, “I am pained to re-
verse my opinion. You are a fool as well as a
blackleg.”’

“How do you make that out?” coolly.

“Do you know where your man Bolles can be
found?”

“Bolles? Ah, I begin to see. What do you
want of him?”

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“We want the esteemed honor of his company
at this reunion,” dryly.

Bolles? McQuade smiled. He was only too
glad to accommodate them. If they wanted Bolles
they should have him. Bolles would cut them in
two. He reached for the telephone and began to
call up the familiar haunts of his henchman. He
located him at length in Martin’s saloon. There
was evidently some reluctance on the part of
Bolles.

“Bolles, if you are not at my office inside of ten
minutes, Pll break you, and you know what I
mean.” McQuade hung up the receiver. “He'll
be right over. Now, what’s all this mystery
about ?””

“Tt regards some literary compositions of yours
to which I have taken exception.”

“Compositions ?”

“Yes. Two anonymous letters. But before we
discuss them we’ll wait for our friend Bolles.”

McQuade signified that this was agreeable to
him. All the same, he glanced uneasily at the man
near the door. Bennington had not made the
slightest sound after taking his chair. His arms
were folded across his breast, which rose and fell
with deep intakes. His face, in the shadow, was

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no more readable than that of the miniature
sphinx paper-weight that rested on McQuade’s
desk. But Bolles was coming. So they waited.
The end of McQuade’s cigar waxed and waned
according to his inhalations. These inhalations
were not quickly made, as by a man whose heart/
is beating with excitement; they were slow and
regular, it might be said, contemplative. John’s
gaze never left the end of that cigar.

The lights in the tall building opposite began to
twinkle from window to window. Warrington
slipped off the table and pulled down the curtains.
McQuade knocked the ashes from his cigar, con-
templated the coal, and returned it to the corner
of his mouth.

Ah! The three men heard steps in the hall. The
door to the outer office opened and banged. But
the man who squeezed past Bennington was not
Bolles.

“Morrissy?” cried Warrington. “Fine! Have
a chair, Mr. Morrissy, have a chair.” Warring-
ton was delighted.

Morrissy’s glance, somewhat bewildered, trav-
eled from face to face. On entering he had seen
only McQuade’s tranquil visage. He sat down,
disturbed and mystified.

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“What’s this?” Morrissy demanded to know.

“Hanged if I know!” said McQuade. “These
two gentlemen presented themselves a few mo-
ments ago and requested me to send for Bolles.
Have a cigar.”

Morrissy took the proffered weed, but he did
not light it. He turned it round and round in his
teeth and chewed it. Well, so long as the boss did
not seem alarmed, the trouble could not be serious.
Yet he was not over-confident of Bennington’s
lowering face.

“Been a fine day,” said Morrissy, at haphazard.

“Yes, but there’s going to be a storm to-night.”
Warrington resumed his position on the table.

Conversation died. And then Bolles came in.
At the sight of Bennington he recoiled.

“Come in, come in!’ said McQuade. “Mr.
Warrington will offer you a chair,” facetiously.

“Yes, Bolles, sit down.”

“Well, gentlemen, here’s a quorum;” and Mc-
Quade began to rock in his chair. Three against
two; that would do very well.

“T will go at once at the matter in hand. Those
letters, John.” Warrington held out his hand.
“T’ll read one to you, McQuade.” He read slowly
and distinctly.

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“What the hell is this?” said Morrissy.

“It’s up to Mr, Warrington to explain.” Mc-
Quade grinned. That grin, however, nearly cost
him his life.

“John, remember your promise!” cried War-
rington.

John sat down, seized with a species of vertigo.

“McQuade, you wrote that.”

“Me? You're crazy!”

“Not at all. Let me advise you. The next time
you put your hand to anonymous letters, examine
the type of your machine. There may be some
bad letter.”

“T don’t know what you’re driving at,” Mc-
Quade declared.

“T see that I must read this, then, to convince
you.” Warrington stood up, his back toward
Bennington. He unfolded the carbon sheet and
began to read.

McQuade saw Medusa’s head, little versed as
he was in mythology. He lowered his cigar. The
blood in his face gradually receded.

“Tn two sums of five hundred each,’ ” War-
rington went on.

Morrissy, who suddenly saw visions of bars and
stripes, made a quick, desperate spring. Warring-

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ton struck him with full force on the side of the
head. Morrissy reeled, stumbled to the floor and
lay there. The others were on their feet instantly.
“Stay where you are, John; I don’t need any
assistance. Now, McQuade, I’ve got you where I
,want you.” Warrington spoke with deadly calm
‘now. “This carbon was found in your waste-
basket and brought to me. The girl is where you
can not find her. There are two courses open to
you.”

“What are they?” There was murder in Mc-
Quade’s heart, but there was reason in his head.
He saw exactly where he stood. They had him.

“One is state’s prison; the other is a full retrac-
tion of this base calumny. Take your choice.”

“Bolles?”

“It’s true, every damn word of it,’”’ said Bolles
venomously. “Your janitor in New York told me
the facts. You know they’re true.”

“Bolles, I nearly killed you one night. So help
me, if you do not withdraw that, I’ll kill you here
and now!” It was the first time Bennington had
spoken.

“Bolles,” said McQuade, “did you sell a lie
to me?”

Bolles eyed Bennington, who had pushed War-

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rington out of the way and was moving toward
him. He saw death on Bennington’s face. War-
rington again interposed, but John swept him
aside with ease.

“Well, there was a doctor and a nurse there all
night with them. But she was in Warrington’s
rooms all night. That seemed enough for me.”
Bolles put the table between him and Bennington.
He was genuinely afraid.

Morrissy turned over and sat up, rubbing his
head. Presently he pulled himself to his feet. He
was dazed. Recollection of what had happened
returned to him. This dude had knocked him
out.

“You'll pay well for that,” he said.

“Sit down. It’s only a marker for what I'll do
to you if you make another move. Now, Mc-
Quade, which is it?”

“Go ahead and write your letter,” McQuade
snarled.

Warrington proceeded.

“Now sign it,” he said. “Here, John, take care
of this carbon. Bolles, your signature.” Bolles
scrawled a shaking hand. Warrington put the
paper in his pocket. “Bite, both of you now, if
you dare.”

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“I'll trouble you for that carbon,” said Mc-
Quade.

“Hardly. But you have my word of honor that
it shall not be used against you unless you force
me. It will repose in my deposit box at the bank.
But as for you, Morrissy, this climate doesn’t suit
your abilities. The field is too small. Take my
advice and clear out. That is all, gentlemen.
Come, John.”

When they were gone Morrissy turned sav-
agely upon McQuade.

“T told you you were a damn fool!”

“Get out of here, both of you; and if you ever
stick your heads in this office again, I’ll smash
you.”

McQuade dropped into his chair, once more
alone. He sat there for an hour, thinking, rumi-
nating, planning; but all his thinking and rumi-
nating and planning had but one result: they had
him licked. Morrissy was right; he was a fool.
The girl! He would have liked her throat in his
fingers that moment, the sneaking, treacherous
baggage! Licked! To go about hereafter with
that always menacing him! But there was one ray
of consolation. He knew something about human
nature. Bennington and Warrington would drift

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apart after this. Bennington had cleared up the
scandal, but he hadn’t purged his heart of all
doubt. There was some satisfaction in this know-
ledge. And Warrington would never enter the
City Hall as Herculaneum’s mayor.

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CHAPTER XX

By November John and his wife were on the
way to Italy. There is always a second honey-
moon for those who have just passed the first
matrimonial Scylla and Charybdis; there is al-
ways a new courtship, deeper and more under-
standing. Neither of them had surrendered a
particle of their affection for Warrington, but they
agreed that it would be easier for all concerned
if there came a separation of several months.

“You are all I have,” said Warrington, when
they bade him good-by. “I shall be very lonely
without you. If I lose the election I shall go to
Japan.”

“There’s always Patty and the mother,” said
John, smiling.

“Yes, there’s always Patty and her mother.
Good-by, and God bless you both. You deserve
all the happiness I can wish for you.”

Warrington plunged into the campaign. It
would keep him occupied.

Mrs. Bennington and Patty lived as usual, to all

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outward appearance. But Patty was rarely seen
in society. She took her long rides in the after-
noon now, always alone, brooding. Her young
friends wondered, questioned, then drifted away
gradually. Poor little Patty! No one had told
her; the viper had not been shaken from her nest.
Day after day she waited for the blow to fall, for
the tide of scandal to roll over her and obliterate
her. She was worldly enough to know that Mrs.
Franklyn-Haldene was not the kind of woman
to keep such a scandal under lock and key; others
must know, Mrs. Franklyn-Haldene’s particular
friends. So she avoided the possibility of meeting
these friends by declining all invitations of a for-
mal character. Perhaps after a time it would die
of its own accord, to be recalled in after years by
another generation, as such things generally are.
Patty derived no comfort from the paragraph in
the Sunday papers announcing Mrs. Franklyn-
Haldene’s departure for Egypt, to remain for the
winter.

She kept in touch with all that Warrington did.
The sense of shame she had at first experienced in
reading his speeches was gone. Her pride no
longer urged her to cast aside the paper, to rend
it, to fling it into the flames. Sometimes she saw

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him on the way home from his morning rides. It
seemed to her that he did not sit as erectly as for-
merly. Why should he? she asked herself bitterly.
When the heart is heavy it needs a confidante, but
_Patty, brave and loyal, denied herself the luxury
of her mother’s arms. Tell her this frightful
story? Bow that proud, handsome head? No.

“Tt is very strange,’ mused her mother, one
evening, “that Mr. Warrington calls no more. I
rather miss his cheerfulness, and John thinks so
much of him.”

Patty shivered. “He is very busy, mother.
Election is only three days off, and doubtless he
hasn’t a minute to call his own.”

Nor had he. Pulled this way and that, speaking
every night, from one end of the city to the other,
he went over the same ground again and again,
with the same noise, the same fumes of tobacco
and whisky and kerosene, with his heart no longer
behind his will. Yes, Warrington was very busy.
He was very unhappy, too. What did he care
about the making up of the slate? What was it to
him that this man or that wanted this or that
berth? What were all these things? But he hid
his dissatisfaction admirably. His speeches lacked
nothing.

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Election day came round finally, and a rare
and beautiful day it was. The ghost of summer
had returned to view her past victories. A west
wind had cleared the skies, the sun shone warm
and grateful, the golden leaves shivered and flut-
tered to the ground. Nature had lent a hand to
bring voting humanity to the polls. Some men
are such good citizens that they will vote in the
rain. But warmth and sunshine bring out the
lazy, the indifferent, and the uninterested.

Warrington voted early in the morning, rode
to the Country Club, made an attempt to play golf
over the partly frozen course, lounged round
till three in the afternoon, and then returned to
town. There was not a flutter in his heart. There
was this truth, however, staring him in the eyes:
if he lost, he would become an indifferent citizen;
if he won, an indifferent mayor. He was not a
man to falsify his accounts for the inspection of
his conscience.

The voting was heavy throughout the day.
Crowds lingered round the polls, which, in greater
part, were in the rear of shops, in barns and sheds.
There was a good deal of repeating in some of
the districts, and a dozen arrests had been made.
Neither party was free from this taint of dishon-

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est politics. But no one could prophesy what the
final results of the day would be.

Night came. It is the greatest spectacular night
the American knows. The noisy, good-natured
crowds in the streets, the jostling, snail-moving
crowds; the illuminated canvas-sheets in front of
the newspaper offices; the blare of tin horns, the
cries, the yells, the hoots and hurrahs; the petty
street fights ; the stalled surface cars ; the swearing
cabbies ; the newsboys hawking their latest extras,
men carrying execrable posters of roosters. Hur-
rah! hurrah! A flash goes over the canvas.

 

In the 4th District

Donnelly 608
Warrington 302

 

 

 

A roar that rose and died suddenly, and a wail-
ing of tin horns.

 

In Seven Districts

Warrington 1,262
Donnelly 1,196

 

 

 

Roars. It was going to be close. Between
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times local advertisers used the sheets, or there
were pictures of presidents past and present,
crowned heads (always greeted with jeers), fun-
ny pictures, or returns from other states.

 

In Nine Districts
Donnelly 1,821
Warringion 1,800

 

 

 

The crowds surged and billowed, and there was
pandemonium.

The newspaper offices were having a busy time.
This period proves the man; he is a newspaper
man or he is not. There was a continuous coming
and going of messengers, bringing in returns.
The reporters and editors were in their shirt-
sleeves, most of them collarless. Figures, figures,
thousands of figures to sift and resift. A fire-bell
rings, No one looks up save the fire reporter, and
he is up and away at once. Filtering through the
various noises is the maddening rattle of the tele-
graph instruments. Great drifts of waste-paper
litter the floors. A sandwich man serves coffee
and cigars, and there is an occasional bottle of
beer. Everybody is writing, writing.

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McQuade and his cohorts haunted the city room
of the Times. Things did not look well at all.
, There were twelve more districts to hear from.
Donnelly seemed to be the coolest man in that
office.

Warrington started home at nine. Up to this
time he had been indifferent, but it was impossible
not to catch the spirit of this night. Win or lose,
however, he wanted to be alone. So he went
home, lighted the fire in his working-room, called
his dog, and sat there dreaming.

Down town the clamor was increasing. The
great throngs round the bulletins were gathering
in force. Bonfires were flaring on corners.

 

In 15 Districts
Warrington 9,782
Donnelly 9,036

 

 

 

Close, terribly close. But those districts upon
which the fight really depended had not yet turned
up. The big labor vote had not been accounted
for.

The Cail had notified its readers that when the
returns were all in and the battle decided, it would

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blow a whistle. If Warrington was elected, five
blasts; if Donnelly, ten.

So Warrington waited, sunk in his chair, his
legs sprawled, his chin on his breast, and his eyes
drawing phantoms in the burning wood fire.

. It was cruel that Patty could not know;
and yet to leave John with the belief that his sister
knew nothing was a kindness, and only John could
convince Patty; and it was even a greater kind-
ness to leave Patty with the belief that John knew
nothing. So there he stood ; friendship on the one
side and love on the other. He recalled all the
charming ways Patty had, the color of her hair,
the light music of her laughter, the dancing
shadows in her eyes, the transparent skin, the
springy step, and the vigor and life that were hers.
And he had lost her, not through any direct fault,
but because he was known to have been dissipated
at one time; a shadow that would always be cross-
ing and recrossing his path. So long as he lived he
would carry that letter of hers, with its frank,
girlish admiration.

So, he mused, those dissipations of his, which,
after all, had touched him but lightly—these had,
like chickens, come home to roost! And how
these chickens had multiplied and grown! On

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the way home it seemed that everybody had
striven to fatten them up a bit and add surrepti-
tiously a chicken or two of his own. Oh, these
meddlers, these idle tongues! None of them would
set to work to wrong anybody, to wreck any-
body’s life. They would shrink in horror from
the thought, let alone the deed. Yet, they must
talk, they must exchange the day’s news, they
must have news that no one elsé had; and this
competition is the cause of half the misery on
earth. What if they exaggerate a little here and
a little there? No harm is meant. Human na-
ture, having found its speech, must have some-
thing to talk about; that which it has neither seen
nor heard, it invents.

Who had written that letter to Patty? Some
woman; man had not yet acquired such finished
cruelty. He could not understand its purpose,
well as he understood women. Who could pos-
sibly hate Patty, honest and loyal as the day is
long? McQuade’s letters had their existence in
revenge. Patty had wronged no one; McQuade
had.

“Well, Jove, old man, you and I may have to
pack up on the morrow. If we are licked, you and

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Pll go to Japan. That’s a country we’ve always
been wanting to see.”

Jove lifted his head, somewhat scarred, and
gazed up at his master with steadfast love in his
red-brown eyes. A dog is better than a horse, a
horse is better than a cat, a cat is better than noth-
ing. . . . Warrington sat up quickly, drawing
in his legs. A whistle! He caught his breath and
counted. One—two—three—four—five—six!

. Donnelly! He counted no more. Donnelly
had won.

His valet found him asleep in the chair the next
morning, before a dead fire. It was cold in the
room. The valet touched him, but Warrington did
not move. It was only when he was roughly
shaken that he opened his eyes. A single glance
explained the situation. He jumped to his feet,
rubbing his eyes.

“Will you have the morning papers, sir?”

“What’s the use?” Warrington shrugged indif-
ferently.

“The majority was only six hundred and eighty-
two, sir.”

“Then we had them mightily scared for a time.
Odd that the ’phone did not wake me up.”

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“T took it off the hook, sir, at midnight. I knew
it would disturb you.”

“Go down town and bring me up the sailing-
lists and a few cabin-plans for ships bound for
Japan. I intend to start for that country just as
soon as I can dispose of the horses.”

“Shall you need me, sir?”

“T couldn’t get along without you, James.”

“Thank you, sir. Breakfast is served, sir, if you
wish it.”

The telephone rang. The valet raised his eye-
brows inquiringly.

“T’'ll answer it,” said Warrington. “Who is it?
Jordan? Oh! You can say that I put up the best
fight I knew how. . . . No. Say nothing about
the influence of the strike. Let it stand as it is.

. My plans? You may say that I shall sail in
a few days for Japan. . . . Oh, yes! This is
my home, JI shall return in the spring. Change
of scene, that’s all. Good-by.”

The defeated candidate ate a respectable break-
fast, after which he put his affairs in order.
Trunks were brought down from the store-room,
and cases and steamer-rolls. Warrington always
traveled comfortably. He left the packing in
charge of the valet.

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A ten-o’clock edition of the Telegraph was be-
ing hawked outside, but Warrington had seen all
he wanted of newspapers. By noon he had found
a purchaser for his stable. The old housekeeper
and her husband were to remain in care of the
house. They were the only beings that loved him,
now that the aunt was gone. Heigh-ho!

He declined lunch. He answered no more calls
on the telephone. When Senator Henderson called
the interview was pleasant but short.

“We'll try you again,” said the senator ge-
nially.

“Vl think it over,” replied Warrington.

“You'll win next time; you'll be stronger two
years hence. You made a great fight. Bennington
lost the fight for you. If he hadn’t been your
friend—”

“T had rather have John Bennington my friend
than be president,” laughing.

“There were six thousand-odd labor votes
against you, and yet Donnelly’s majority was only
six hundred and eighty-two. Hope you'll enjoy
your trip to Japan. But McQuade’s back again!”
discouraged.

“Senator, if he acts nasty in any way, go to
him personally and tell him that upon application

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at the bank you will open my deposit box. He'll
understand; he'll be as docile as a lamb. And
thank all the boys for their good work. I appre-
ciate the honor that has been done me. To have
been a candidate is something.”

By three o’clock Warrington found time to sit
down at his desk to write three letters. One was
addressed to McQuade, another to John, Hotel
de la Syrene, Sorrento, Italy. The third he began
after some deliberation:

‘Patty: Presently I shall be on the way to Japan.
I was going without a word because I had given a
promise to your brother John. But it is not within
human nature, at least mine, to leave without tell-
ing you again that I love you better than life, and
that I am innocent of the wrong you were so ready
to believe. Some day ask John; tell him that I have
broken my word; he will tell you how truth was
made a lie. I realize now that I ought to have stood
my ground. I ought to have nailed the lie then. But
my proofs were not such as would do away with all
doubts. And besides, when I saw that you had be-
lieved without giving me the benefit of a doubt, I
was angry. And so I left you, refusing to speak one
way or the other. John will tell you. And if my
cause is still in your thought and you care to write,
mail your letter to my bankers. They will forward
it. And if I should have the happiness to be wanted,
even if I am at the ends of the world, I shall come
to you.

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He did not sign it, but he read it over carefully.
There was nothing to cut, nothing to add. He
folded it, then laid his head on his extended arms.
A door opened and closed, but his ear was dull.
Then everything became still. Scientists have not
yet fully explained what it is that discovers to us
a presence in the room, a presence that we have
neither seen nor heard enter. So it was with War-
rington. There was no train of collected thought
in his mind, nothing but stray snatches of this day
and of that, the picture of a smile, a turn in the
road, the sound of a voice. And all at once he be-
came conscious that something was compelling
him to raise his head. He did so slowly.

A woman was standing within a dozen feet of
the desk.

“Patty!” he cried, leaping to his feet, bewil-
dered.

Patty did not move. Alas, she had left all her
great bravery at the threshold. What would he
think of her?

“Patty!” he repeated. ‘You are here?”

“Yes.” All the blood in her body seemed to
congest in her throat. “Are—is it true that you
are going to Japan?” If he came a step nearer she
was positive that she would fall.

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“Yes, Patty; it is as true as I love you. But let
us not speak of that,” sadly.

“Yes, yes! Let us speak of it!” a wild despair
in her voice and gesture. “Let us speak of it, since
I do nothing but think of it, think of it, think of
it! Oh! I am utterly shameless, but I can not fight
any longer. I have no longer any pride. I should
despise you, but I do not. I should hate you, but
Ican not. . . No, no! Stay where you are.”

“Patty, do you love me?’ There was a note
in his voice as vibrant as the second string of a
cello.

“Yes.”

“Do you still believe that I am a blackguard?”

“T care not what you are or what you have
been ; nothing, nothing. It is only what you have
been to me and what you still are. Something is
wrong; something is terribly wrong; I know not
what it is. Surely God would not let me love you
as I doif you were not worthy.”

“No,” he replied gravely; “God would not do
that.”

The tears rolled down Patty’s cheeks, but there
was no sound.

“Here, Patty; read this letter which I was about
to send you.”

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She accepted it dumbly. Then, through her
tears there came wonder and joy and sunshine.
When she had done, he held out his hand for the
letter ; but she smiled and shook her head.

“No, Richard; this is my first love-letter.”

THE END

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